Thin Lies (Donati Bloodlines #1) (10 page)

He
was still fucked either way.

Emma

“Tell
me you managed to find a dress after I left,” Minnie said.

A
waiter set three plates on the table. Emma was grateful for the momentary
distraction, as the waiter began to prepare wine glasses and sparkling water.
Once the young man was gone, however, her mother’s gaze turned on Emma again.

“Well,
did you?” Minnie demanded.

“She’s
been pestering me all damn day,” George muttered. “If you didn’t find one,
she’ll blame me, Emmy.”

Emma
didn’t pay her father’s tirade any mind.

“I
found one,” Emma said. “I charged it to the card Affonso left.”

“Did
you take it to your penthouse?”

“I
had it shipped to New York.”

“Emma!”

Minnie’s
loud exclamation made George drop the fork he was holding. It landed with a
clatter in his plate of tiny steak.

“Jesus,
Minnie,” George growled. “Lower your voice. Sometimes, it’s like living with
one of those goddamn Yorkie dogs with you.”

“And
what is that supposed to mean?” Minnie asked with narrowed eyes.

“You
know what it means, woman. We’re eating, not at the fucking races. There’s no
need for you to jump out of your skin and shriek like a banshee over the
smallest things.”

“Maybe
you should take note of where we are and fix your language, George.”

“Maybe
you should—”

Oh,
my God.

“What’s
the issue with me sending the dress straight to New York, Mom?” Emma asked,
wanting to diffuse the fight starting between her parents. God knew if those
two got into it, they would fight the dinner away. No eating would be had. Not
peacefully, anyway. “It’s one less thing I need to have shipped later, or take
on the plane with me when I do go. Plus, I won’t have to worry as much if it
does get lost on the way because they’ll have more time to find it.”

“Fittings,
Emma,” her mother said like it should have been obvious. “You can’t just wear a
dress right off the rack.”

George
pointed his fork, the one he’d picked back up, in his wife’s direction.
“Agreed. It’s like a suit. You need to take the time to have those things
fitted properly.”

“I
can and I will wear it right off the rack.” Emma shrugged. “It fit perfectly.
Even Marian said it didn’t need to be fitted.”

Minnie
pursed her lips. “Huh.”

“
Sì
.”

“I
would have liked to be able to see it on you at least once,” Minnie said.

“You
will. At the wedding.”

“As
long as you don’t gain any weight,” her father added.

Emma
didn’t grace that with a response. Her appearance, weight, choices in clothing,
makeup, and hair had always been something her parents monitored closely. She
could only wear the best of the best, be done up in the most beautiful ways—by
the most talented people—and she had to always look the part.

It
could mess with a girl’s head.

Emma
didn’t allow it to mess with hers.

“I’m
sure Emma will look wonderful,” Minnie said.

George
scowled. “She better. She’s representing the whole family by marrying into the
New York bunch. This is important, Minnie.”

Emma
felt a lump rise in her throat. It kept her quiet, even though she wanted to
shout as loudly as she could about how little she really cared for the
importance of her arranged marriage. It wasn’t like her parents would care. Her
feelings weren’t important.

That
was how the mafia life worked. A woman had to be blind to the things she didn’t
want to see, happy about the things that made her sad, deaf to the murmurs down
the hall, and oblivious all the times in between.

“She
knows it’s important,” Minnie said quietly. “Worry not, George.”

George
passed Emma a silent look that somehow managed to chastise and warn her without
even saying a word. “Well, I believe she does. We raised her, after all. Affonso
wants a well-behaved, pretty-faced, young woman to stand at his side …”

Well-behaved.
Pretty-faced.

Emma’s
body went cold all over.

“…
and no one can say that we didn’t raise our girl to be a good mob wife,” George
finished. “She knows the score. Don’t you, Emma?”

“Yeah,
Dad. I know the score.”

George
smiled. “That is all that matters, sweetheart.”

In
her hand, Emma held the Queen of Diamonds and the King of Spades. On the table,
another queen, king, and two aces had been flipped over by the dealer.

Emma
tossed another two-hundred into the pool, raising the bet. The pile in the
middle was now a foot wide and a couple of inches high. The other four people
at the table had folded with scowls at missing a large pot.

Calisto
was still in.

Emma
watched him from across the table, and ignored the other four pairs of eyes on
her. She had been whooping their asses throughout the game, but this one hand
had left her chips dwindled down to a few hundred and not much more.

Calisto
was clearly going for broke.

Or
he wanted to make her go broke.

“Bet,
check, or show,” Emma said, grinning. “We don’t have all night here, Cal.”

Chuckles
passed around the felt top, leather-lined table. Emma rested back in the high-back
leather chair, still uninterested in the other players.

Under
his dark lashes, Calisto’s eyes lifted to meet Emma’s. Amusement danced in his
gaze while his face remained impassive and unreadable.

Then,
his hand lifted. He stroked his bottom lip with his thumb.

Emma
had watched Calisto enough throughout the game to know that was one of his
tells. Every poker player had them. Some didn’t even know, despite trying hard
to keep from showing their tells to the other players. Sunglasses were common,
as were ball caps. Some women even liked to play with fresh Botox done, simply
because then they couldn’t show even an ounce of emotion at the table.

It
brought a whole new meaning to “poker face.”

Touching
his lip was one of Calisto’s. It usually happened when he was forced to
consider his next moves, or he was weighing the cost of continuing on. Emma had
seen him win with a great hand after showing that specific tell, or lose a
decent pot after doing it.  

“All
in,” Calisto murmured.

Emma’s
stare snapped up, finding Calisto watching her intently. His murmur had passed
over the table with the slowness of a crawl to reach her spot. And when it got
to her …  

She
shivered.

Pushing
aside the inappropriate lust circling in her gut, Emma focused on the cards in
her hand again. She checked the table once more. Three-pair didn’t exist in
poker. A player had to choose their best pairs and then use the next highest
card as a kicker.

King
and queen in her hand. Two aces, a king, queen, and Three of Hearts on the
table.

Pair
of aces.

Pair
of kings.

Queen
as the kicker.

The
lower number card on the table wasn’t important. It wouldn’t do her any good.

Her
hand was good.

It
was Calisto’s she wondered about.

Emma
decided to take the chance. She answered Calisto’s raise to the bet by pushing
in the rest of her own chips. The dealer waved at the last two playing from his
respective spot behind the table.

“Go
for it, Emmy,” Calisto said, smirking in that way of his. “Let’s see what
you’ve got.”

Technically,
she could have made him flip over his cards first, but she didn’t mind showing
her hand on the table. Turning over her hand, she showcased the pairs she had
and the kicker to top it off.

An
older man whistled at the end.

A
woman in a tight, red dress with matching hair leaned closer to Calisto with a
slow smile spreading over her flawlessly done face. Emma could see the woman’s
arm lift slightly at her side and then lower back down. Had she touched
Calisto?

The
woman … had she put her hand on his leg?

Higher,
even?

Something
tight and hot balled in Emma’s stomach, making her angry and sick all at the
same time. Leaning even closer, the woman’s blood red lips moved in a whisper
as she said something to Calisto. Emma barely refrained from snapping at the
woman to remove her hand from wherever it was on Calisto’s body, but only
because she knew it wasn’t her right.

Calisto
wasn’t hers.

Emma
didn’t get to claim him.

Her
jealousy still seared through her heart, flaring and growing like a wild fire
that had found dry land to devastate. She swallowed back the ache it caused,
pretending like it wasn’t there at all. Acknowledging it would only lead to bad
things.

Emma
found that Calisto was still watching her from the other side of the table in
that silent, intense way of his. A way that said he knew exactly what was going
on inside her head and the war that she was feeling in her heart.

Why
did he have to do that?

The
woman was still close to Calisto, leaning in with her hand under the table
somewhere on his body, and talking like she was trying to gain his attention.
Calisto wasn’t giving the flirting woman a damn thing.

In
fact, his attention was all on Emma.

Waiting
…  

It
unnerved her.

Then,
he tossed out his cards with a two-finger wave. Two aces faced upwards, and the
table erupted in noise. Four of a Kind—aces, the best Four of a Kind for a
poker hand. Emma was out her chips—all of them—and Calisto had played her right
off the table.

Fuck.

Calisto
had played her well.

Emma
stared at the cards, amused and annoyed at the same time. She ignored the
cheers of the other players as they congratulated the winning hand and how well
it had gone down. She was too busy gazing between the cards and Calisto’s
knowing grin.

A
sexy grin.

Sexy
as sin.

Calisto
was still ignoring the other woman. The dealer moved the pile of chips toward
Calisto with a hooked baton. A lovely ache settled between Emma’s thighs as
Calisto began to organize his chips.

Her
hands were over.

She
was out of chips.

Strangely,
Emma didn’t mind losing to Calisto Donati.

This
time, anyway.