Gemma: A Mafia Forbidden Romance

This is going to make my job hard this week.

I shoot a text to Declan. Better to get this over with, sooner rather than later. When he gets to my apartment twenty minutes later, my father following close behind, I’m slumped on the couch with a bag of frozen peas pressed to my ribs.

“What the fuck?” Declan snarls. “Who did this to you?”

“I was jumped.” I say the words I’ve been rehearsing since I texted him. “Didn’t see their faces.”

“Where?” This time my father asks the question.

“In the alley behind the bar.” I tell them, “Where I don’t have cameras.” I add.

Declan heaves a sigh and runs a hand through his hair. My father stands with both hands gripped to his hips, eyes wandering over me, assessing the damage.

Busted face, bruised ribs. I look like shit.

“Italians?” Da asks.

“Not sure,” I grimace. We both know it’s the Italians, but I don’t want to give them up.

For Gemma.

This girl is too deep in my head.

Declan wanders into my kitchen and grabs a bottle of whiskey, filling a glass and chugging it down even though it’s only early afternoon.

“Bring me one,” I call. He obliges, bringing me an overly full tumbler of the amber liquid. Between the pain pills I took and this, it should take the edge off.

“We have to hit back.” Declan says, seething.

“I know.” Da looks to me once more. “You don’t remember anything.”

“No.”

“Don’t worry,” Declan’s steel grey eyes meet mine, “I’m gonna get those assholes for you.”

I grimace.

Great. One more thing to drive Gemma and I apart.

I haven’t seen Gemma for almost a week.

My ribs hurt like hell, but my face is mostly healed, just the lingering yellow bruises remain. Da and Declan suggested I stay home for a few days to avoid being seen as weak by the other men.

I might have enjoyed the break, but I spent the entire time thinking about her and drowning myself in whiskey.

She tastes as sweet as honey and no matter how much I drink I can’t get that sweet taste out of my mouth, and all I want is more. I swear I can smell the rose and vanilla perfume that lingers on her body and it keeps me looking over my shoulder for her. She’s like a fucking ghost that haunts my days and nights.

I’ve never craved something so badly.

I need to leave her alone, I know this. Still, I clutch the phone waiting for a text to come in and contemplating calling her when there’s nothing.

I’m lovesick for the DelGado girl and it’s a dangerous feeling to have.

Even if I forget that she’s the enemy's daughter, us being together is dangerous. My life isn’t sunshine and roses, the Irish Mob isn’t a fucking joke. I live life looking over my shoulder for the next attack, praying that if they do get me they end it fucking quick.

If I’m captured, I’ll be wishing for death.

How could I ever put someone through that? What would she do, sit at home and wait around for me hoping I come back alive every night?