When She Falls (The Fallen, #3)(96)

“No, I’ve been a bitch. I’ve been so self-absorbed that I failed to notice what was right in front of me. I feel horrible about it. You deserve a better sister.”

My eyes well up with tears. “You were going through your own stuff.”

“I was rebelling just to piss Papà off, while you were getting beaten by him and being forced to marry a man you do not want. We are not the same,” she says, her tone threaded with bitterness. “Thank God for Ras. When I heard the sounds coming from the office, and then when I saw you… God,” she says, her voice breaking. “I’ve never been so scared, Gem. Not even when Rafaele killed Ludovico a foot away from me.”

I take a deep breath and try to rein in my emotions. “It’s okay, Cleo. I’m safe now.”

“I love you so much. You know I’d do anything for you, right? I see things more clearly now, and when you come back, I promise things won’t be the way they used to be.”

I take a moment to compose myself, letting her words sink in. “I know. I love you too.” Ras will be back soon, so I need to wrap this up. “What do you think I should do?”

“Whatever you want. You don’t owe anyone anything.”

Except Ras. I owe him everything. “If I come back, Vince can go back to Switzerland, and Rafaele will get Papà out. Everything will fall right back into place,” I say, thinking out loud.

“It’s not your job to fix this.”

I know it’s not. But I can go home and help people who don’t deserve it, or I can stay here and ruin Ras’s life.

The choice is obvious, but it’s far from easy.

Swallowing past the ball inside my throat, I say, “Cleo, I’m going to come home. Can you tell Vince? I’ll give you my location. Don’t give it to him until he swears on his life that he won’t send anyone after Ras and that he won’t let Papà harm him either. Tell him to send a plane for me to the closest private airfield. I’ll find a way to be there.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am. Write it down.” I give her our address in Crete.

Cleo blows out a breath. “All right, I’ll take care of it. I gotta go. I think I can hear Mamma coming up. I love you, okay?”

“Love you too. Bye.” I hang up.

Ras won’t let me just walk out of here. He’ll fight, argue, tell me whatever I want to hear to make me stay.

The only way this works is if I tell him I don’t want him.

The thought of doing that makes my chest tight with pain.

I’ll have to break his heart.

Can I lie to his face? Because that’s what it would be—a lie.

I love him.

Which is why I have to let him go.





The sunset is particularly beautiful tonight. The sky blushes with shades of pink and orange, its reflection glimmering across the Mediterranean.

Ras and I made fresh linguine, and from my spot on one of the patio chairs, I see him carefully toss the pasta into a pot of boiling water. He feels my attention on him and shoots me a grin. “Three minutes.”

He sent me out here about ten minutes ago with a glass of rosé after I kept dropping things because I’m on the verge of a breakdown. He misread my distress as clumsiness.

A big bird cuts an elegant arc through the sky just as my old phone vibrates in the pocket of my dress.

I cast a quick glance at Ras to make sure he’s not looking over here and then read the message from Cleo.

Tomorrow, 10 a.m.





My palms grow sweaty. The plane is coming to pick me up and take me back to New York.

I slide the phone under the chair cushion as Ras comes out with two plates and places one on the table in front of me. The linguine is topped with homemade sugo, grated parmesan, and basil.

I pick up my fork. “It looks delicious,” I say, trying to keep my tone upbeat even though I’m crumbling inside. I want to enjoy this one last dinner with him before I break the news.

He takes the seat closest to me, leaving the corner of the table between us, and places a hand on my thigh.

I take my first bite and it’s so damn good I can’t hold back a moan. He’s an exceptional cook.

The sound makes him smirk. “Fuck, you’re going to make me hard before we get to dessert.”

I swallow my food and force a smile. “Liar. You’re already hard.”

His eyes spark. “Why don’t you get on my lap and check?”

“I’m hungry,” I say, waving my hand at my plate.

“I’ve got something I can feed you.”

Even though I feel lower than I’ve ever felt before, he manages to make me laugh. “Stop it. I’m trying to enjoy this pasta.”

He drags his hand up my thigh, pushes it beneath my dress, and stops at the edge of my underwear. He digs into his food, but his fingers brush back and forth over my skin, drifting closer and closer toward my center without ever quite reaching it.

Heat travels up my body in a slow wave.

He keeps his gaze on me, an amused glint in his eyes as he watches me try to pretend like I’m unaffected by his touch.

I’m wet by the time I’m done with my pasta, and my breaths come out in short pants. “Ras,” I rasp.

He arches a brow. His plate is still half full.