When She Falls: A Dark Mafia Romance (The Fallen Book 3)
When She Falls: Chapter 18

I manage to keep myself at home for the next few days, avoiding any more alone time with Ras.

The wedding planner comes to the house, showing Cleo, Mamma, and me linens, options for the centerpieces, and bringing us cake samples. I ask lots of questions, forcing myself to occupy my mind with something other than the man living a few doors down from me. My diligence earns me praise from Mamma and an exasperated glare from Cleo.

“Can you chill?” she asks after the planner leaves on Friday. “You’re setting way too high of a standard.”

“How’s Ludovico? I haven’t heard anything about him since I got back.”

She smirks. “Me neither. Apparently, he’s on the fence about me after our last meeting.”

“I never asked you what happened.”

“In Mamma’s words, I ate like it was the first time I’ve used cutlery, and when Ludovico commented on it, I told him to leave me alone. He called me uncivilized. I told him he probably has a small dick.”

I rub my temple. “Cleo…”

“What? It must be true, because he got really mad after that. Mamma’s been trying to smooth things over ever since, but I hope she doesn’t. I hate him.”

“Is he going to be at La Trattoria tonight?”

“I don’t think so.”

Tonight, we’re having dinner with the Messeros. As far as I know, Ras wasn’t invited, which is for the best, since I’m not confident in my ability to play it cool around him anymore.

The sex dreams won’t stop tormenting me. When I wake up, my body buzzes with need, and my thighs are slick with wetness. It’s gotten so bad, I’ve tried to fix the situation on my own, but I can’t do it. My vibrator’s been broken for months, and I haven’t found a way to get a new one delivered to the house without Mamma knowing. Since Vale ran, she’s been checking all of our packages.

I don’t know how to make myself come with my fingers. God knows, I’ve tried, but it’s never worked for me. I get so close only to never cross the edge.

I had to deal with the insistent throb between my legs for the entirety of breakfast. During which Ras sat directly across from me.

It was torture.

It’s like his touch somehow got encoded in me at a cellular level, and now my skin is programmed to crave it.

I thought a few days with minimal contact would cool things between me and him, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s not working.

I crave his presence. His voice. His smile.

But I know indulging that craving will only make things worse when he inevitably leaves. So I try to cram my feelings into a tiny little box and shove it deep into the recesses of my mind.

“I’m going to go get dressed.” Cleo rises off the couch in the living room and smooths her palms over her thighs. “Mamma made a big deal about not being late. Did she seem more high-strung than usual to you?”

“I’m not sure.” I haven’t been paying close attention to Mamma’s moods recently.

Cleo holds out her palm. “Come on. I’ll sneak a bottle of wine, and we can get tipsy before dinner.”

It’s a bad idea, but for once, I agree to it. I need something to take the edge off so that I can paste on a smile and act like a perfect fiancée.

Cleo and I are lightly buzzed by the time we leave the house for La Trattoria. Dalida plays from the car’s stereo, and Mamma and Papà speak in hushed Italian about things clearly not meant for our ears. I try to make out what they’re saying but get bored after five minutes and pull out my phone.

“Let’s do a crossword,” Cleo suggests.

“You’re terrible at those even when you’re sober.”

“I’m better when I’m a bit drunk. I get more creative.”

A notification pops up on my phone—a text from Ras.

Cleo makes an obnoxious oohing sound. “What’s your bodyguard messaging you about? Is he already worried?”

Shushing her, I checked to make sure our parents are still not paying us attention. “Keep your voice down. And he’s not my bodyguard.”

“Oh yeah? Then how do you explain his behavior around Benjamin?”

I shouldn’t have told her about that. She kept pestering me about how shopping went during the lunch we had right afterward, so when Mamma went to the bathroom, I told her about how Ras wiped the floor with Benjamin.

I kept my mouth shut about the rest of what happened. What Ras and I had done is so inappropriate, it rivals some of Cleo’s worst misdemeanors.

Cleo leans closer. “Open it.”

Turning the screen away from her, I tap on the notification.

Can you send me your schedule for next week?

Disappointment runs through me, but I push it away. What did I expect? For him to tell me something that makes my pulse race?

No, this is for the best.

“What’s that face you’re making? You look like you’re about to lay an egg,” Cleo says, trying to catch another peek at my phone, but I turn it off and slide it back into my purse. “What did he want?”

“My schedule.”

She yawns. “Boring.”

We arrive at our destination, my buzz still buzzing, and we slide out of the car and step onto a frigid sidewalk in Little Italy. Papà hands the keys to the valet and marches toward the entrance, leading the pack.

As soon as we step inside the toasty restaurant, I take a long, deep inhale. It always smells so good in here, like pasta sauce, freshly baked bread, and their house red wine. The smell of my childhood. We used to come here once a week for dinner, and it was always my favorite night. The whole family would be in attendance, aunts and uncles and their broods, and while they ate, the kids would run wild and crawl under the tables. After each dinner, we were allowed to eat as much tiramisu as we wanted. On more than one occasion, that generous offer ended up with Cleo throwing up.

Tonight, we bypass the busy first-floor dining area and head straight upstairs to the lavish private room. Inside, Rafaele and Nero are already seated. Rafaele’s at the head of the table with Nero to his right.

I frown. Rafaele’s in Papà’s seat, and Papà isn’t shy about telling people to move. They rise to greet us, and when we all settle down, Papà simply takes the seat to Rafaele’s left. It’s strange. I can’t remember the last time he didn’t sit at the head of the table.

But no one else seems to notice except me.

Cleo reaches for a bottle of wine on the table and fills her glass nearly to the rim. She doesn’t offer a drop to anyone else. She’s not even supposed to be drinking since she’s only eighteen, but no one in La Trattoria enforces those rules when it comes to the family.

My fiancé’s gaze narrows on the glass, and his lips thin with displeasure.

I hang my purse off the back of her chair and whisper into her ear, “You’re being rude.”

She just shrugs and takes a big gulp.

“Gemma, how’s the wedding planning going?” Nero asks as the waiters file in with heaping plates of antipasti and salad.

“Very well. This week we settled on the centerpieces and selected the cake.”

“Chocolate?”

“White chocolate and raspberry.”

Nero grins. “Good choice.”

“Have you finalized the guest list on your side?” Mamma spears some salumi with her fork before passing the plate to Nero.

“Cousin Emiliano and his family had to drop out at the last minute, but the rest are all confirmed,” Nero says.

“Cousin Emiliano? Didn’t we meet him a few months ago at that party at your place, Rafaele?”

The plate of antipasti makes it to my fiancé, who doesn’t take anything and passes it to Papà. Great. If he doesn’t like the food here, there’s no hope he’ll like my cooking. I can’t hold a candle to Chef Caruso.

Rafaele takes a sip of his wine while Nero answers for him. “You did.”

“I thought he lived around here. Why aren’t they coming?”

Nero shakes his head. “He was in a car accident. Some fucker put him in a coma.”

Mamma makes a disapproving click of her tongue. “Drivers these days. Did Stefano tell you about what happened just a few days ago—”

Cleo sticks two fingers into her mouth and whistles. “Hey! More wine please.”

Christ. Heat travels over my cheeks. My sister is fully capable of acting like a civilized human being, so she’s doing this on purpose. I can understand why she would around Ludovico—she’s trying to scare him off—but why now? Is she just trying to embarrass Mamma?

The waiter hurries over with a bottle of red.

“She’s had enough.”

They’re the first words out of my fiancé’s mouth since we sat down, and they make the entire table go still.

The waiter swallows and pulls the bottle back. “Of course, Mr. Messero.”

“Hey, stronzo, why are you listening to him?” Cleo snaps. “I said more wine.”

The waiter’s expression turns panicked and uncertain, and beads of sweat appear on his forehead.

“Cleo, settle down,” Mamma says through gritted teeth while Papà observes my sister with a dark look in his eyes.

I reach over to place a hand on Cleo’s arm, but she jerks it away and leans over the table to glare at Rafaele. “Who the hell gave you permission to control how much I drink?”

“You arrived smelling of booze, and you’ve already downed one overfilled glass since we sat down five minutes ago,” Rafaele says, his voice low. “You’re embarrassing your family.”

“You’re embarrassing yourself by having such a stick up your ass.”

Nero snorts.

I snatch Cleo’s arm and dig my nails in. My sister’s fearlessness borders on stupidity.

“That’s enough,” Papà barks. “We’re having this dinner because there’s something important for us to discuss. Save your tantrum for afterwards, Cleo.”

Cleo opens her mouth to argue, but I hiss, “Stop it.”

She huffs, slumps in her seat, and stuffs a piece of bread into her mouth, her furious gaze still fixed on Rafaele.

My fiancé lifts his glass of wine and takes a slow sip. Is he taunting her? It’s saying something that Cleo can get under Rafaele’s skin.

“What did you want to talk about, Papà?” I ask, trying to dissipate the lingering tension.

Papà wipes his lips with a napkin and sends the waiters out of the room with a single glance.

“What I’m about to say is extremely confidential, and it’s not to leave this room,” he says once the door shuts.

A trickle of unease slides down my spine.

I glance at Cleo, wondering if she knows what this is about, but she gives me a small shake of her head.

“I am naming Rafaele as my successor. When I retire, he will take over as the head of our clan.”

My silverware tumbles out of my hands.

What? I can’t believe what I’m hearing. This is coming out of nowhere.

“Is this a joke?” Cleo sputters. “Vince is your successor.”

“Vince has made it abundantly clear he has no interest in running the business in New York.”

No, that’s not true. Everyone knows that when the time comes, Vince will come back. That’s a given. He might be enjoying his time in Europe, but it was never meant to be a permanent thing.

He won’t let Papà take away his birthright just like that.

The room spins.

“Does Vince know about this?” I force past my dry throat.

Papà straightens his cuffs. “He’s aware.”

“And what was his reaction?”

Papà’s hard gaze lands on me. “Like I already said, he’s shown no interest in this job. Your brother has done nothing to prove to me that he can lead our people.”

Bullshit. Vince has been working abroad for the clan this whole time. He’s managing most of our money. They’re stealing his birthright from him.

Cleo points at Rafaele. “He’s not even related to us. How can he lead the Garzolos when he’s not one himself?”

For once, my sister and I are on the exact same wavelength. She’s voicing my thoughts.

Why Rafaele? Why not someone else?

“What about our uncles?” I demand. Even on the off chance that what Papà’s saying about Vince is true, one of our uncles would step up. I’m sure some of them are itching for an opportunity like this.

“None of the ones that are left are fit for the job,” Papà says. “You know as well as I do that the Riccis thinned our highest ranks.”

Cleo slams her fists on the table. “Are you kidding me? So make them fit! Why would you choose him of all people?”

“Rafaele’s about to become a part of our family. He’s marrying Gemma, and no one will dare call him an outsider once he’s my son-in-law. Rafaele’s already proven himself to be a capable don. He’s become my closest ally in the past six months, and he’s the best man for the job,” Papà says. “It’s as simple as that.”

Nothing about this is simple. I sit back in my chair, utterly shocked. I refuse to believe Vince is on board with this. Why didn’t he say something to me about this when we spoke in Ibiza?

Papà must have been planning this with Rafaele for far longer than that, so he’s pulling the rug from under Vince. That’s the only explanation.

What if Vince is already on his way back to New York?

My blood runs cold. Is he in danger?

Rafaele is ruthless when it comes to getting rid of his enemies. Will Vince join the ranks of them if he doesn’t fall in line?

Papà reaches across the table and clasps Mamma’s hand. It’s a rare show of affection meant to convey to Cleo and I that they’re a united front on this. “I’m not planning to retire for another few years, so the changes won’t go into effect for a while.”

“And you expect everyone to be all right with this?” I ask, my shock morphing into prickling anxiety. “Do the rest of the Garzolos know?”

“They will soon.”

Cleo shakes her head, still in disbelief. “This makes no sense.”

She’s right. It doesn’t.

Papà is proud.

Territorial.

For him, there’s always been an “us” and a “them”.

Rafaele will marry me, but he doesn’t share any blood with Papà. As far as I know, we’ve never warred with the Messeros, but we haven’t been allied for long either.

Why would Papà put so much trust in him? Why would he give Rafaele the key to his kingdom? The kingdom our great-great-grandfather started when he first immigrated to the United States?

Is Papà this desperate for an ally?

I force myself to breathe slowly and move my attention to my fiancé. “You’re charging a steep price to stand behind the Garzolos in case our enemies move against us. That’s all we’re getting from you in exchange for all of this, isn’t it?”

Rafaele gives me a strange look. Beside him, Nero purses his lips as if he’s making a conscious effort to keep his mouth shut.

I squeeze the armrests with my fingers as cold foreboding slides down my spine. “What is it?”

The room is quiet until Papà clears his throat. “I understand this is a lot to take in.”

I shake my head, my conviction growing. “There’s something else. Something you’re not telling us.”

“Gemma, enough,” Mamma snaps. “Your father has said everything he’s going to say on the subject.”

“I deserve to know,” I hiss. “Have you forgotten that you’re giving me to this man? Sounds like our marriage is what’s giving him the legitimacy he needs to become your successor. I want to know under what terms I was sold,” I say, my voice breaking.

My lungs are frozen as I wait for Papà to give me an answer, but it’s Rafaele who finally speaks.

“The Feds are building a case against your father,” he says in a voice that’s steady and impartial. “If he gets arrested, I’m the only one with the ability to get him out.”

I blink. There’s a whooshing sound inside my ears as things start to slowly, tragically fall into place. “Papà is that true?”

I want to hear confirmation from Papà’s mouth.

My father glowers at me, his lips pressed into a thin, tight line. He’s angry. Maybe he didn’t think Rafaele would tell me the truth.

“They’re looking to send me away for life. Rafaele has an in with the DA. If the indictment comes, he will make it go away. I’ll remain the don for a maximum of five years before handing the reins over to him.”

My vision narrows, and darkness seeps in. Unbelievable. This is fucking unbelievable.

This isn’t about protecting my family.

It’s about protecting him.

Papà’s using all of us—me, Vince, our family—to save his own skin.

“You told me our family was in danger,” I whisper.

“There’s always danger. Always someone vying to take what’s ours.”

“But there is no concrete threat, is there? You made it sound like the other families have been foaming at the mouth to come after us after the Riccis. You lied.”

Papà’s gaze is hard and unapologetic. “If I’m put behind bars tomorrow, Gemma, this family won’t have anyone capable of leading them. This plan ensures that we’re not plunged into chaos. It is a good thing. Everything I do, everything I’ve done, has always been in the best interests of our clan.”

Liar.

My chest constricts. There’s not enough air in this damn room.

I feel like I’m going to burst.

Nero draws everyone’s attention by clearing his throat. “Let’s all take a breath, shall we? I can see that this is quite a surprise.”

“No shit,” Cleo spits out.

Nero shoots her a tight smile. “It’s good we’re talking about it now. This way, there won’t be any more surprises after the wedding. We’re all invested in making sure this union between the Messeros and the Garzolos is a success, and that’s why Rafe and I thought this was a good time for all of us to get on the same page.”

My fiancé studies me, his fingers steepled, his expression unreadable.

So this was his idea. Does he expect me to thank him?

Our confusing exchange at Vale’s wedding makes more sense now. He thought Papà had told me about what was happening right from the beginning.

Mamma latches onto my arm and squeezes hard enough for me to wince. It’s what she does when she wants me to keep my mouth shut.

The rest of the dinner is a blur while I try to control my emotions. I want to cry and scream and throw my plate against the wall.

Dons go to prison all the time. Grandpa did seven years before he died. He had an acting boss carrying out his orders on the outside. Papà could have done the same with Vince.

It would have been the honorable thing to do.

But Papà doesn’t have any honor. He only has selfishness and greed.

There’s a ball in my throat. I thought I was marrying Rafaele for the sake of my family.

Turns out, I just helped Papà oust Vince. There’s not a chance in hell our family would accept Rafaele as their don if we weren’t getting married.

I should tell Papà that I won’t do it. That I won’t marry Rafaele for his benefit.

I’m not a little girl anymore. I don’t care about disappointing him.

But what difference would that make? Papà will replace a way to force me into the marriage anyway. He’s been using carrots up to now. If I resist, he’ll use a stick. He’ll make my life hell. He’ll drag me down the aisle himself if he has to. I know how he is.

I need to talk to Vince. Maybe we can come up with a plan together. He must be just as furious about this as I am. Until then, I need to keep my cool. There isn’t anything I can do. Not when there are so many unknowns and consequences I can’t predict.

A cord of despair wraps around my throat and squeezes.

My hands shake for the rest of dinner. I don’t touch my food. I don’t lift my eyes from the table.

It ends rather quickly. Maybe Rafaele and Nero take pity on us. I don’t say goodbye to them as we file out of the dining room. Cleo must have chugged an entire bottle of wine when she went to the bathroom because she’s barely on her feet.

I deposit her into the back seat, and she passes out on my shoulder, leaving me to spiral on my own the entire drive home. Papà turns up the music. No one speaks.

As soon as I get to my bedroom, I call Vince. There’s no answer.

I send a text.

Call me back. This is urgent.

He must be asleep. It’s the middle of the night in Europe.

It feels like there’s an atomic bomb inside my chest that’s about to burst. I’m tempted to start breaking things. The walls close in on me, and my heart races. I can’t stay in here. I need to get some air. I pick up my phone and send a text to Ras.

You up?

Yeah, what’s up?

Can you drive me somewhere right now?

Three dots flash at the bottom of the screen. I bite down on my lip.

Please say yes.

All right.