Gemma: A Mafia Forbidden Romance

Maybe this will at least get them off my back.

After we eat dinner I find Gio, who is downing whiskey out on the back patio.

“Hey big bro,” I croon sweetly. I know my brothers well, they both like to be buttered up. All of them really, my dad too. They like to see the sweet Gemma, the one who talks in a sing-song voice, who dresses girly, and smiles. They don’t like to be reminded that I have feelings, that I’m sad, and angry. They don’t like to hear me yell or cry or scream.

So I talk to them in this sweet voice so I can get the things I want.

Part of being a DelGado is knowing how to play the game.

“What Gemmy?” He’s drunk, I can tell because his eyes are hooded and he only ever calls me “Gemmy” when he’s drunk.

He gets drunk a lot since Ma died.

“I was wondering…” I trail, watching his eyes lift to meet mine. “I want some weed.”

He looks at me sharply. “No.”

“Gio,” I whine a little. “It’s practically legal.”

He sighs. “Nah, Gem. If I give you pot, one, Gian will kill me, and two, you’ll sit up in your room stoned all day. No, thanks.” He takes another sip of his whiskey.

As if the whiskey and weed aren’t the same thing. We’re both using them to numb the same pain, but for some reason his vice is okay and mine isn’t.

I place a hand on each of my hips, switching tactics. “Gio, if you don’t get it for me, I’ll find someone who will.”

He huffs. “None of Gian’s dealers are gonna sell to you.”

“Nope.” I agree. “But you think you own the market here?”

His brown eyes flash up to mine. “No, Gem. You don’t go outside the family.”

“Well,” I smile sweetly. “If the family won’t help me… what’s a girl to do?”

Gio sighs, a heavy sound. “Fine. I’ll get you some, but not a lot, you hear me? My sister isn’t going to be a stoner.”

“Whatever you say, dear brother.”

Giuseppe’s law office is my worst nightmare.

It’s old, the carpet is ugly, it smells like his cigars, and everything is as disorganized as my father. I hate every second of it, but I refused to give in and complain. Instead, I kick my feet up on my desk and scroll through Instagram.

My father doesn’t actually give a shit if I work, he just doesn’t want me to lay in bed all day.

It’s funny, I think, people who aren’t depressed believe they know the key to “saving” a depressed person. Just get out of bed. It’s that easy.

If only.

I don’t argue though. For four days now I’ve dragged my ass out of bed, tossed on yoga pants and let my father drive me to his office.

He already has a secretary, Edie, who is 60 years old and has been working for him for years. Edie is the only one who can keep up with the hot mess that is my father.

Giuseppe is a very successful lawyer, I think our house and cars prove that, but not in the traditional sense.

He’ll tell you he fights for the little guy, but really he just finds the cases that will bring in a good paycheck and piss people off.

Someone with morals would avoid this office like the plague. But not Edie, and apparently not me.

“Edie.” My father exits his office, waltzing out into the main area. There are two offices in his space and a large waiting room with a desk for Edie, and then a smaller desk he set up for me. Edie’s is stacked with files and paperwork while mine sits empty. The second office is also empty, Giuseppe had hoped that one of his sons would follow in his footsteps and practice law alongside him. He was dead wrong, neither of them want anything to do with this place.