5. Riley
FIVE
I”m in deep shit.Deeper shit than when I locked myself out of my apartment during my internship in New York City. Deeper shit than when I was hungover and overslept and almost missed a press conference during my first week on the job.
Possibly deeper shit than when I found out Lorna had been murdered by her Irish mobster boyfriend.
I slump against the ornate wooden door, focused on my breathing, trying to steady my heart rate. It”s coming in giant gulps, erratic and shaky. I must find a way to escape, because this is going too far for a story. I”m being held captive by a man whose wristwatch costs more than I make in five years at the paper.
Minutes tick by like hours. I peel myself off the door and slowly turn, as if any erratic movement will set off a bomb. My hand finds the doorknob. Is it locked?
It is. Dammit. So that was bullshit, his flowery speech about how I was the only one stopping me from leaving. Dick. What am I going to do? I think about my father, a tough old Irish American who lived his life on the fringes of the mob. What would he do?
He”d tell me to use my wits. Then he”d probably make a call to ”a guy” and try to have Gabriel killed. Or roughed up, at least. Yeah, right. Like he”d be successful at that. Gabriel and his family are far bigger, richer and more powerful than anything my dad encountered in Southie—mostly because Gabriel and his family are woven into the fabric of Tampa society, and have been for at least three generations. And rumor has it that he”s one of the three titans of the Italian mafia here in the state, nearly as important as the five bosses in New York.
A pillar of the community. No one will believe me, a reporter, a newcomer, if I say Gabriel kidnapped me. Not with how people think reporters are trash these days. The public would probably cheer him on and wish for my demise.
I pace for several seconds, and finally take in the room. It”s enormous, probably about as big as my studio apartment in a tired, eighties-era complex in the suburbs. The bedroom is decorated in tones of silver and white, a picture of understated luxury. The focal point of the room is an exposed brick wall that”s painted white.
The massive bed is covered in a silver duvet, with matching throw pillows. All of it feels like velvet under my fingertips. The fabric smells like fresh laundry, unlike any laundry I”ve ever washed, rich and clean and a little bit sexy.
The rest of the furniture—there isn”t much of it, just a nightstand, a chair and a mirror—is white, or black, with silver accents. The armoire is tucked across the room in an alcove, and across from the bed is a severe gray shelf at about knee height, with a sleek TV mounted on the wall above.
There”s no art, no sculptures. Nothing interesting to look at, other than the stunning bay view out the windows. Hmm. The windows. We”re only on the first floor.
I move across the room and quickly figure out how to unlock a window. It”s new and heavy, probably to withstand hurricanes, and when I pop it open, I discover that it only cracks about three inches. Not enough for me to jump out and make a break for freedom.
”Fuck me,” I whisper, resting my forehead against the cool glass. I tap my head gently against it, wondering if there”s any way I could throw something at it to make it shatter. Lifting my head, I slap my hand against the window, testing it.
No. It”s too thick. This guy takes security seriously.
Outside, the sun is setting itself up for a stunning sunset over the water. I could be sitting at a tiki bar on the beach with my co-workers right about now; on Fridays, everyone at the paper goes to this little dive bar on the beach. Usually I don”t go, choosing to remain at the paper to work. Now, that fact sends a lump into my throat.
I might never get the chance to write another story again. Or go for drinks. Or anything...
Gabriel Greco is clearly a maniac, and there”s no telling what he”ll do to me. I can”t take him at his word that he won”t hurt me, or believe him when he says I”m just here for the evening. Does that mean until, like, eleven tonight? Or until tomorrow? He keeps using the words the weekend, and I don”t think he”s talking about the hit singer.
The thought of sleeping under the same roof as that man sends a shiver up my spine. What am I going to do if he keeps me here overnight, or worse, for several days? I”m powerless. Vulnerable.
Fucking terrified.
”All my fault,” I mutter aloud. This wouldn”t have happened had I not been so careless. Had I heeded the photographer”s warning. How long had Gabriel and his goons been watching me, following me? I didn”t recall a black car nearby when I was with the photographer. Could Mrs. Hammond, that weird lady, have called him as I walked up to her door?
Or was he studying me? Following me? Monitoring me in some other way?
Is he watching me now? A fresh wave of horror takes over and my gaze scans the room.
I don”t see any obvious cameras, but that doesn”t mean anything. Slowly, methodically, I walk around the room, inspecting everything. The TV, the remote, every pillow, lamp and wireless speaker. Most, like the pillows, don”t seem to contain a camera or recording device. The other items, like the speaker? How would I know?
I”m in way over my head here. Before, while reporting on the city”s organized crime cases, things like this were the stuff of dry police reports and juicy court records. They weren”t things that happened to reporters, and definitely not to me.
Once I”m finished with inspecting the few things in the stark bedroom, I make my way into the bathroom and do the same with everything in there. It”s a lavish, white space with a glass-enclosed shower that boasts more square footage than my bed and kitchen area combined. A white marble-topped sink is free of anything but a hand soap dispenser, and I peer at the bottom, wondering if it”s a camera. Frustrated, I take it apart and find nothing, leaving the bottle and the pump oozing on the counter.
Fluffy white towels and an expensive brand of body care products sit inside the cabinet. There”s also a free-standing, gleaming white tub positioned near a bank of six small windows overlooking a tree. Under normal circumstances, I”d love to soak in that tub and read.
But being naked here is the last thing I want, and I don”t have a book. I snort out a bitter laugh, wondering what my bestie Lorna would think of my predicament.
”Lorna, I”m so screwed,” I say to my reflection in the mirror.
And then the tears come, hot and fast. I wasn”t able to save Lorna from her abusive boyfriend, and I”m probably not going to save myself from this situation, either. I”m practically feverish with rage, and fear.
I crumple to the stark, white tile floor, wedging myself between the glass shower stall and the sink. My hiccupping sobs echo off the walls, and I still, wondering if Gabriel or his staff can hear me. Probably not, I”m guessing, because this room is at the far end of the house, a veritable cell in a prison shrouded in luxury.
What would Lorna do in this situation? She was always more adventurous. I tried to be like her, tried to channel her intense, natural curiosity. We grew up together and were still close when I went to undergraduate school in Boston. It was when I was getting my master”s degree in New York that she met Liam, an up-and-coming Irish mobster in Southie.
I hadn”t listened to my instincts about him, hadn”t told her that I thought he was dangerous, hadn”t told her that I didn”t like the way he spoke to her.
I thought she knew better. Knew more. But she didn”t. And now she”s dead.
Hell, I thought I knew better today. But I didn”t because I”m an idiot who knows nothing. Who always makes the wrong choices. My sobs return, racking my body and clogging my nose with snot.
This goes on for a while, leaving me feeling worse with each passing minute. What time is it, anyway?
I struggle to climb to my feet, and when I do, shuffle back into the bedroom in time to see a deep orange sun kiss the water. The sky is like a painting, all sherbet pinks and corals blending into the fading aqua day, and it makes me hate everything. Hate the beauty, hate Gabriel, and most of all, hate myself for coming here to Florida in the first place.
”You”ve got no one down there. Why do you want to be all alone? Stay here, with us. Get a job at the Boston Herald,” my mom had pleaded. ”At least if something happens to you, your father and I will be there for you.”
And she was right. I could be trapped at Gabriel”s for the weekend and no one would notice, no one would check on me. If I don”t show up for work on Monday, perhaps someone will start asking questions. If I”m lucky.
”What the hell am I going to do?” I sigh in the direction of the window.
The answer comes in the form of Lorna”s voice in my head. It”s as clear as her last voicemail, which I saved and listen to every night before bed.
”Play his game, Riley.”
Play Gabriel Greco”s sick game.
I scrub my face with my hands. That”s my only option. Go along with what he wants and see if he”ll let me go. Then decide what, if anything, to write. Or whether to report him to the cops. Although I suspect that he”s got the city”s police force tucked into the side pocket of his designer suit jacket.
For now, I must pretend like this is normal. That there”s nothing wrong with a sinfully sexy man locking me in a lavish bedroom, not allowing me to leave his home. He”s probably in his office now, planning and plotting all sorts of torture for me.
I snort out another laugh. ”Normal. Yeah, right.”
And I can”t forget that there”s a faint, tiny chance I can wrangle an interview out of him. I could possibly pull that off and come out on top—or at least, not come out six feet under. To do that, I need to play the game, and stop wallowing in self-pity.
Taking a deep breath, I collect myself and stride over to the armoire and pick up the silky robe that fell to the floor earlier. With great precision, I arrange it back on the hanger, then open the armoire and set it on the rail next to the other items. My fingers flick through the options until I find something acceptable, and I tote it into the bathroom.
My body”s still sticky and sweaty, and I long to wash off the grime of the day. I catch a whiff of my armpits and make a face. I shouldn”t care, but I do. Still, there”s no fucking way I”m taking a shower in this sick fuck”s home. He”s probably watching me now, as I strip off my sweat-dampened dress and wrap a white towel around my body. The thought makes something coil deep inside of me, and I push it into the recesses of my brain.
There”s a box of scented wipes in the cabinet, so I give myself an awkward sponge bath. I arrange my hair atop my head in a messy updo, wash my face three times until my skin feels tight, and then turn to the silk outfit.
First, I pull on a pair of black silk pajama bottoms and the most modest top I could find—a black silk chemise tank top. Steeling myself with an inhale, I study my image in the full-length mirror and steady myself with a breath.
Fuck it. This is the best it”s going to get, and more than Gabriel Greco deserves. Fuck him. I”ve endured worse than him. Way worse. The death of my best friend; my abusive, fucked up family; the way I fought tooth and nail to get through college and find a job in my field...
Holding my head high, I go back into the bedroom to wait. I flick on the bedroom light, because it”s beginning to be too dark for my liking in here.
The sunlight is dying, and night seems to be rising up from some secret, hidden place, up from the dark, up from the underworld with an irresistible tug that seemed to be working from a stronger gravity, a gravity pulling downward.
Pulling me along with it.
After tossing a few pillows aside, I sit on the bed with my back to the plush, gray headboard. I think about turning on the television but decide against that, not wanting to know what”s going on in the outside world.
All I can do is wait for whatever fresh hell is coming next.