When She Falls: A Dark Mafia Romance (The Fallen Book 3)
When She Falls: Chapter 1

I tap my fingertips against the limo’s armrest as we glide around a bend in the coastal road that leads to my sister’s house. Glimpses of the Mediterranean peek out from between the greenery lining the road, and when the trees suddenly recede, I get treated to an open view of the sea below. A vast expanse of azure stretches all the way toward the horizon, shimmering with the afternoon sun.

My breath catches.

Cleo leans over me to get a closer look, practically pressing her nose against the window.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” she mutters, her voice dropping into the well-practiced whisper we use when we don’t want our parents to hear our conversations. They’re sitting just across from us, but we’ve perfected keeping our communication private over the years. “Gem, is this place for real? Look at that water. Just look at it.”

“I’m looking.”

“I’ve never seen water that shade of blue. I mean, in pictures, sure, but I just assumed it was the filter.”

A smile tugs at my lips. This is the first time Cleo’s been outside of the States, and her excitement is palpable.

She huffs a breath, making condensation appear on the glass. “I could drown in it. In fact, I think I’d rather do that than go back to New York in a week.”

And just like that, the smile melts off my face.

My younger sister has always been dramatic. I’m used to it, but we’re about to spend a week around people who aren’t, and I can already imagine the repercussions of her saying the wrong thing to the wrong person.

But Cleo doesn’t care about that.

“Consequences be damned” may as well be her life mantra.

She really outdid herself back in January, though. She was caught in bed with a baby-faced pizza delivery boy from Brooklyn who clearly had no idea who our family is.

That mistake probably cost him his life, although Papà’s neither confirmed nor denied it.

It was a real scandal. The eighteen-year-old daughter of a New York City don disgraced. Her maidenhead taken by a literal nobody. Papà had frothed at the mouth, his anger so palpable that even his soldiers left for a long smoke break outside. Mamma whisked Cleo away after Papà was done screaming at her. I stayed behind in Papà’s office, and when he leveled his heavy gaze on me, I knew that my fate was sealed.

The responsibility to save our family was now all mine.

His last eligible daughter.

I smooth my palms over my linen pants. “How many times do I need to ask you not to joke about things like that?”

Cleo gives her head a shake. “Who says I’m joking? But here’s a less morbid thought. Let’s run away like Vale. We can live on the beach like a pair of bums.”

I glance at our parents to make sure they’re still oblivious. We only have two guards with us on this trip, but the moment Papà hears any talk about running away, he’ll fly in a dozen more. It’s a sensitive topic after our older sister, Vale, did exactly that. The azure sea on the other side of the window beckons me. The thought of staying here doesn’t seem half bad, but I know better than to encourage Cleo.

“How will we eat?” I inquire.

A curly coppery strand slips from behind Cleo’s ear and falls across her cheek. “Dumpster diving. Have you heard of it?”

“You’ve never even taken out the garbage back home, and now you want to dig around someone else’s trash?”

Cleo presses her fingertips to the glass, her gaze still fixated on the water. “You’re such a buzzkill. Don’t act like you want to go home any more than I do. You know, if our places were switched, and I was the one engaged to Rafaele Messero, I’d be opening this door and rolling out of the car right now.”

At the mention of my fiancé, my throat tightens.

Rafaele became the newest don in New York when his father died from cancer last year. Papà was gleeful. He’d been trying to set me up with Rafaele even before the Messero patriarch fell ill, and now the marriage would prove even more advantageous since I’d be marrying a don.

I didn’t think Rafaele was interested in me based on the few in-person interactions we had, but somehow, Papà made it happen.

And he made one thing very clear to me.

This is an alliance the Garzolos desperately need.

“You’ve seen what happens when we go to war with another clan. We may have won against the Riccis, but we paid a high price for that victory.”

Three cousins, two uncles, and a half-dozen soldiers had died.

I attended every funeral. Held crying mothers and wives in my arms. Gave gifts to confused children, some of them so young they couldn’t understand what had happened to their papas and brothers.

“Our enemies know we’ve been weakened. You’re our last hope to regain our footing in the city.”

I clasp my hands on my lap. My family is in trouble. And according to Papà, their future rests in my hands.

“You hardly know Rafaele,” I say to Cleo. In truth, neither do I. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve spoken to my fiancé.

Cleo wrinkles her nose. “Thanks, but no thanks. Cracking my skull open on the asphalt would be better than getting married to that stony-faced fucker.”

Cold dread trickles down my back. Cleo is never one to hold anything back, but sometimes, I wish she would.

A second passes before Cleo realizes what she said, and she shoots me an apologetic look. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” That’s a lie.

Nothing’s been fine for a long time. But this week is supposed to be a reprieve before I have to face the music and plan my wedding to a man who is a stranger to me.

A stranger who became a murderer at thirteen.

I stop picking at my cuticles when I accidentally make myself bleed.

Enough.

I promised myself I wouldn’t think about all that while we’re in Ibiza. After all, we’re here to celebrate. One week, two weddings.

The final wedding of the week is between Vale and Damiano De Rossi, the new don of the Casalesi. Two days before them, Martina De Rossi, Damiano’s sister, and Giorgio “Napoletano” Girardi, Damiano’s advisor, are getting married as well.

I don’t know the De Rossis well, but my sister says Damiano is her perfect match.

I’m happy for her. I really am.

They actually want to be married.

Must be nice to do what you want.

Cleo opens the window, letting warm, humid air invade the inside of the limo, and takes a deep inhale. “Do you smell that? That’s the smell of freedom.”

“Close the window,” Mamma snaps, her thin hands sliding over her hair to keep down the frizz. She spent an hour on the plane getting herself ready for our big arrival at Vale and Damiano’s house, and even though she’d never admit that she’s nervous, an angry kind of anxiety is emanating off her.

It’s the first time our whole family will be together since Vale ran away from New York. I don’t blame my sister for doing what she did—her ex-husband was a monster who made her torture people. She did what she had to in order to survive. But while she was starting a new life on this side of the world, I had to watch our friends and family struggle like they’ve never struggled before.

There’s a disconnect between us now. One that makes itself apparent in our phone calls. Whenever I mention the names of the family members who died, Vale clams up and changes the subject.

I know she’s hurting, and that’s how she copes. But in my head, the names play on repeat.

Carlo. Enzo. Renato. Bruno. Tito.

Cleo blows out a breath and presses the button to roll up the window.

“We need to have a word before we arrive,” Mamma says, her hands still patting her hair. “There are some rules.”

“When are there ever not?” Cleo mutters.

Papà rolls his shoulders back and casts Cleo and me a serious look. “Damiano De Rossi is about to marry your sister, and thus join our family, but given the circumstances of this arrangement, it does not mean we are immediately going to trust him or his people.”

The circumstances being that Vale chose her husband this time around.

“Technically, they’re already married,” Cleo pipes in.

I press my lips together. The elopement is a sensitive topic since Papà and Mamma weren’t invited to it. I was the only one who was allowed to come. When I returned home, I wasn’t asked a single question about it. Our parents are resolved to pretend it never happened.

“They’re married when I say they’re married,” Papà barks out. “Keep your wits about you. Don’t speak to the men unless it’s absolutely necessary. Don’t wander off the property. Under no circumstances should you entertain any questions about our family’s business.”

“Like we know much about it,” Cleo grumbles.

“You know more than you think,” Papà snaps. “No blabbering, Cleo. Your antics are tiresome enough while we’re in New York, but they won’t be tolerated here at all.”

My sister narrows her eyes, shooting daggers at our father. They barely speak with each other anymore. When they do, it usually ends in an explosive argument.

Papà smooths his wrinkled hand down his tie. “Most importantly, remember that we are the Garzolos. Our name means something even when we’re away from New York. Do not give anyone an excuse to treat us with less respect than is owed to us.”

Respect.

I’ve grown to hate that word over the last year, because I’ve seen the lengths Papà will go to ensure he still has it. From his capos, his allies, his enemies.

He fears that one day he’ll walk into a room and people won’t bow their heads to him in deference. But he’s never made an attempt to earn respect from us, his family. For him, our respect is a given. He takes it for granted, assuming we worship the ground he walks on. For a long time, I did, but not after how he handled the situation with Vale. Instead of admitting it was a mistake to give Vale to a man who should have been institutionalized, he blamed anyone but himself. His main concern was his reputation.

“What do you think they’re all saying about me? They’re saying I can’t control my daughters. If I can’t control three stupid little girls, how can I control the clan?”

So I can’t help it. At his mention of respect, I roll my eyes.

Papà’s gaze flashes with anger. He’s used to this kind of insolence from Cleo, but it’s unacceptable coming from me—the obedient daughter. He doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like that at all.

An apology rushes out of my mouth, but I already know it’s too late. My palms turn clammy. His blazing eyes stay trained on me until the limo turns onto the driveway that leads to a familiar Spanish villa.

“There’s Vale,” Cleo says excitedly, tugging on the door handle before we even come to a stop. As soon as we do, she hops out and rushes to our sister. Mamma is quick to follow, leaving Papà and I in the car.

“Shut the door,” he growls.

My shirt sticks to my back. I know what’s coming, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

Papà raises his arm and backhands me across the face.

I yelp, and my teeth clank together. Pain blooms across my cheek. For a moment, time slows, and all I can hear is a familiar ringing in my ears.

“Don’t you roll your eyes at me,” he hisses, his spittle landing on my face.

I bring my shaking fingertips to my stinging skin and force myself to look at Papà.

He crosses his arms over his chest, his jaw a hard line. “You understand how you must behave here, don’t you?”

My head lowers in a slow nod.

“Rafaele has options. Don’t do anything to make him consider them.”

Another nod.

“I don’t want anyone else in the family to die. Ernesto was one of my closest friends. And Tito…” Papà sniffs and looks down at his lap.

He knows just the right things to say to make me feel the weight of my decisions.

If I can save more Garzolos from dying, what kind of a piece of shit would I be to not do it?

“Neither do I,” I whisper. My throat is bone-dry.

“Good.” Papà straightens his tie. “Let’s go.”

He slips out of the car, but I stay seated, anxiety engulfing me like a flame.

No one but Mamma knows Papà hits me.

No one can know.

I don’t know why I became Papà’s scapegoat, but it started a long time ago. At first, it was a ruler smacked across the back of my hands when I made him upset. Then a belt. In the last few years, he started slapping me across the face. Never too frequent or too hard, but enough to shock me into obedience.

One night, I overheard Papà telling one of his capos that I looked just like his ma.

Papà hated his ma.

Sometimes, his eyes get all weird just before he hits me, and I think maybe he sees her instead of me. He usually apologizes the next day. I accept the apologies every time, even though they don’t mean anything since I know he won’t stop.

It’s better that he hits me instead of Cleo. If he ever raised a hand to her, she’d fight back. Who knows how badly he’d hurt her then? At least I’ve learned how to manage Papà. It’s best to shut up and go along with whatever he says when he’s mad. It’s the quickest way to calm him down.

I dig inside my purse for my phone. I don’t have a mirror, so I have to check my reflection in the camera to make sure there isn’t an obvious mark on my face before anyone sees me.

The image flicks on.

Relief rushes through me. It seems okay.

Then the door is opened and I throw my phone back in my purse just as Vale’s face appears. “Gem!”

I paste on a smile and tumble out of the car straight into her arms. She laughs, clutching me around the waist and pressing kisses against my cheek.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” she exclaims.

Her familiar scent nearly undoes me. “I know. God, how I’ve missed you, Vale.”

I tighten my grip on her, some part of me still worried about what she might replace if she examines my face too closely. Sliding my chin on her shoulder, I cast a glance at where the men are standing.

Papà is greeting Damiano. They’re wearing close-lipped smiles, and I’m pretty sure that handshake is meant to crush a few bones.

My sister’s husband is the Don of the Casalesi, a powerful clan in the Camorra. He’s tall and intimidating even when he’s somewhat dressed down in only a dress shirt and a pair of dark slacks.

A dry chuckle leaves Papà’s mouth. “Damiano De Rossi. You’re a handsome guy, huh? I can see now why my daughter is so partial to you. You know women, they’re drawn to pretty things.”

Damiano’s smile is a sharp, crooked line. “I wonder what drew your wife to you then, Garzolo.”

Papà barks a laugh, but it’s forced. Back in New York, this is how made men talk to each other—all jokes and underhanded barbs. It’s all fun and games until you press the wrong button and guns are pulled out.

“Let me look at you,” Vale says, nudging me away. “Has your hair gotten longer?”

I take a step back and let my shoulder-length hair fall over my face as if I’m showing her my haircut. “A little. My bladder is about to explode. Can I run inside?”

“Oh, sure. You know where the bathroom is.”

Brushing past her, I jog inside the house and shut the door behind me.

It’s cool inside, the AC on full blast. It feels nice against my burning cheek and my overheated body.

I rush through the airy, light-filled rooms toward the powder room I remember from my last visit.

A relieved sigh leaves my lungs as soon I peer into the round mirror hanging over the vanity. There’s just a slight pink mark above my right cheek bone. I already have a half dozen excuses ready in case anyone asks. It’ll bruise though. I bruise so damn easily, like a peach.

At least I brought my best full coverage concealer. I pull it out and dab some onto the mark. Cleo said it would be too heavy for this climate, but I packed it anyway. Actually, I can’t recall the last time I didn’t have it with me, just in case.

The backs of my eyes begin to prickle…and fuck, fuck, fuck. I can’t cry.

I can’t cry because my eyes will get all red, and everyone will know.

Everyone will know that I’m not okay.

Why did Papà have to do it now? Why couldn’t he at least wait until after we got to the guesthouse?

Cleo and I are sharing a room here. I’ll have to wear my sleep mask when we go to bed so that she won’t see the bruise.

Frustration rises inside of me. I should hate Papà the way Cleo and Vale do, but even though I’m the only one he hits, I still love him.

Despite his many flaws, he’s my father. The man who taught me how to read and always let me sit on his knee when I cried at church, terrified by the sermon. If he was all violence and anger, it would be easy to despise him, but he’s not. Sometimes, he’ll look at me, and softness will creep into his gaze. “You’ve always been so clever, Gem. My little girl. You’re the one daughter I can count on.”

When he says things like that to me, I melt. I can’t help it. His approval feels like a warm hug. It makes me feel safe, and loved, and wanted. It makes me feel like everything that’s broken can be fixed.

I finish applying the makeup and wash my hands at the sink. There’s a ball in my throat that won’t ease.

That won’t do.

I have to keep it together this week, no matter what.

So I brace my palms on the sink and start counting my breaths, forcing my thoughts away from Papà.

One Mississippi.

Two Mississippi.

Three—

The door to the bathroom springs open.

My first thought is that it’s Mamma, coming to see what’s taking me so long.

But it’s not.

It’s worse.

My eyes narrow on the intruder and the muscular bulk he’s managed to pour into a pair of slacks and a gray button-up shirt. His beard’s freshly trimmed, his hair’s pulled back and tied at the nape, and his small silver earring glints in the light.

A cold shiver runs down my spine. I remember staring at that earring and thinking I was about to die.

I straighten and remind myself that despite the grin on his face, this is a dangerous man.

A bad man.

And I might be the only one here that knows it.

“Do you ever knock, Ras?”