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

When I wake up the next morning, I can still feel the rough press of Ras’s lips, the thrust of his tongue, and the weight of his hips against my own as he slammed me into that counter.

I was so mad just before he did it. So damn annoyed with all the probing questions he was asking that I couldn’t answer.

But something strange happened when he kissed me.

All of my fear and fury morphed into something else. It turned hot and decadent, sliding over my skin and settling between my legs for a brief moment before I came to my senses and kneed him where it hurt.

I pull the bedcover over my head and groan into a pillow.

There is a reasonable explanation.

That asshole is just the first guy to kiss me who actually knows what he’s doing.

I’ve only kissed two other people before. They were boys, not men. My age. Clueless and sweet. Our brief make-out sessions had been as exciting as waiting in line at the DMV.

No wonder what happened with Ras was more…jolting.

Open your eyes, you idiot. Time to snap back to reality.

I drag the bedcover down and immediately regret it.

It’s so, so bright.

After the fiasco in the kitchen, I all but ran back to dinner and decided to drown all my problems in wine.

Delicious, fruity Spanish wine. The waiter understood his job quickly and made sure my glass was never empty. With Mamma and Papà seated at a different table, no one paid enough attention to stop me.

Too bad no matter how good the wine is, your mouth still tastes like acid the next morning.

I sit up and cradle my pounding head in my palms.

Ras returned to the table sometime after me, but by that point, the dance floor had opened up, and I was out of there before his butt touched down in his seat.

Honestly, he should be glad I didn’t stick around. With all that alcohol sloshing inside of me, there was a lot more I could have said to him.

I hate him.

The man might be a decent kisser, but there’s something seriously wrong with him.

I don’t even want to imagine what would have happened if someone had walked in on us.

If my parents got word of me kissing another man? Kissing Ras?

I shudder. It wouldn’t even matter that he forced it on me. Papà wouldn’t wait for an explanation before he punished me. He’d probably take us all back home, tell Rafaele not to come here, hold this over Damiano’s head—

I dig the heels of my palms into my eye sockets. It would be so easy to spiral right now, but I won’t. I won’t let Ras ruin this week for me more than he already has.

Cleo’s still snoring across the room, but I force myself out of bed, eager to get that sour taste out of my mouth.

My hangover sends my thoughts down annoying little detours.

While I rinse my mouth and brush my teeth, I recall what Ras’s body felt like. Hard muscle everywhere. Radiating heat like a furnace. His abs may as well have been a stack of bricks. I think I hurt my hand more than I hurt him when I punched him. He barely even huffed in response.

I step into the shower.

I wonder what Ras would have done if instead of hitting him, I’d slipped my hand inside his shirt, raked my nails over those abs, and dipped my fingers behind his belt.

God, it would have been worth it just to see the look on his stupid face. How annoying is it that he thinks he’s got me all figured out? He barely knows me.

And apparently, I know him even less than I thought I did.

Cassio. Why does he prefer Ras over his real name? I feel like I should dig up some stuff on him. Knowledge is power. For someone who likes asking me so many questions, he definitely doesn’t seem too eager to answer even one of mine.

Cold water hits my skin. I shiver against it, but I don’t turn up the heat. I need to get rid of this hangover, so I let the cold drench me, let it seep into my hair and hope it clears my head.

It does.

When I step out onto the heated floor, only one thought remains. The only one that matters.

Ras is a scourge, and I’m going to do everything I can to avoid him for the rest of my time here. Easy enough for him to speak of doing whatever he wants. He hasn’t lived my life. He’s been here in this paradise for a long time, with a friend for a boss, and a culture that allows him to ride naked on a jet ski across endless clear water, for fuck’s sake.

He’s found something to toy with—me. But this isn’t a game. Did a part of me enjoy our verbal sparring? Sure. But I can’t after he’s shown me what a loose cannon he is.

My bruised reflection is another reminder of why I can’t afford to have Ras mess with me. I will not give Papà more reasons to hit me. I spend a good ten minutes covering up the ugly brown-green splotch on my cheek, pressing the sponge so hard into my skin that I make myself wince.

When I come out of the bathroom, Cleo’s bed is empty.

I frown at the mess of sheets. Cleo’s bed always looks like the aftermath of a racoon fight.

She drank less than me last night, but enough to get a little rowdy on the dance floor. Papà and Mamma left dinner early, instructing Vince to keep an eye on us. He’d done no such thing and had instead spent his evening smoking cigars with the older male guests.

I chug a bottle of water from the nightstand and check my phone. Nothing from Cleo, but there’s a text from Nona.

You haven’t sent me pictures like you promised, cara mia.

I send her a few photos, put on a white linen button-up shirt and a pair of jeans, and venture outside. It’s never a good sign when Cleo just disappears.

The sun warms my skin as soon as I step through the front door. Two guards greet me in Spanish, and when I ask them about Cleo, one of them explains in broken English that they saw her walking around the property.

I find her standing at the edge of the cliff that protrudes over the small private beach currently hidden by high tide. She’s in an oversized T-shirt with IBIZA spelled out across it—when did she manage to get that?—and a pair of booty shorts. One of her Chanel purses is slung over her shoulder, looking very at odds with the rest of her outfit. She hasn’t bothered to brush her hair, so it’s billowing around her head like a black halo.

Typical Cleo.

I stop by her side. “This is a nice spot.”

She sniffs. “It is. Great cliff.”

A seagull soars over our heads.

“I’m thinking of throwing myself off it.”

My gaze jumps to her profile. “What the hell, Cleo?”

Her jaw tightens, her hands squeezing into fists. “She won’t leave me alone.”

“Mamma? I thought her and Papà were still asleep?”

“She’s driving me crazy on this whole trip. It feels like I can’t do anything without her offering an opinion. She’s constantly hovering. Every time I take out my phone, she wants to see what I’m doing. Did you see the dress she made me wear last night?” She extends her arm to show me some light-red marks on her forearm. “I was itchy everywhere.”

The dress did have a lot of itchy looking lace. “I’m sorry, Cleo.”

She sighs. “Now that Vale and you are matched up, she’s focusing all her attention on me. Gem, I can’t handle it. I don’t even know what she wants from me. It’s like she just can’t deal with not having me in her sight, but she can’t stand being around me.”

I bite down on my lips. Mamma’s anxiety has gotten worse and worse. The ordeal with Vale is Mamma’s biggest failure, at least in her eyes. It destabilized her. Made her hyper vigilant, especially where Cleo is concerned.

“This is a difficult time for her.”

“Don’t.” Cleo’s voice hardens. “Don’t make excuses for her.”

“I’m trying to be sympathetic. It’s been a difficult year for all of us.”

Cleo makes a dismissive sound and peers over the cliff.

My heart rate spikes.

I reach out instinctively, grabbing her elbow. I don’t let go even when she takes a small step back.

“I don’t know how much longer I can go on like this, Gem. Sometimes, I feel almost a perverse kind of jealousy.” She turns her head sideways, looking at me. “Soon you’ll be moving out of our prison of a house and moving in with your husband. And me? I have no escape. No end in sight. I know Rafaele sucks, but I’m pretty sure he won’t fucking hover like Mamma. He’ll have better things to do.”

“One can hope,” I say warily. “So what, you want to get married now? For the longest time, you said you wouldn’t marry anyone they chose for you.”

Her expression crumples. “I don’t know what I want. Hence the idea with the cliff.”

Gently, I pull her farther away from the edge. She glances down at where I’m holding her biceps and lets out a humorless laugh. “Relax. I’m joking. Kind of. But I might turn serious if I don’t get a break from her.” She looks up at the sky. “I really need a break,” she mutters to the birds. “Can you cover for me?”

Hesitation sweeps through me. I swear, if I had a penny every time I heard those five words from my sister, I’d be richer than Papà. “Cover for you how?”

“I’m going to go for a walk. I’ve circled this property a dozen times since we arrived. I need a change of scenery.” She turns and gives me an expectant look.

“Cleo, we’re in a foreign country. This isn’t safe.”

“It’s an island. It’s not like I can go very far,” she says, pulling her arm out of my grip.

I don’t even get a chance to argue before she’s walking away.

“Cleo!” Panic rises inside of me. I jog to catch up to her. “Hold on. I never agreed.”

“You will though, won’t you?” she begs, her eyes wide and pleading. “Gem, I’m serious.”

The image of her standing on the edge of that cliff flashes in front of my eyes.

I sigh and scan her skimpy outfit. “Do you even have your phone on you?

She shows me her purse. “In here. If anything comes up, I’ll call.”

“Where are our guards?” They’re literally here to prevent this sort of thing from happening.

“They were dozing off in the kitchen when I left the house.”

Papà’s going to be furious if he finds out.

“There are Damiano’s guards as well,” I say.

She snorts. “Please, those guys are nothing. They’re watching people coming in, not going out. I’ll be back in an hour.”

I watch her retreating back and bouncing curls and let out a groan.

Damn it. Will she be all right?

In New York, I’m never too worried about Cleo being able to watch out for herself. She’s surprisingly street smart when she needs to be. But we’re not in New York, so maybe I should go with her. Although, if anyone comes looking and can’t find either of us, they’ll sound the alarm.

I better stay.

I drag my fingers through my hair and glance around. What am I supposed to say to Mamma if she asks me where Cleo went? Back home, I have a list of go-to excuses. She’s at the sauna. She went to the gym. She forgot something at the mall.

Here, I’ve got nothing.

They’ll be so angry if they find out I let her go. I don’t have to wonder about what Papà will do. These days, he doesn’t need much of an excuse to raise a hand to me.

I need to stay out of everyone’s way until she’s back.

I carve a path around the house and head toward a grove of dense bushes. There’s a bench there overlooking the water. It’s a place I can hide until Cleo gets back.

Sitting down, I drag my sweaty palms over my jean clad thighs. Tiredness weighs down my eyelids.

I had way too much to drink last night. Ras didn’t pour the alcohol down my throat, but I blame him for it anyway. It’s like he discovered a manual for getting under my skin. I can’t seem to get his words out of my head, no matter how hard I try.

“You’re sacrificing your future, and you don’t even know what you’re sacrificing it for.”

He doesn’t understand. Ras has no idea the kind of trouble my family is in back home.

Do you?

I gnaw on my lip. The other families could choose to move on us at any time. The only reason they haven’t is because they know we’re joining forces with the Messeros.

After what you did to the Riccis, wouldn’t the other families think twice about messing with you? A little voice in my head asks.

That might have been true at one point, but not now. We spent so much on that fight, and we don’t have any reserves left. It’s why Papà’s terrified. He needs this alliance with Rafaele.

God, my head is pounding. I don’t want to think about anything right now.

I get myself horizontal on the bench and throw my arm over my eyes. Screw it, I’m taking a nap.

I scramble awake when my phone buzzes in the back pocket of my jeans. It feels like I’ve only been asleep for five minutes. I glance at the screen and see that it’s a text message from Mamma.

Rafaele is about to arrive, where are you?

I rub at my eyes. The clock on my phone says I’ve actually napped for nearly an hour.

Shit!

My heart rate spikes as I pull up Cleo’s contact.

Cleo, where are you?

The message sits unread.

One minute passes. Two.

I groan. There isn’t any time to wait for her to respond.

So much for my plan to avoid my parents until Cleo gets back.

I quickly text Mamma back to let her know I’ll meet them by the front door of the main house. Papà made a big deal of me giving my fiancé a warm welcome.

We get there at the same time. Mamma comes over to smooth some imaginary wrinkles from my shirt.

Papà adjusts his tie. “Where have you been?”

“Just walking around the property.”

“Where is your sister?”

“I don’t know. I think she might be in the pool,” I lie.

Mamma’s eyes narrow. Is she onto me?

The gate at the end of the driveway starts to slide open, and a moment later, a black car drives through it.

Mamma’s attention moves from me to it, and I let out a breath of relief just as the car stops in front of us. The driver comes around to open the door. The first man to emerge is Nero, Rafaele’s consigliere. Rafaele’s reputation is closely intertwined with Nero’s. The two of them became made around the same time, and Nero plays a supporting role in most of the legends swirling around Rafaele.

This isn’t the first time we’ve met, but every time we do, I have to resist the urge to rub my eyes. Nero’s just…massive, built like a linebacker, even taller than Rafaele—who’s six-two—and always dressed in black. Nero’s nickname couldn’t be any more appropriate—Angel of Death. Even his expertly tailored suit can’t disguise the sheer muscular force of his body. He gracefully unfurls to his full height, towering over all of us, and gives us a disarming grin.

“Enjoying this sun, Mr. Garzolo?” he says with that wicked smile. “I’m hoping to work on my tan while I’m here.”

They shake hands, and Nero cracks a few jokes and says things that are meant to put everyone at ease. Even his charm is intimidating. You never know when he’s joking and when he’s being serious. He seems like the type who’d try to get you to laugh while he twists your neck.

Then he moves his attention to me, takes my hand, and presses a kiss to it. “Gemma. Looking beautiful as always.”

“Thank you.”

Rafaele comes out next.

I swallow. My fiancé isn’t as physically intimidating as Nero, but he carries an unmistakable air of danger about him. Maybe it’s the way he moves, slow and intentional like a panther. Or the way he’s able to keep his gaze as cold as ice no matter the circumstances. When that gaze falls on me, I shiver.

Rafaele doesn’t greet anyone. Instead, he turns around and reaches back inside the car, apparently having forgotten something.

There’s a strange muffled sound.

My jaw drops when I see Cleo’s face with silver masking tape over her mouth.

There’s a collective gasp.

“We found this stumbling on the side of the road,” Rafaele says coldly as he hauls her out by her elbow. Her hands are tied behind her back.

The moment Cleo’s feet hit the ground, she tears her arm out of his grip and screams like a banshee against the tape.

Rafaele steadies her by her shoulder, wrapping his big palm around it, and rips the tape off in one fell swoop.

If it hurts, Cleo doesn’t show it. Her eyes are blazing. “I was going for a walk, you jerk off. Your thug—” she jerks her head at Nero, “—is the one who pulled me off the road like some caveman.”

A gust of wind lifts up the hem of her shirt, revealing a sliver of her belly, and for a moment, I swear Rafaele’s gaze drops to it. Then I blink, and his gaze is back on her face. Cold. So damn cold.

Nero chuckles. “We invited you in nicely. It’s only when you refused that Rafe asked me to get you.”

Rafaele tears his gaze off Cleo and moves it to Papà. “We nearly ran her over.”

The direct address seems to snap Papà out of his shocked stupor. His nostrils flare on a breath. “She shouldn’t have been off the property.”

Cleo bares her teeth at Rafaele. “Get the damn zip tie off my wrists. Right. Now.”

I wince. Lovely. My future husband appears to travel with a supply of zip ties and masking tape. Just in case.

Rafaele pulls out a pocketknife and approaches Cleo.

My breath catches inside my lungs. My fiancé is an exceptionally dangerous man, and I can’t help but think that having him with a knife close to my sister is a bad idea.

But he doesn’t do anything besides quickly snipping the zip tie off.

Cleo rounds on him as soon as she’s free and snarls. “You do that again, and you’ll regret it.”

“Cleo!” I exclaim, more than a little concerned for her life, especially when Rafaele’s gaze darkens.

I rush over and tuck her against my side. When I catch a whiff of her, my eyes widen.

She smells like liquor.

The idiot.

She must have hidden a bottle of something inside her purse. It’s not even noon, and she decided to get drunk while walking on the side of a road?

Horror floods me. I should have never let her go.

My fearful gaze flits toward Rafaele. Is he going to out Cleo to our parents? There’s no way he didn’t smell it while they were in the car together.

My fiancé walks over to greet Papà. I barely breathe as I watch them shake hands.

My prayers are answered when they only exchange a few words before Rafaele moves on to say hello to Mamma. She mutters a string of apologies for Cleo’s behavior. He just nods and then comes over to me. I push Cleo behind me, trying to get her out of his sight. My sister’s insane enough to provoke him even now.

Rafaele studies me in his usual dispassionate way. When he looks at me, I’m never quite sure that he really sees me. For Rafaele, all I am is a name written on a contract, nothing more.

He doesn’t take my hand like Nero did.

Doesn’t touch me.

He simply nods in acknowledgement and says, “Hello, Gemma.”