His Mafia Queen

A Fresh Hell

RILEY

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.