When She Falls (The Fallen, #3)

by Gabrielle Sands

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.

Gentlemen don’t look at engaged women the way I look at Gemma Garzolo.

“No, but I’ve been called daddy on occasion.” I’d thought she was looking at me like she wanted to murder me earlier, but that had nothing on how she’s looking at me now. She makes a gagging sound. “Seriously, is this some sort of torture method you’re testing? Holding unsuspecting women hostage in bathrooms while you share details about your sex life?” Laughter spills out of me as I drop my arms back to my sides and step to the side to let her pass.

“You should thank God that your loyalty will never require you to sell your body to another. That Damiano will never ask you to let a stranger take you home and spend years pumping you full of his children.” Acid floods my mouth. This is how it is for women born into this life, but for some reason, hearing Gemma say it shocks me.

If that’s your enemy, maybe you should take a second look at your friends.

“I have so many questions.” If I’d had to guess what kind of pet a guy like Ras would have, a parrot wouldn’t even make it in the top ten possibilities.

Whether in Italy or the United States, they always vow this kind of thing. Back home, it rarely amounts to anything. How can it, when we have most of the elected officials in our pocket? We budget each year for that shit.

If she was engaged to me, I wouldn’t squander a single second. She’d be glued to my side. If she wanted to eat, I’d feed her. If she wanted to sit, it would be on my lap. If she wanted to shower, I’d wash every inch of that perfect skin and then dirty her up again.