When She Falls (The Fallen, #3)(2)

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.