When She Falls (The Fallen, #3)(102)

The truth in her words hits me right in the center of my chest. I fold over, my elbows on my knees and my head between my palms. More memories come flooding in.

Me at age six. Mother’s Day. Mamma doesn’t like the dress I picked out, even though it’s my favorite—midnight blue with little sparkling stars sewn in. She tells me to change out of it because it looks cheap. I tell her I like it. She starts yelling. I start crying. She tears it off me, the buttons getting tangled and pulling out my hair, and throws it in the fire in the living room. “You have two minutes to stop your whining or we’re leaving you at home.”

Vale tries to argue with her, but she’s only nine. When I come out in the dress Mamma wants me to wear, the anger leaves Mamma’s expression. She smiles. “There, Gemma. The pink dress looks so much better on you. You’re a completely different girl.”

My fingers drift over my lips. It feels like a veil has been lifted, and I can see clearly for the first time.

“I can’t believe I forgot.”

“Maybe that’s what you had to do for it not to hurt so much.”

I meet Cleo’s gaze. “But you didn’t.”

Her eyes are shining. “I stopped playing their game a long time ago. And so can you.”

“I don’t know how,” I mumble through the tears that are now dripping down my face. “Ras told me I was enough for him, but I didn’t believe him.”

“Oh, Gem.” She pulls me into her arms. “How could you believe him when you’ve been told your whole life that you’re not? But he was telling you the truth. You are more than enough.”

I clutch onto Cleo and squeeze my eyes shut as my emotions threaten to overwhelm me.

I don’t think I’ve ever understood the damage our parents have done until now. They’ve robbed us of so much.

A happy childhood.

A loving family.

A mind that’s not filled with fear and doubts.

But worst of all, they robbed me of Ras.

And I let them.





CHAPTER 33





RAS


It’s fucking March, and New York is still a concrete refrigerator.

I pull my coat tighter around me while I wait at the crosswalk, watching a car tread through a pool of icy brown slush.

People crowd around me. I’ve learned in the past few days that Midtown traffic at rush hour behaves more like a liquid than a mass of discrete parts. I clench my fist when someone bumps their shoulder against mine. By the time the light turns green, I’m actually excited to get back to my shoebox apartment, if only to get a bit of personal space.

The studio apartment on 32nd Street is about the size of my closet back in Ibiza. It was the best Orrin could arrange on short notice. A week ago, I called him from Crete as I watched Gemma’s plane take off and told him I needed him to get me back to New York.

He asked me why.

I told him it was none of his business.

He didn’t press it further. He just sighed, told me that at this point I owed him my firstborn, and picked me up on the same cargo plane.

The truth is the location of the shoe box is convenient.

It’s a block away from Gemma’s Pilates studio.

I walk past my building and keep going until I see the familiar neon sign with the name Move On.

I drag my palm over my overgrown beard.

Touché.

I park myself by the window inside the coffee shop across the street and order a cappuccino.

Around ten fifty, the studio’s traffic picks up as women and some men arrive for the eleven a.m. class, but I’m waiting for the black SUV. Gemma’s always surrounded by at least two guards these days, and I know they’ll stay in the car just outside the studio while she does the class. Pietra goes with her to her classes now. They’ve got her on a tight leash.

The car pulls up at ten fifty-five. The door opens, and Gemma emerges in a puffy coat, hair pulled back in a short ponytail, light-green leggings, and a white pair of athletic shoes.

My breath catches. I don’t blink.

I only catch a flash of her face before she turns and quickly disappears inside the studio.

That’s it. Fifteen seconds that are the highlight of my day. It’s all downhill from here.

Since that thought is far too fucking depressing, I get myself a sandwich and decided to wait to see her leave. Drag it out a bit.

I’m like an addict searching for that next hit.

When I got back, my plan was to keep an eye on her in New Jersey, but every time I drove by her house, there were a bunch of cars there, and at least a few guys on lookout.

I couldn’t risk getting caught.

I don’t know what Dem told Messero or Garzolo. Gemma said he was covering for me, but at the time, I wasn’t in any state to clarify what she meant by that. If Dem hasn’t publicly announced that I’m no longer his underboss, and I got caught watching Gemma, he would have another problem to deal with. I don’t want to do that to him.

So I do this instead. I come to this place to catch a glimpse of her.

It’s nothing more than a crumb for a man who wants the whole damn cake. She comes from her house and goes straight back there after she’s done.

She’s been back for a week.

There are four days left till the wedding.

And I have no fucking clue what I’m doing, why I’m stalking her instead of trying to forget her.