36. Riley
THIRTY-SIX
It”s nearly5 p.m. on Tuesday and I”m counting the minutes until I can leave the newsroom.
I”ve done fuck-all today, other than a short story about a man who tried to steal a chainsaw by stuffing it down his pants.
Predictably, the story went viral when it hit our website, and the editors are thrilled at the web traffic. I keep beating myself up for not doing more today—not doing more interviews about Doyle”s death, not looking into other mafia tips, not getting out and talking to cops at the station about what”s really going on in the city.
After I wrote the stupid chainsaw story, I grabbed some coffee and sat at my desk, searching for more information about Catherine Trafficante, her father Donnie, and of course, Gabriel.
I haven”t found out anything I didn”t already know about Gabriel. And Catherine disappeared more than a decade ago, so not much is public about her.
Donnie, on the other hand, is practically a masterclass of the Florida mafia. Because of his legal issues—he was indicted several times over the decades but was never convicted, probably because he had the best lawyers money could buy—there was plenty to read.
I discover that Donnie controlled North Florida, another man South Florida, and the Greco family”s jurisdiction was the rest, including Tampa. I learn that the three bosses meet often, and wonder when Gabriel does that, and where.
Does he bring people to his house? Or does he go to an office, all legitimate-like? Or is it a clandestine back room of a strip club, like the Sopranos?
These are details I never considered when I thought about the Irish Mafia back home. Mostly I hadn”t wanted to acknowledge it existed, because it was a little too close to home—my home. And then when Lorna was murdered, all I wanted was for the entire organization to burn in hell.
And look at me now...
I let out a sigh while sitting at my desk. I”m getting nowhere researching Catherine, and my mind has exploded with theories, many of them dark and depressing.
Did Gabriel have something to do with her disappearance? My gut tells me he did.
As awful as that thought is, another equally unsettling emotion has welled inside me.
Jealousy.
What was Gabriel”s true relationship with Catherine? Somehow I got the impression that he hasn”t had a serious relationship in a long time, if ever. Either he led me to believe that, or...
I”m deep into his bullshit. Believing only the good things. Ignoring the terrible stuff simply because he”s hot, because he”s great in bed, because he has that adorable fucking smile.
Just like Lorna had.
I”m sipping on my giant iced coffee—which is no longer iced, just lukewarm, watery, and gross—when someone waves a hand in front of my face.
”Riley? Riley! What is going on with you? You”re sitting there like you”re in a trance. Are you okay?”
”Hunh? Yeah, I”m fine, sorry. I”m just zoning out, thinking. I do that sometimes.” I set down my coffee and muster a smile. ”What”s up?”
Brynn scowls. ”Your story about the chainsaw theft guy is everywhere. I even heard Mike talk about how a big network TV station called and wanted someone to go on camera to talk about breaking the story. You going to do it?”
I blink. ”What? No one”s said anything about TV. And that”s silly, it was just a little story I got from a police report and one interview with the cops.”
Brynn”s shoulders lift into a shrug. ”Dunno. Maybe Mike said no. Or he”s doing it himself. You should go ask him, that would be incredible exposure for you.”
She winks and sashays off, toward the direction of the photo department which is on the other side of the building.
I don”t move, stunned into inaction. If I go to Mike and ask him about the network, he”ll know I”ve been gossiping. One thing he loathes is newsroom gossip.
Then again, it was my story. The only reason we broke it was because a police source, a beat cop on the city”s east side, had called me. I deserve recognition if the article”s going viral.
Crap, I hope Mike doesn”t decide to do the interview himself. I”d hate to see his smarmy face on TV, talking about my story.
I shut my eyes, willing away this dilemma. What do I really want...
To be at Gabriel”s home. In Gabriel”s bed. Gabriel, naked, with his tongue...
Riley, stop this. Get a freaking grip.
And to top it all off, Gabriel hasn”t even called me today. Or texted. I open my eyes and take another disgusting sip of my coffee. A quick check of the time shows I can leave in about ten minutes. I spot another reporter stuffing things into her laptop bag, but she always leaves early. Best if I let her go first.
I can”t even be upset with Gabriel for not calling or texting. He”s at a funeral today, for God”s sake. Still, I”m insanely curious to know if he”s thinking of Catherine today, and why he hadn”t mentioned her when he told me all those stories about Donnie.
Is he that much of a sociopath that he didn”t even think of her when Donnie died?
My desktop computer makes a soft, almost inaudible ping, alerting me to an email. Inwardly, I groan, hoping it”s not something that will keep me here for hours. The paper”s been really stingy with overtime lately.
Oh, it”s a message from Mike, my editor. I feel my shoulders scrunch up near my ears because I”m so tense. Usually when Mike e-mails, it”s something serious.
Riley—
Excellent job today on the chainsaw story. The higher-ups at corporate saw it, loved it, talked about it at their 4 p.m. meeting. The big TV network in Atlanta even called to ask you to be on their 6 p.m. show to talk about the story. Of course I said yes, but then they called back and said you were bumped because of that scandal today in D.C. about the defense secretary. Anyway, great work. I”d like to chat with you tomorrow morning about a new assignment for you. See you at eight-thirty in my office.
Mike
He cc-ed it to the paper”s HR department, a signal that he wants that email to be put into my personnel file.
I sink back into my seat, every muscle and tendon easing into a pile of jelly. I even allow myself to grin a little.
I”ve never received such a kind email from Mike. Usually they”re terse, one-sentence messages. The last time I got one it said, ”Read your story today, it should”ve had a better first paragraph, try harder next time.” That was all, and it made me feel like shit for a week.
Now, I suddenly feel like I”m flying. I was almost on TV, which is actually better than being on TV. They asked me, but canceled. I get all of the warm fuzzies for being wanted and none of the stress of getting ready for a national interview.
But what does Mike want to see me about tomorrow? A new assignment? I mull this as I close down my computer files. I heard some newsroom gossip that Mike was considering switching beats, but everyone I talked to thought that I was safe in my job, because I was doing so well with the mafia stories.
Then again, my desire to do mafia stories might be drying up in the future...
A jolt of panic strikes me. What if Mike wants to reassign me because of Gabriel? Everyone knows I was with him Saturday night, dressed up in a designer gown. No reporter can afford that.
I slowly gather my things so I can leave, all while trying to talk myself out of a panic spiral. It seems like half a journalist”s life is spent in anxiety mode, and I hate it.
By the time I walk out, I”ve regulated my breathing and half-convinced myself that Mike doesn”t want to reassign me, that he just wants to maybe add me to the investigative team. Yes, that must be it.
My flats make muted slaps against the asphalt of the parking lot outside, and I look up at the sky, relieved to be outdoors after eight hours in a stuffy office. The spring Florida sun is almost ready to set, and everything is a dreamy, filtered orange glow.
I almost don”t notice the black SUV driving up, but when I do, I slow to allow it to pass. Instead, it stops next to me, and the driver gets out.
It”s the goon from Friday, the big guy who works for Gabriel that carried me from the street to the back of the car. I instantly, instinctually, have the urge to flee, and take a step back.
”Wait, Riley, please don”t run. I”m not going to hurt you.”
I glance around, looking for someone, anyone. Then I peer at the SUV, hoping the passenger window will roll down and Gabriel”s smiling, beautiful face will be revealed.
”What do you want?” I ask, suspicious. My hand goes into my purse, grasping for my car keys.
”Gabriel asked me to pick you up.”
I narrow my eyes and scrunch my nose. ”Really? Because he didn”t call to tell me anything.”
”I know. He texted me from Jacksonville and said his phone was dying.”
”He doesn”t have electricity on a private jet?”
”Miss, I don”t know; I”m just following orders. So if you”ll please come with me?—”
”You”ll what? Manhandle me again?” I edge around the guy to my car.
”No, I”m not forcing you to do anything. But I know Mr. Greco wants to see you. He called me right before he took off from Jacksonville, said he was emotionally spent, and said he was looking forward to seeing you.”
This all still seems sketchy, but a little part of me is doing a happy dance that Gabriel said he wanted to see me. Allegedly said that, anyway. ”This is all a bit odd,” I say, taking another step to my car.
I”m just wary of trusting anyone at the moment. Even Gabriel. Maybe especially Gabriel.
The guy tips his head back. ”Jesus, it was easier collecting money from people. Listen, you can follow me in your car, if you want. Gabriel thought it would be easier for you to leave your car here tonight.”
”Thinks of everything, doesn”t he?” I take my phone out of my bag. ”Let me just make a call, okay?”
The guy wearily nods and walks back to his car, slumping against the side and lighting a cigarette. He looks like he”s annoyed as hell, but I don”t care while I find Gabriel”s contact in my phone.
”Babe,” he answers on the third ring. ”Can you hear me? My phone”s acting up.”
”Did you send your goon, er, man here to pick me up?”
Gabriel chuckles. ”I did. But I gave him explicit instructions not to touch, annoy, hurt, or force you to do anything. Is he being nice? His name”s Luigi, by the way.”
Of course it is. ”Luigi is a perfect gentleman. Forgive me for being a bit paranoid, but this is all new to me, the surprise visits from a beefy bodyguard at my work.”
Gabriel”s now laughing hard. ”Oh, Riley, you are something else.”
”What? If I learned anything in Southie, it”s to not get into cars with strange men.”
”It worked pretty well with me, wouldn”t you say, blondie?”
My cheeks heat up at the sheer lasciviousness of his tone. ”Okay. I”ll go with Luigi. Where are you?”
”I just landed in Tampa. With traffic, you”ll probably arrive home before I do. So, just wait for me.”
I turn my back to Luigi because I don”t want him to hear my next question. ”In the same place and position you had me wait before?”
”Ohhhh.” Gabriel”s word flows into a low growl that instantly makes my pussy wet. ”As much as I love that idea, I”m hungry in a different way right now. First I”m going to make you dinner, then I”m going to have you for dessert. You can make me a cocktail, though.”
We hang up, and I climb in the back of Luigi”s SUV—he insists, says there”s no need for me to take the passenger seat—and I”m glowing from my conversation with Gabriel.
Of course, that only lasts a few minutes because I remember Catherine and wonder how a man can make me feel so amazing, yet have so many dangerous secrets.