15. Gabriel
FIFTEEN
Riley lookslike the very definition of innocence and sweetness, with her big blue eyes and delicate features. But behind that beautiful fa?ade is a sharp, curious mind, always seeking answers and looking for trouble.
Too curious, if you ask me. She”s probably always getting herself into situations she can”t get out of. Like now. She has no idea the emotions she”s stirred up inside me, and I”m not even talking about lust.
I button up my black shirt and check my platinum cufflinks. Although today”s Commission meeting is short and casual, we all keep up appearances. This means no tie, but a pressed designer shirt, and pants to match. For me, this means all black.
I”m in a sour mood after Riley”s interview back there in the gym. Rarely do I discuss my grandfather, and I haven”t mentioned my father in conversation in years. No one in the city dares utter his name in my presence, at least if they know what”s good for them.
Riley”s new, though. She doesn”t know. It wasn”t her fault—they were questions anyone would ask, common queries, hell, cocktail conversation, even. I”m tough and thick-skinned except when it comes to two things.
The grief I have over my grandfather”s death, and the weight of guilt I have for my father.
I hate thinking about my father and what he did for me.
I can”t help wondering if I would have been better off if he had never done anything for me.
The guilt and the shame flare together in my gut like a wildfire, and that leads to panic. It”s like a physical weight inside me, a leaden thing that sits in the pit of my stomach and roils. It”s hot and sharp, like a knife made of fire, and it cuts through me every time I move.
The panic is worse. It”s a physical pain, a vise squeezing my chest and lungs until I can”t breathe. It”s a fear that grips me and won”t let go, that threatens to overwhelm me and drag me under.
Even now, a half hour and a shower later, I”m still talking myself down. My father gave his life and his freedom for me, and I”ll never forgive myself. It should be me sitting in that prison right now, but instead, it”s him.
My cell phone buzzes, jarring me out of my anxiety-tinged thoughts. It”s my driver, saying that he”s ready with the car.
I head downstairs, my sunglasses on. The armor”s firmly in place. I”m almost at the front door when I see a familiar flash of gold hair. It”s Riley, and she”s coming in from the pool, all sweaty and damp. Her skin is glistening in the filtered sunlight, and her hair is still wet. She smiles when she sees me, and I can”t help but smile back.
Even though I”m wearing sunglasses, I can feel the heat of her gaze on me.
”Hey,” she says breathlessly. ”I”m glad I caught you before you left.”
She looks me up and down, and a lopsided smile creeps on my face. She must like what she sees—I can tell by the way she gets flustered sometimes when she addresses me.
”Gabriel, I”m sorry if I upset you with my questions. It”s just who I am. Sometimes I don”t know when to stop.”
She reaches out and lightly squeezes my forearm. Her touch isn”t sexual. It”s caring and warm, almost nurturing. My panic softens a bit, and now I feel like shit for being nasty to her.
”It”s okay, tesoro. You”re just doing your job.” The Italian rolls off my tongue by instinct. Although, come to think of it, I”ve never called a woman that before. ”Sorry to have snapped at you back in the gym. It”s a sensitive subject.”
”Tes. Oro?”
”Tesoro. It means treasure, loosely translated to darling. Sweetheart.”
”That”s quite...intimate.” She chews on her plump bottom lip.
”Mmm,” I hum.
Her already sunkissed cheeks flare red. She slowly removes her hand. ”Well, have a good meeting. I”ll see you later.”
We stare at each other, and the intensity from last night flares and crackles. Another wildfire, this one entirely welcome.
”Do you know how to get back to your room?” I tease.
”I think so.” She backs away, grinning. When she finally turns, she flicks her hair behind her and saunters off. Either she”s putting an intentional sexy sway in her hips or I didn”t notice that last night.
”Don”t forget that the stylists are coming in a few hours,” I call out. ”In the meantime, feel free to use the pool, or wander down to the private beach.”
She stops and turns around. ”You didn”t need to do all that, you know.”
”I wanted to.”
”Why? As a peace offering for yesterday”s kidnapping?” She laughs and shakes her head.
”Something like that,” I murmur.
She turns to walk down the hall, her hips once again swaying and teasing. ”You”re a strange man, Gabriel Greco.”
And Riley Murphy is definitely a dangerous woman.
The Commission always meets at a different hotel, somewhere in the state. It”s just easier that way. The three of us are all intensely private, and when one of our assistants or consiglieri books the room, it”s never in our names.
Sometimes we meet in a nondescript chain hotel, while other times it”s more old-world. We never meet anywhere flashy or popular, because we want to avoid scrutiny and surveillance of all kinds.
Today”s meeting is at a historic hotel in downtown Tampa constructed by a friend of my great-grandfather”s, according to family lore. It”s a twenty-story building and when my bodyguard and I enter the elevator, my bodyguard knows to press the P button, because we always meet in a penthouse.
The elevator opens right into the suite, and the first person I see is Alessandro Bianchi. He controls South Florida, and he”s one of the few mafia men my age that I actually like—mostly because he”s practical, down-to-earth, and deadly only when needed.
My bodyguard, a large man with bulging muscles and a scar across his face, stands to the side of the room and sizes everything up. I step inside and greet Alessandro, who walks to me with an outstretched hand. The bastard”s as handsome as a Hollywood star, and seeing him in a formal suit in this gold-and-hunter green décor makes him look like a mob boss worthy of Mario Puzo. He clasps my hand while grinning. His eyes are a bright blue, unusual for an Italian, and they seem to pierce right through me.
I can feel his bodyguard”s eyes on me, boring into the back of my head, but I”m used to that kind of scrutiny in these situations.
”Gabriel, great to see you again. How are things here in Tampa?”
It”s probably not the best time to bring up Doyle, and Alessandro likely wouldn”t care anyway. Corrupt politicians are our bread and butter, and they”re as disposable as stolen cars and guns with filed off serial numbers. Of the three bosses of Florida, I”m the most ”respectable.” The one who moves with the legitimate power brokers, the one who makes the donations to political lobbyists, the one who does the charity events.
”Good to see you, man,” I say. ”How”s married life treating you?”
Just two months ago in December, I flew to Italy for Alessandro”s wedding to Gia Amato, the daughter of another prominent—and dead—mafioso in Florida. It was a lavish, impressive affair, and Alessandro is the kind of guy who seems more comfortable as a married man. He somehow comes off as more grounded and serious.
Before Gia, he appeared to be something of a dangerous thug who”d stumbled into being a mafia don.
”Couldn”t be better. Seriously. I”m so proud of Gia, she”s working hard in law school.” He beams. It”s obvious he loves her.
Gia”s the real power broker in that relationship. Everyone knows it, but no one says anything because Alessandro”s reputation as a cold-blooded hitman precedes him. But there”s a soft side to him, whereas Gia... Let”s just say she”s known for being cold as ice. Rumor has it that she killed Mickey Salerno, the man she was supposed to marry, simply because she hated him.
Well, we all hated Mickey, so she did us a favor.
Alessandro clearly adores Gia, and I”m on Gia”s good side, so it”s all fine with me. We each have our own business interests and areas, and we stay out of each other”s way. There are no turf wars in Florida, no mafia gunfights like in Atlanta and New York. As long as everyone else stays the fuck out of our state, we”re perfect down here, making our money and running shit in the tropics.
”That”s great to hear. Is Donnie here?”
”Not yet. Between us?” Alessandro gestures with his head, toward the floor-to-ceiling windows at the far end of the room. We saunter over.
”Yeah? What”s up with Donnie?” I ask in a low voice.
Alessandro runs a hand through his dark hair. The two of us look similar, enough that once his wife remarked that we could be cousins, or brothers.
”His health isn”t so good. His consigliere told me that he”s been going for a lot of tests at the...”
Alessandro”s voice trails off, and I know he”s trying to find the right word in English. Unlike me, he didn”t grow up in the United States, and English isn”t his first language. ”Polmoni.”
”Lungs?”
”Yes. Lungs.”
I nod slowly. Donnie is the oldest of the Florida bosses. He knew my grandfather, so he must be eighty-five at least. He”s also a chainsmoker, and I know he”s suffered from COPD for years.
”Do you think he”s going to name a successor?” I mutter.
”Christ, I hope so. I”ve got too much going on in Miami to deal with North Florida.”
”I”m up to my ass in alligators here, too. Have you heard about Doyle?—”
I”m interrupted by the ding of the elevator, and the smooth woosh of the doors opening. Alessandro and I look up—he”s already got his hand on the gun on his hip—when we see Donnie and his group of bodyguards.
I can see the concern in Alessandro”s eyes, but I paste on a smile and try to act like everything is normal. It”s clear that the men with him aren”t bodyguards, but more like nurses. One helps him clear the gap between the elevator and the room, and another assists by pushing a walker.
I paste on a smile, but inside, I”m shocked at how the once-powerful mafia boss looks so frail. Is that oxygen in his nose? Oh, hell, it is. I can”t help but wonder if this is the end for him.
Alessandro gently ushers him to a leather sofa, and I sink next to him on the opposite side.
”I”ll have a Scotch on the rocks,” Donnie says in a raspy, breathless voice.
”Same,” I say quickly, and Alessandro follows suit.
If he were my grandfather, I”d probably casually tell him that a cocktail in the middle of the day isn”t the best idea, given his physical state. But since he”s a powerful don, I keep my mouth shut, and so does Alessandro. We might be young—and some would say arrogant—but we know tradition and protocol.
One of Donnie”s assistants moves to the bar to make the drinks. Donnie eyes Alessandro.
”Where”s your wife?”
”She”s back in Miami. Had a lot of studying to do.”
”Hmph. That one”s a pistol.” He grins, and so does Alessandro. ”You keep her under control, you hear me?”
”I”ve got my ways of doing that.” Alessandro is smirking. We both know Donnie thinks there”s no place for women in our world. This is something we don”t agree with him on, and so Gia”s usually never present at our meetings.
The drinks come and Donnie proposes a toast. ”To new beginnings,” he says, and we all drink.
That, of course, leaves me curious. But it”s better to remain silent, to observe, in times of chaos or change. That”s another thing my grandfather taught me.
”Boys, as you can see, I”m a fucking mess,” Donnie says. ”I”m not going to sugar coat it. I”ve got lung cancer.”
Alessandro and I start to offer our sympathies, and Donnie raises a wrinkled, frail hand.
”Save the platitudes for my funeral. I”ve had a good run. Here”s what you need to know. I”m not going to appoint a successor.”
Alessandro and I sneak a glance at each other. What the fuck?
”I want the two of you to take over my territory. You don”t let your egos get in the way of bullshit.”
Alessandro licks his lips. I clear my throat.
”Well, this is unexpected,” Alessandro says.
”I figure that you can take the port”—Donnie points to Alessandro—”and you can take the rest.”
Donnie”s an arms dealer who supplies weapons to anyone who will pay, from freedom fighters in Ukraine to pro-democracy groups in Venezuela. While he”s based in North Florida, he has connections and contracts with military contractors, gun manufacturers, and other munitions companies all over the world. While some see him as a hero, supplying those who fight for democracy and justice, others see him as a danger, supplying weapons to anyone who will pay, regardless of their motives.
Donnie”s big on democracy, and lots of the contractors are located in North Florida. This is a fucking complication I”m not sure I want. But I can”t say no to Donnie. Not now, while he”s practically taking his last breath. I”ll need to chat with Alessandro in private.
”The one thing you boys gotta watch is those fucking Irish. They”ve made a resurgence since the Whitey Bulger days up in Boston, and they”ve got a couple of new guys from Dublin in the U.S. now and they”re making noise about claiming some Florida territory.”
Prickles of awareness flow through me. The Irish are making a bid for Florida? Perhaps Riley is investigating me for more than just a newspaper article. I sip my Scotch, thinking about all the ways I can get Riley to spill what she knows.
Because make no mistake. That beautiful woman knows more than she”s letting on.
”Names? Do you have them? Of the Irish? I”d like to do a little reconnaissance,” I say in a casual tone.
”His name”s Jack Fitzgerald. He”s the one in charge. He”s a real arrogant son-of-a-bitch. I had a sit-down with him once in New York. He”s a bit older than you two. I”ll have my men send you more information. He”s heavily into the IRA, which was why I was thinking of selling guns to him one year.”
I thank him and let these details sink in. As soon as I get out of here, I”ll have my assistant look into this Fitzgerald guy.
And I”ll also personally question Riley about what she knows. Hopefully, for her sake, she knows nothing—because her life will be in danger otherwise.
Donnie and Alessandro”s voices drone on in my ears as they discuss issues at the Jacksonville port, and all I can think about is Riley. I can”t help but wonder if she”s spying for the Irish. If she is, it”ll be a true shame, because I”ve got plans for her tonight and don”t want anything getting in the way.
I”d much rather fuck Riley than kill her.