Page 146 of Thin Lives

When Cross said he wanted something, he got it.

It didn’t matter what it took, he did it.

Calisto was proud as hell, as far as that went. But sometimes he worried that Cross simply hadn’t come up against a challenge that would defeat him, and it was only a matter of time before he did meet his match in that regard.

What would happen then?

Calisto might not be able to step in.

“I can make some calls,” Calisto offered. “I don’t want bloody streets, Cross.”

Cross smirked. “I can make calls too, you know?”

“Who and why?”

“Andino Marcello, to start with,” his boy replied, his grin never wavering. “We’re good friends. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind helping me clear out a few gangs to make the cash flow a little better. And I know Andi’s got a taste for guns, too. He’d probably like getting in on that trade.”

Calisto shook his head, chuckling. “Andino Marcello, hmm?”

“Si, Papa.”

A quietness settled over the room, but Calisto was sure his son didn’t even notice. Their conversation had gone on uninterrupted, but that didn’t mean they were alone in Calisto’s office. When Cross had shown up an hour earlier, wanting to chat business with Calisto about some issue he’d been having in his territory, a couple of Capos had come along with him for the chat. Calisto had been enjoying a drink with his consigliere, Wolf, when he invited Cross in with the men.

While Calisto had raised Cross from the time he was an infant, his status to the child was always clear for others so that their secrets would stay hidden. Even for Cross, the secret of his paternity was unknown.

Like history repeating, Calisto thought.

Over the years, Calisto found himself praying that if Cross ever found out the truth, it would not lead them down the path it had taken Calisto and Affonso all those decades ago. While he might not have betrayed Cross like Affonso had done to him time and time again, he was still lying to his son.

And that was the exact same no matter how he tried to spin it.

That would still cut the same.

It would still sting.

It would hurt.

But no matter how many times he’d corrected Cross as a boy, telling him it was Zio, and not Papa like the boy preferred, Cross called Calisto his father. Honestly, he was the only thing Cross had for a father. It wasn’t like he had treated him any differently as he grew up.

The distinction was still important.

Rarely did Cross call Calisto his father in front of others, though.

The silence stretched on a little longer until Calisto broke it with a nod.

“Fine, call Andino, Cross. See if he’s up for business. You know how Dante Marcello is, though. He doesn’t like to mingle business unless it’s good for him—excellent for him, even. Keep that in mind.”

Cross smirked, drawing in Calisto’s full attention again for the moment. In that one second, it seemed like the rest of the men in the room bled away as he stared at his son.

It was like looking into a mirror.

Strong features.

Confident air.

Schooled attitude.

Soul-black eyes.