Page 16 of Thin Lives

So, Emma held onto faith and hope.

Just a little bit of each.

It was enough to get her out of bed each morning, and keep moving forward. But it didn’t give her much else.

“And another thing I have been considering,” Affonso said.

Emma twisted her hands in her lap, wishing her husband would just move on with his damn day and leave her be. Hadn’t the entire morning been enough?

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Have you considered a name for the baby yet?” Affonso asked.

Oh.

She quickly looked away from the cold eyes surveying her.

“Well?” he demanded after a long moment.

“I had a couple of names.”

“I suppose we can’t use my name, now that you’ve given it to the dead one.”

Emma visibly recoiled, but quickly straightened her back and schooled her features. “We could, but I would prefer to let Affonso Jr. keep his name as his own, if that’s fine with you.”

Affonso sighed. “Fine, let him keep it. But this one …”

“I thought Nazio might be good for a middle name, after your father. I know his full name was Ignazio, but everyone just calls him Nazio, even now when they talk about him.”

That quieted her husband instantly.

Emma figured that was a good thing, and decided to see how much further she could push him on the subject, and maybe she could actually get what she wanted for once.

After all, Affonso wasn’t that hard to figure out.

As long as something seemed like it was meant to please him and no one else, he was a happy, selfish bastard. That was just how the man worked. It didn’t take Emma very long in their marriage to figure it out.

“Go on,” Affonso urged.

“Nazio for your father, like I said,” Emma explained. “And I was looking through the religious names because they’re classic, and a lot of Italian names come from the bible.”

“Some. What of it?”

“They seemed too classic, maybe. David. John. How many of those do we know?”

Affonso’s face remained passive. Emma hated that more than anything. It was harder to tell what he was thinking when he gave nothing away. He did that shit far too often.

“Too classic,” Affonso echoed.

“Yeah, but I still liked the idea of something in that ballpark.”

“I’m listening.”

“What about … Cross?” she suggested softly.

Affonso leaned forward in his chair, resting his arms on the desk as he said the name to himself, adding in the middle and surname as well.

Cross Nazio Donati.