Page 147 of When She Falls (The Fallen)
Except Ras. I owe himeverything. “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’ssodamn 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.”
