7. Riley
SEVEN
I”mafraid of big dogs, and the sound of barking always makes my hair stand up on the back of my arms and neck. It”s probably because my father raised aggressive rottweilers and sold them to gangsters when I was growing up, and the fear that he”d feed me to the dogs when I was little stayed with me forever.
But the dog I see sprinting toward us isn”t big, or mean. It looks like a teddy bear on four legs, with rounded ears, a tiny snout, and big button eyes the color of espresso. ”Oh my goodness,” I cry out in delight, as the light brown fluff ball rounds the sofa then hurls itself toward Gabriel, its tongue lolling to one side.
”Down, Reese, down,” he says sternly, but the dog ignores him, licking his face and wagging its tail furiously. Gabriel rubs the dog”s small body with his big hands, and I”m momentarily, irrationally jealous of the dog.
”Awww, what a little cutie. Normally I”m wary of dogs but this one...” the dog whips around and launches itself into my arms. ”Is too cute. What is your name?”
The dog licks my face, then holds still long enough for me to read the tag on its collar. It”s a little difficult because the sun has set and the only light is coming from a lamp near the bar.
”Reeses McPupcup,” I say slowly aloud.
This sends me into peals of laughter, thinking about this hard, powerful, sexy mafia man living with a dog named Reeses McPupcup. If I did a story about Gabriel, this detail would surely make it high up in the article. Possibly in the first sentence.
He”s known as Tampa”s richest man, with ties to both the governor”s office and organized crime. But Gabriel Greco is something else: dog dad to Reeses McPupcup, a ten-pound Pomeranian that bears a strong resemblance to a teddy bear.
Unable to contain my goofiness, I crack up at the thought of writing that in an article. I sneak a peek at Gabriel. He”s changed out of that dark suit he was wearing when I first saw him—when he kidnapped me—and is now in stone-colored jeans and a white button-down shirt.
He clears his throat. ”I call him Reese.”
”Of course you do.” I snort as I nuzzle my nose into the dog”s lavender-scented fur. My apprehension about Gabriel is waning by the moment, although I can”t discount the possibility that he planned to unleash the adorable Mr. McPupcup simply to gain more of my trust and confidence.
A door slams and the clatter of footsteps nears. Reese is on top of me now, trying to French kiss me. ”No, I don”t kiss on the first date,” I tell the dog.
”Is that right?” Gabriel hums, and I ignore him—and the desire coiling inside me—because my attention is on two women with frantic expressions. They”re running toward us, calling Reese”s name and saying things like ”bad dog.”
”There are no bad dogs,” I say to Reese, who snortles in my face, spraying me with his adorable snot and making me laugh. ”Thanks, dude.”
”Mr. Greco, we are so sorry,” one of the women cries. ”We were feeding Reese when he escaped. You know how he sniffs you out.”
The second woman reaches over the back of the sofa and plucks the dog off my lap. ”Our apologies, miss. We didn”t mean to interrupt your date.”
Date? What has Gabriel told his staff? Well, I guess he couldn”t tell them the truth. ”No need to apologize. Reese is a good boy.”
I glance at Gabriel, curious to see how he”ll handle this. Lorna used to say that you can learn a lot about a person by the way they treat people in the service industry. For the record, the guy who killed her was an asshole to waiters and service people—I saw that with my own eyes.
”Don”t even worry about it. We all know how Reese can be, the little terror.” Gabriel chuckles. ”And I think he”s made a new friend.”
The dog is squirming in the woman”s arms, trying to get at me. The woman beams. ”We”ll take him back inside. Oh, and dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes, sir.”
”Thank you, Marnie, I appreciate it. We”ll start making our way to the dining room.” His tone is warm and kind.
Well. Gabriel passed the waiter test. For now. I study his face, which is in profile as he watches the women walk out with the dog. He”s sitting on the rattan sofa across from me, all casual. As if this is totally normal, a chat with a friend. Men like him, with money, privilege and power, don”t have to sit in thrones to act like kings.
They carry their royal demeanor wherever they go.
The fact remains that Gabriel is incredibly stunning from any angle, and I must remind myself that this is a professional evening, not a personal one. And that I absolutely hate him for possessing the arrogance to snatch me off the street. I can”t forget that this is all an act, all business, for him. He doesn”t have my best interest at heart.
Why does he act so familiar with me, though, as if he”s trying to get to know me intimately? All he cares about is Doyle...
Gabriel turns back to me with a bashful smile. ”Want to hear the story of Reese?”
”Sure. Honestly, I”d rather talk about Reese than Doyle.”
He laughs. ”Same.”
We stare into each other”s eyes for a beat and the air somehow thickens. There”s something between us, an attraction, and it”s both terrifying and thrilling under these insane circumstances. Everything about this, from the lavish outdoor terrace to my silk outfit to the way he”s staring so intensely, is like something out of a twisted erotic thriller.
Well, except for Reese. He”s the much-needed comic foil. But an adorable Pomeranian isn”t going to change the fact that this man took me off the street for his own purposes. Anyone who would do that is heartless at best, and dangerous at worst.
”Reese is actually my niece”s dog. My sister—the clothing designer—lives with her husband and four-year-old daughter in New York. My niece got him as a puppy six months ago, and named him after her favorite thing in the world.”
”Chocolate and peanut butter candies?” I”m giggling again, despite myself.
”Yes. Unfortunately for all involved, my niece developed an allergy to dog dander. They couldn”t bear to give Reese to a shelter, so...”
”Her doting uncle stepped in and said he”d take the dog.”
He nods, his eyes sparkling. For the first time, I notice that his shirtsleeves are casually rolled up, revealing muscled, tanned forearms.
”Aww.” I can”t help but gush a little. It”s too adorable. Wait. I shouldn”t be thinking this about a man who essentially kidnapped me. Gah.
”Yeah, I can”t say no to that kid. Now Reese lives with me, and I guess he”s my dog now. I dunno.” Gabriel runs a hand through his black hair, still with that bashful smile. I”m still startled every time I stare deeply into his eyes, because a jolt of something that feels like desire washes over me. Every. Time.
”That was sweet of you to help out,” I murmur.
”I”m not an entirely bad man, Riley.”
I roll my eyes, as if to say, I”ll be the judge of that.
”You don”t seem convinced.”
”Um, well, ask yourself why.”
He snickers. ”Should we make our way to dinner?”
”I guess.” I stand, wondering if I should take my drink with me, but decide against it.
Gabriel”s also on his feet and motions the way. ”Since we have a few minutes, I”ll take you on a tour of the house.”
”It”s quite gorgeous. It looks pretty old, especially compared to the other modern homes in the neighborhood. Is it original?” Immediately I regret the words. I don”t want him to think I”m impressed with him at all. Even though I am. While I knew lots of low-level Irish-American gangsters in Southie—including my own father—I never knew the top guys.
Gabriel Greco is definitely a top guy, if not the apex of the entire organization. How vast is his empire?
”My great-grandfather had it built in the late twenties. He owned a cigar factory here, and some other businesses, did so since the turn of the last century.”
As he goes over the home”s history, I mull over the significance of his words. The Greco family has been in power for nearly a hundred years in Tampa, first when it was a lawless outpost filled with Italian and Cuban immigrants. That Gabriel managed to maintain his family”s legacy is nothing short of a miracle. I know as much from my childhood in Southie. Someone is always battling the top families for control of the city, and my father has spent most of his life trying to discern the direction of the ruling mafia”s whims.
We walk by the infinity pool, the hot tub and the outdoor dining area. ”We”ll be eating inside tonight; I figured it might be a touch too cool outside,” he says in a breezy tone, then walks in.
I have to scurry to keep up with him, because he”s giving me a quick yet surprisingly detailed tour. The game room with the pool table and memorabilia from the city”s sports teams. The theater with the wide-screen projector and the luxury leather seating. The library, which is gorgeous and packed floor-to-ceiling with books and oil paintings of his great-grandparents.
”This was the first Gabriel Greco. My grandfather.” He stands in front of a portrait of a stern-looking, yet handsome, man in a dark suit.
”I see the resemblance.”
Gabriel looks down at me through those long, dark lashes, and a shiver runs through me. I can”t tell if he”s glowering or leering at me. We move out of the library and into his office, which is stark and minimalist, making me wonder if that”s the true nature of his mind.
I almost want to scream, Enough. I get it. You”re rich and have all the things money can buy. Good for you. Maybe it”sbecause I grew up pretty poor, but for all of Gabriel”s charms, the fact that he has so much money is almost annoying. He and his family have gotten some of this, most of it probably, from corruption and vice.
I”m no stranger to those things, with my background. But that doesn”t mean I have to admire it. Except, I do, in a way. I know how difficult it is to rise to the top of a mafia organization because I”ve seen my father try and fail a hundred times since I was born.
”There are more bedrooms upstairs, including my own,” he says, jostling me out of my thoughts and gesturing toward the grand staircase. We”re in the entranceway near the front door, where I”d failed to escape a few hours ago.
He hesitates and glances up the stairs, as if he”s considering taking me up there to show off his bed. I freeze in panic, my mouth hanging open like a fish. With a little shake of his head, he says, ”The dining room”s this way.”
I exhale and relax, a little, only to tense back up when he puts his fingers on my spine to guide me down another hall. Sparks zoom up and down my back under his touch, and I loathe myself for feeling disappointed when he lets his hand fall away.
”We”re eating in the dining room tonight. Usually, if I”m alone, I eat in the kitchen nook, but I figured tonight would be special, so...” His voice trails off and steers me into an open door.
Just as I”m wondering why he”s putting all this effort into me, my breath is stolen by another magnificent room. This one has an actual chandelier of candles hanging over a dark wood table. The walls are a deep red, as are the upholstered dining chairs. While the rest of the house is modern and somewhat sleek, this is a gothic vibe that memorializes another era.
”This is the only room in the house that”s not redone. This is the original décor, very dark and ominous. It”s not my favorite, but I wanted one room in the house to remember my grandfather, and his father. They loved hosting large family dinners in here, and it”s where I learned my table manners as a child.”
What an odd, chilly place to grow up. Did he ever have a normal childhood?
Gabriel holds a chair out for me, and I sit. The fabric of the chairs is velvet, I realize, and he sinks into one to my right. The head of the table. Of course. He”s the king.
Over the next two hours, we eat four courses. Maybe five. I”ve lost track because the food is so delicious. Our conversation isn”t about anything important or controversial. He talks about his family”s history, how Tampa used to look when he was a kid, and he asks me about the newspaper”s finances. I tell him what I know, that, like papers around the country, it”s struggling.
We finish a bottle of wine, and I decline more because I”m already a bit tipsy. My face must be beet red because it always gets that way when I drink—that”s my Irish heritage—and I can feel the heat on my skin. In my slightly buzzed state, my brain is having a difficult time parsing this alleged business dinner. What is the purpose of this?
It feels too much like a date, complete with flirtatious glances and those moments where you both start talking at the same time.
”I—” he starts to say.
”This is—” I exclaim at the same time.
We both laugh, and I bite my lip.
”You first,” he says in that gentle, low voice. It”s almost easy to forget that he”s a powerful, dangerous man who kidnapped me, and possibly made another man disappear. Among other ill-gotten gains and deeds.
”I haven”t had Italian food this good since I lived in Boston.” I tuck into my tiramisu.
”I”m glad you”re enjoying it. My chef is from Italy.” He sips from his water goblet. ”I haven”t spent much time in Boston in years. My grandfather knew an Irish guy there. I think he was well known. He”s dead now, all those men of that generation are gone.”
”What was his name? My family”s lived in Southie for, like, eighty years. We came over from Ireland.”
”I hesitate to tell you because it might reflect poorly on me.”
”Oh, come on. This is off the record.”
”Okay.” He grins. ”The man my grandfather knew was Whitey Bulger.”
I almost drop my fork in shock and bark out a laugh to cover my surprise. ”Oh. Yeah. I”m kind of familiar with him. Heard his name around Boston and Southie. No big deal.”
If Bulger had heard me say that, he”d probably kill me on the spot. And my father would slap me upside the head. Bulger was Southie”s Robin Hood, its most notorious and deadly gangster. He counted FBI agents and gangsters as his close confidantes, and killed dozens, if not hundreds of people over the years. He went on the run in 1994 and was arrested in 2011, when he was eighty-one. He died in prison at eighty-nine, beaten to death by fellow inmates. An inglorious end to a living legend, and I”d be lying if I said I wasn”t a little sad when he died.
”A folk hero in those parts, from what I hear,” Gabriel says. It seems like he”s studying my reaction, and I nod.
”My dad knew him,” I said softly. ”Used to work for him.”
”Oh, really?” Gabriel”s eyes are wide.
”I”m probably a little more familiar with your line of work than most reporters, because my dad was a low-level footsoldier for the Irish mob and Bulger. Different organization, different city, different ethnicity. But I know a gangster when I see one.”
Now it”s my turn to smirk, and his to look shocked.