His Mafia Queen

Anything He Wants

"What do you think of the cocktail?"

"It tastes like..." she smacks her lips, then lets out a deep, throated laugh. "Christmas trees."

I scratch the back of my neck and chuckle. "You'll come to enjoy it."

"Perhaps. Uh, why all the chatty questions? Why not just get straight to the point? You want to know what I know about Doyle."

"I want to get to know you first. Is that a problem?"

She squints at me. "Why?"

I lift a shoulder. "I'm a fan of your work."

"Hmm. I didn't take a man like you to be a fan of newspapers."

"I think you'll find that I'm quite different from what you've heard. I'm a big fan of a free press."

She raises her eyebrows and smirks, as if to say, yeah, right.

"What have you heard about me, anyway? Be honest. No judgment, no consequences. I'll tell you if it's true or not." I try to flash her my most charming smile.

She shifts in her seat so she's facing me, and drapes her left arm over the back of the sofa. She tucks both of her knees up and stares at me with those big, expressive eyes. With the backdrop of the fading sunset she looks like a model, and I long to crawl over there and capture that lush mouth in a hard kiss.

"Let's see. What have I heard? You're filthy rich."

"True."

"You own several properties in the city, and your family owns orange groves."

"Also true."

She looks up, as if she's trying to find the right words in the heavens. "You're single, have never been married, and were named Tampa's most eligible bachelor last year by that glossy magazine."

"True." I grin.

"You're active in charities." She names five, and the recent amounts I've donated.

"You've really done your homework. True."

"You're the heir of a well-known, longtime mafia family who bribes politicians, judges and others to get what you want."

I tap my finger against my lips while smirking. "No comment."

"Hmph." She smiles knowingly and sips her drink.

"Now. It's my turn to ask you some questions." I inch closer to her.

"Ask away."

"What's your most treasured memory?"

Her eyes widen, obviously not expecting such a question. She opens her mouth, then closes it.

"Don't think too hard. What comes to mind first?" I like to ask women these kinds of questions right off the bat, so I know what kind of person I'm dealing with.

"Winter, freshman year in college. Boston. There was a massive snowstorm, and no one was out on the street. The snow stopped falling and we walked to Copley Square. It was silent, no cars, hardly any people, and we made snow angels in the street, with all the buildings silent and dark around us."

I can imagine this entire scene, and it's so pure, so wholesome. "Who's we?"

"My best friend Lorna and I." A sad, small smile spreads across her face.

"Where's Lorna now? Up north?"

She swallows hard and shoots me a fleeting, pained look, followed by a hard sneer. "Six feet under in a grave in South Boston."

Now it's my turn to look surprised. "Oh. I'm...sorry."

"She was my first friend. My best friend." She pauses, and I want to ask more, want to know what happened, and then she continues.

"She was dating a new guy, and there were some red flags, so she ended it. He stalked her and strangled her. I found her in an alley, near her parents' house." She shuts her eyes for a moment. Oh, hell. Usually I'm a great conversationalist, but this has gone off the rails.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked." I touch her hand. An uncharacteristic pang of guilt hits my gut.

Her eyes snap open. "It's okay. It's difficult to talk about because the man who killed her got off. The prosecutors dropped the charge because he's really connected. That happened right when I moved here, and I've been trying to forget, but it just makes me angry whenever I remember it. Or think about her. I'd rather remember the good things, you know?"

"I'm familiar with that feeling." I'm thinking of my father now, of all the regrets I have about him and our relationship before he went to prison. "What a fucking shame that guy's not locked up."

"He's powerful enough to get a good lawyer. That's how the system works, you know that," she says bitterly, then straightens her spine. "It's why I'm so interested in writing stories that expose corruption and wrongdoing."

I nod. "Understood."

"That's also why I had such a visceral reaction about what happened earlier today."

Now I feel like shit, mixed with an anger that justice wasn't served for her friend. As much of a criminal as I am, I abhor men who hurt women and children—and the thought of Riley's heart being broken over such a horrific event makes even my icy heart melt.

"I didn't mean for my guy to physically pick you up and throw you in my car. He was supposed to walk you over and invite you politely inside."

She snorts. "Whatever. So you want to know about Doyle?"

A lopsided grin forms on my face. "Yeah. I do."

"Did you kill him?" She stares at me, unblinking, serious. I stare right back.

"No. I didn't. Didn't make him disappear, either. Haven't seen him since the Children's Hospital charity ball two weeks ago."

She nods, as if she's soaking all this in. She's clearly relieved to not be discussing her friend. "Have you talked with his girlfriend?"

"The nineteen-year-old stripper?"

"Yeah. Her. She's the one telling people you're behind his disappearance. Normally, I'd protect my sources, but she's been telling everyone. Channel eight, the Miami Herald, WFLA radio. She had a bunch of reporters lined up at her house the other day."

"Interesting. None of those outlets have named me. Only your paper."

"Because we have balls."

I have to respect her confidence. "And what do you think? What do you believe happened to Doyle?"

"I have some sources in the prosecutor's office and they have a few theories."

Now we're getting somewhere. "Oh, really?"

"When they started investigating him for bribery, they impounded his computer for evidence. That's when they found the link between him and those two developers."

"Uh-huh. But they didn't find anything on me, did they?" I'm fishing a bit here, but I know the answer. Probably because I have my own sources in the prosecutor's office.

"No. But they found something else. Something even worse."

This is something my sources haven't told me. "What?"

She smiles coyly, taking a sip of her drink, then setting it on the table, as if she's trying to prolong the suspense. "Child porn."

My eyebrows shoot up. "No."

"Yep. Prosecutors wonder if he left the country, or killed himself."

I nurse my drink, taking this information into my brain. Had I known Doyle was a pervert I'd have never done business with him. I might have loose ethics when it comes to business, but not when it involves kiddie porn.

"Wow. Interesting. So, tell me—"

Three short, sharp barks interrupt what I'm about to say, and the sound of nails skidding on the terrace tiles startles Riley and she gasps, turning her head in alarm.