Thin Lives (Donati Bloodlines #3) (8 page)

“Would they mean something to me?”

“I don’t know, boss.”

Jesus.

That was becoming the story of Calisto’s life.

Literally.

Emma

“All done here,” the doctor said, tapping Emma’s knees gently.

It was her sign that Emma could finally get up off her back, make her lower half decent again, and take a breath.

Having her cervix checked hurt and was uncomfortable enough. But having it regularly checked for even the slightest of changes was much worse.

“You’re not opening,” the doctor explained, pulling off the gloves and tossing them in a waste basket.

Emma’s relief was palpable. “Not even a little bit?”

“No, but you are thinning.”

Shit.

A woman’s cervix needed to do two things to properly aide in delivering a baby. One was to dilate—to open. The other was to thin out, and that was usually helped along by the pressure of the baby’s head pushing down on the cervix.

Emma couldn’t afford for either of those things to happen. Not yet.

It was too early.

At thirty weeks, Calisto’s son had a much better chance of surviving outside of Emma’s womb as a preemie. But she still had weeks to go at just twenty-five weeks. But the facts still remained the same, and those were scary. It was still possible for the baby to suffer from other consequences because of an early birth. Health issues or learning delays.

She wanted to keep this baby in for as long as possible.

“Can we put the stitch in?” Emma asked.

The doctor spun her stool around so she could face Emma. Quickly, Emma readjusted the sheet on the bed to better cover her lower half and bare legs.

“It’s a dangerous procedure as it is, Emma,” the woman explained. “And doing it too early could cause several other complications, including forcing you into active labor, which we can’t turn back, or even sepsis from infection. That is not a risk I want to take with you and this baby.”

Emma wrung her hands together. “What should I do?”

“What you have been. And you’re doing great. Rest. Get lots of food in you for energy. You’ll need it during the birth. Fluids, fluids, and more fluids. Keep track of the movements of the baby in case you notice any changes. More importantly, keep track of any changes in your body. Pain or otherwise. If I can help it, you will carry this child to term, or as close as I can get you. Do not push yourself beyond what you can handle. Okay?”

It helped to have her doctor be so upbeat and encouraging.

Most times, it felt like Emma was going to drown in her own anxiety where the baby and pregnancy was concerned. Her doctor was always optimistic.

“Okay,” Emma said. “I got it.”

“And try not to get stressed out while you’re at it.”

Emma laughed, and her doctor just smiled. She really hadn’t meant the laugh as a joke, but apparently the woman took it as one. Unfortunately, stress was inevitable.

How could it be any different?

Emma was Affonso Donati’s wife, after all.

“Boss, we’ve got a problem.”

Ray slid in between Affonso and Emma, forcing her to take a couple of steps away from her husband. It wasn’t that she minded being further away from Affonso’s side, but it did irk her how Ray took every chance he could to dismiss Emma’s presence.

She wasn’t sure why he did it, but it started when Affonso had returned home after Calisto’s accident all those months ago. It was possible Affonso had explained to his underboss about the affair that had gone on between Calisto and Emma, but she didn’t think that was likely.

Affonso was all about image. Admitting his wife had slept around with his illegitimate son wouldn’t help how his people looked at him.

Affonso sighed, and scrubbed a hand down his face. His gaze cut to Emma, and she just as quickly looked away. He’d taken to drinking heavily during the evenings again, and the subtle signs were starting to show. While her husband was still dressed impeccably, and his demeanor was as cold as ever, it was the smaller things she took note of that showed his stress and how he tried to manage it.

He’d opted for sunglasses that morning, something he rarely did. He had a few days’ worth of stubble dotting his jaw and cheeks. He’d even topped off his breakfast with a glass of brandy.

Yeah, Affonso’s threads were showing, and they were thin as hell.

Emma couldn’t help but wonder why, or rather, what was happening that caused Affonso’s stress. He wouldn’t tell her if it was about Cosa Nostra business, and since he didn’t talk to her at all unless it was to criticize her, she chose not to ask in the first place.

It was easier this way.

“Today is not a good day for this,” Affonso said to Ray.

“I’m aware. But we had some sights on a few cars. It could be an issue.”

Emma’s brow furrowed, as she had no idea what they were talking about.

“This is a day to celebrate the life of a holy man before he’s put to rest,” Affonso said. “No one would desecrate that, surely.”

Ray clapped Affonso on the shoulder. “You give them too much faith.”

“Not them, but the respect they have for God.”

“Like the respect you have for it?” Ray asked.

Affonso’s features hardened. “You’re awfully bold today.”

“It could be an issue,” the underboss repeated.

Giving a nod to Ray, and nothing more, Affonso turned back to Emma with a small smile. She didn’t trust his smiles—she had learned long ago that nasty usually followed Affonso’s fake happiness or joy.

He was a snake in that way.

“Would you mind going on ahead without me?” Affonso asked. “I’ll be in to give my respects in just a few minutes.”

Emma shrugged. “Sure.”

She didn’t mind getting away from her husband.

Leaving Affonso behind to finish his conversation with Ray, Emma stepped into the main floor of the unfamiliar church. The somber mood of the day clung to the tapestries on the wall. The tall, stained-glass windows were barely lit up with light seeing as how it was overcast, cold, and rain was threatening to fall.

If nothing else, it was appropriate for the day.

Father Day’s body had finally been released and approved for a proper funeral and burial. The church wasted no time getting the arrangements set up, and sending notices out for the members of the priest’s congregation that might want to attend.

Their church was still closed, due to the investigations, and the fact the office needed to be cleared out. Apparently, it had been a bloody mess.

Emma took a few steps down the aisle, ignoring the curious gazes watching her from the pews. Already, the church was filling with people who had already paid their respects to Father Day and were now simply waiting on the funeral procession to begin.

If it were any other priest, Emma might not have come.

She didn’t like funerals, or the sadness they brought. Despite people often proclaiming that they wanted nothing more than to celebrate the life of the deceased, grief was still forefront, saddening everything it could touch.

But no matter how much she disliked funerals and the pain they brought, Emma couldn’t bring herself to disrespect Father Day in that way. Months back, the morning before Calisto’s accident, Emma had learned of her pregnancy.

She’d been terrified.

Ashamed.

She hadn’t known what to do given the circumstances. She knew there would be no hiding what had happened between her and Calisto because of the pregnancy, and she was just scared.

Stupid, foolish, and
scared
.

Emma went to Father Day, needing a safe place to land as her emotions crashed and burned all in one fell swoop. He’d listened to her sins, mistakes, and fears. He let her tell the story, and how it all led into the predicament she found herself in.

Father Day never judged her.

He held her hand, and he’d wiped the tears away with a promise that she would find her path again someday, but it might take a while of walking before it showed up.

More than anything, Emma had needed those words in that moment.

Father Day had given her hope, no matter how small it was, at a point when she felt helpless. That was invaluable to Emma.

So, no. She couldn't imagine not saying goodbye to the man, or thanking him for the small thing he did for her.

At the foot of the altar, a few men in robes stood talking with a priest. A young altar boy directed Emma to a quiet room in the back where Father Day’s casket was waiting for those who wanted to view his body and say a private goodbye before the official funeral began.

Emma waited outside the doors of the private room while a couple and their two young children went in to pay their respects. She recognized the family as members of the congregation she attended, and that Father Day had preached to before his murder.

She expected Affonso to be back at her side before the couple exited the private room, but he wasn’t. Emma ended up going in alone.

The sight of the polished, gleaming black casket sitting in the private room made Emma’s steps stutter. A dull pain settled in her heart as she eyed the large arrangements of calla lilies resting on either side of the casket.

Candles burned on a small table just a few feet away. Even more unlit candles were waiting for guests to light them up, and say a prayer for the priest.

Emma skipped over the candles, not entirely sure what she would pray for. She approached the casket slowly, worried about what she might see. There had been rumors about how the priest died, and that it might be a closed casket.

It wasn’t.

Thankfully, Father Day looked only like he was resting in a deep sleep. And despite the paleness to his tone, as he had been olive-complexed, he looked at peace. His hands were folded together right under his breastbone, and a cross rested between his fingertips. They had dressed him in his robes with a high neckline and his white collar.

Just under his right ear, something caught Emma’s eye. It was a thin line of stitches that disappeared under the collar of Father Day’s black robe.

His throat had been cut.

A heaviness settled in her stomach at the sight of the injury, though it wasn’t exactly easy to see. It looked, by all means, that every attempt had been made to hide the injury. The clothing choice and makeup work done by the undertaker had clearly been a decision made to hide the way the priest had died.

A violent death, Emma thought.

He’d probably been terrified.

No one deserved to die like that—frightened and alone. But especially not a man like Father Day, who had seemed to want nothing more when alive than to care for his flock of lambs.

Chancing a glance over her shoulder, Emma found no one was waiting at the doors to come in and pay their respects. She took that opportunity to pull an item from the pocket of her trench coat, one she had been holding onto for a while.

The black rosary swung to and fro as she held it up, looking at the golden cross hanging off the strand of beads. After he had given it to her, Calisto had told her once that the rosary belonged to his priest, who gave it to him as a way of comfort. He then gave it to her, and she used it for her own comfort through the grief of losing her baby.

Emma didn’t want to let the rosary go—it was one of the very few pieces of Calisto that she had left to hold onto. One small piece of their puzzle that proved there had once been something, even if he couldn’t remember it, and that they were real.