When She Falls (The Fallen, #3)(43)

“Your father wanted me to let you know that I’ll be your security detail until your wedding,” Armando says. I guess the two guys they brought to Ibiza got sacked for spending more time drinking from Damiano’s wine collection than keeping an eye on the girls.

“You’ve been working for Garzolo for a while?” I ask.

“About a year,” he says, patting his pockets for a lighter.

A year? That’s nothing. There’s no way he’s made. If I had to guess, he’s someone’s useless cousin who’s spent the last few decades failing at whatever he was doing, and he’s begged to be brought in.

We reach Manhattan, where despite the late hour, throngs of cars are stuck in slow-moving traffic. Everyone’s honking at each other as if it’ll make things go faster.

I drag my palm over my beard. It’s overdue for a trim. “This place is a zoo.”

“Have you spent a lot of time here?” Gemma asks.

“No. Just a few short trips.”

“So you don’t know anyone?”

“I have a few acquaintances.” Just one, actually.

I already have a meeting set up with him, courtesy of Kal Parasyris, a Greek that runs his own version of the Cosa Nostra up in a tiny village in Crete. Zoriana? Zoniana? I always get the name of that place wrong. Kal’s been one of our weapons suppliers for years, and he’s got a cousin, Orrin Petraki, out here in Brooklyn, running what they call “the Greek Crew.” Kal made him sound like small fish in a big pond, but if I know anything about the Greeks, it’s that they’re hustlers. I’m going to try and get Orrin to help me figure out what the fuck is really going on with Garzolo.

That’s as far as I’ve gotten in terms of having a plan to accomplish the mission Dem gave me. It’s not much, but it’s better than winging it.

Gemma doesn’t ask any more questions. She stares out the window for the rest of the long drive, her skin pale.

“You okay?” I ask when the car stops. We’re in New Jersey now, in a neighborhood right on the Hudson River. The streets are lined with dense rows of bare-branched trees and thick pines. Must look nice in the summer.

“Just tired,” she says, but it rings false. Her whole demeanor changed when we stepped off the plane. She’s smaller somehow, anxiety practically emanating off her.

It gives me pause.

We get out of the car, and holy fucking shit. It’s freezing cold out.

I pull my jacket tighter around me. Fucking February. This has got to be the worst possible month to be here.

My breaths come out in misty puffs as I take in the red-brick house in front of me. It’s enormous—three sprawling stories with an array of arched windows. It’s kind of traditional looking. There’s a separate garage to the right, big enough for at least six cars, and on the left is a tennis court.

The wind picks up, sending a shiver through me. “Jesus Christ.”

“Not used to this?”

I glance at Gemma, who’s come to stand by my side. The lamps on the front of the house send light scattering across her rosy cheeks. She seems to be dealing with this temperature far better than me despite only wearing a hoodie.

“Can we go inside?” I ask through chattering teeth.

Amusement flickers in her eyes. “Such a baby.”

“More like I want to have babies one day, but I won’t if my balls freeze off out here.”

This earns me a laugh. “Come on. I’ve got the key.”

As soon as we get inside, I sigh with relief. Much better. I’ve never been this grateful for central heat.

We’re standing in a grand foyer that opens up to a large living room with a crackling fireplace. To the right is a staircase leading to the second floor, and to the left is the kitchen.

Armando comes in behind us and opens a shallow cabinet attached to the wall. Inside is a row of hooks with keys hanging off them. He hooks his car keys on an empty one and closes the cabinet.

We get about four steps in when Gemma’s mother emerges from the shadows. She’s wrapped in a long house robe and her hair is tied back in a braid. You’d think she’d rush over to give her recently ill daughter a hug, but instead, all she gives Gemma is a critical look.

I hear Gemma’s intake of breath. “Mamma.”

Pietra examines Gemma for a moment before pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek. “You look terrible.”

“It was a long journey.”

“Your father wants to speak with you.”

Gemma’s shoulders tense up. “I’m really tired. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

Pietra shakes her head. “Go, Gemma. He stayed up waiting for you.”

I grind my teeth. Gemma’s legs are barely holding her weight, and she’s still weak from her illness.

“Mamma, please.”

Any normal mother would back off, but I’m starting to realize that Pietra is far from normal. When she opens her fucking mouth to argue, I step in.

“Mrs. Garzolo, the doctor instructed Gemma to take it easy for the next few days. It’s past one am. She needs to lie down and get some rest.”

Both of the women look at me, one cautiously grateful and the other annoyed.

It doesn’t take a mind reader to know what Pietra is thinking. I’m in her house, and I don’t make the rules here. But I hold her gaze, challenging her to voice that thought.