Gemma: A Mafia Forbidden Romance

I know Andrew is not an angel. He fucking kicks the living shit out of people. He cleans up bodies for my brother. I’m sure he’s seen worse than a woman getting hit by a car.

But I’ve never seen death like that.

The image of her laid out in the middle of the street is seared into my brain, a sight I don’t think I’ll ever forget.

She was running from someone, like she knew this was coming.

I don’t respond to Andrew, instead I let the shame and fear take over me and breakdown. I let the tears leave my eyes, run down my cheeks and drip onto my lap. They come fast and heavy.

To his credit, Andrew doesn’t say a word. He turns on the car and pulls onto the road. He drives me straight home to my father. Gian and Gio are both there when we arrive, and though we’ve had a strained relationship this past year, they both grasp me in a tight hug.

I don’t know how long we all stand there like that, intertwined while the tears still flow from my eyes.

Annie’s inside the house with baby Gabi bundled up in her arms. She holds me and Gabi silently, letting me sit in my feelings.

Rhea comes to the house next. We open a bottle of red and cry together.

We should be scared. Hell, we are scared.

But we also know that this only means we have to fight harder.

They all leave eventually. Gian prepares to take the spare bedroom for the night, but Dad and I convince him we’re alright.

And we are alright.

We’re alive, what else could we ask for?

I change into a pair of silky pajamas and crawl under my comforter with Waldo curled up beside me. I pull out my cell phone, flicking through my contacts until I get to the one I want.

I pull up the Chloe contact and type out a message.

I need you.

I READ THE TEXT MESSAGE from Gemma about one hundred times.

I need you.

I wonder if she can read my mind, because fuck do I need her too. I want to run to her as soon as the message pops up on my phone, but it’s 11 PM and I don’t think that’s my best idea.

I type up a response on my phone, then retype it, reworking the words. No combination is going to be right, no words will be the right ones for her.

What do you say to the woman who’s been stomping her red-soled high heels through your brain for the last nine months?

When can we meet?

I hit send before I can overthink it more than I have. Everything that’s happened in the last nine months and the only person I’ve wanted by my side is the one girl I can’t have.

I’m buzzing with energy now, staring at my phone screen waiting for her to respond to me. I’d take anything right now, even a fucking emoji, as long as it’s contact from her. I feel like I’ve spent a year stranded on an island and a lifeboat just arrived.

I haven’t been living, just going through the motions of life without realizing it. Then she opened a doorway and once I crossed through, I don’t think I can ever go back.

She’s my fucking lifeline.

&nbs

p; My mind flashes through memories of her, getting stuck on the ones where she’s naked on her knees in front of me or laying flat on a hotel mattress. There’s a spark to her during sex that isn’t there all the time. It comes out when her skin is flushed, a light sheen of sweat covering her face and arms.

My cock perks at the memories of her. It tents the sheet I’m laying beneath. I run my hand over the fabric of my boxer shorts, still thinking of her. Releasing my cock, I grip the shaft, stroking it.