Page 84 of Thin Lives

Affonso hadn’t even tried to call him after that. Not once.

Going back into the missed calls, Calisto found that Ray’s last call had come in shortly after he’d woken up from the crash. Probably when he was at the back of the SUV.

Calisto swallowed the thickness building in this throat, not liking what any of this meant to him.

Ray wouldn’t be calling if he knew Calisto was dead—or even if he thought so.

Wolf—the Capo that Calisto was closest to in the Donati family—had never been someone Calisto was suspicious of, and he was supposed to meet the man for dinner later to discuss business. It would make sense that he would call.

The manager of Calisto’s restaurant always called around the same time everyday just to see if the boss was coming in or not.

There was only one thing that was unusual about the phone calls.

Only one thing was out of place.

Affonso hadn’t called—he always did.

But he wouldn’t if he knew you were dead, he thought to himself.

Calisto squeezed his eyes shut, needing the darkness to think, and wanting to block out the pain thrumming in the base of his skull.

Ray had been the one who shot at him and drove him off the road all those months ago. There was no question about it—Calisto’s memories on that night were as clear as crystal, much like everything else now was.

But this time, Calisto seriously suspected Ray wasn’t involved at all.

Affonso.

Calisto blew out a slow stream of air, and opened his eyes again, the phone still clutched in his hand. It would be easier to understand if he knew why Affonso had chosen to come after him.

Why now, when he could have done it at any other time over the last eight or nine months since his accident?

Calisto stilled—eight or nine months.

About the time the pregnancy lasted.

About the time it took Affonso to have a healthy son born alive.

About the time it would have taken Affonso to know he didn’t need the defiant, boundary-pushing, bastard son that was Calisto.

Sickness spilled into the back of his throat again. Calisto clenched his fists so tight, his fingernails broke the skin of his palms.

Yet, as quickly as that anger came and rushed his senses, it was replaced by a deep, burning anxiety that filled his blood with ice. Affonso had to know—that was all Calisto could think about.

Cross’s paternity—the affair—Affonso had to know.

He would have come back from his getaway to find Calisto without his memories, and Emma pregnant.

Calisto’s heart stopped at what that truly meant.

It all made sense, and the rest of the pieces began to click together for him. The past few months with Emma, and his confusion at her distance. Her fear whenever he had taken her aside, even innocently, just to talk. The moments she’d opened her mouth, looking as though she wanted to tell him something, or maybe like she was about to warn him, but quickly decided against it.

The anger came back hot, heavy, and swift. Not at Emma, but at Affonso.

There was no doubt in Calisto’s mind that somehow, Affonso had forced Emma into a spot where she had no choice but to lie to him, and to hide things from him that would have explained a great deal of his sense of loss and confusion since the accident. She’d been pregnant, and once again, alone for all this time.

How could he possibly ever be angry at her for doing what she needed to do?

Calisto was sure he would get that explanation.