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

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 find 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.