His Mafia Queen

Torture

He lets out a chuckle. "Want to measure it?"

Yes. No. NO. "It's my job to observe details. Give it back."

"Wait, wait, wait. What's this? Questions. 'How much can he bench press?'" He looks up. "Give me the pen."

"What? No."

"Give it." He beckons with his fingers.

I let out a sigh while handing it over. He takes it from me and scribbles while writing, all while wearing a shit-eating grin. "Gabriel Greco can bench press his weight."

"That tells me nothing. How much do you weigh?" I fold my arms.

"About one-seventy-five, give or take."

"Okay, thanks. Give it back."

He hands me the pen but continues to study my notes. "Hang on. There are more questions. 'What is his earliest memory?' Easy. Eating breakfast with my grandfather on the terrace. And, what's this one... 'How does the son of a mob boss go to college and get on the track team?'"

Read aloud, that question sounds idiotic. "I jot down thoughts. That's not a real question."

He stares down at me, licking his lips, while handing me the notebook. There's a touch of disgust on his face. "What do you think my family is, Riley?"

I shrug. "I don't know. You tell me."

"Do you think we're all old world Italians, insular and backward? Blood pacts, arranged marriages, Goodfellas, that kind of shit?"

"Well, no, obviously." Although a little part of me does think this, knowing what I know about the Irish mob. Some of them still do that kind of thing. I heard whispers at my high school that one girl or another was claimed by clan bosses. Thank God I avoided that fate.

"Do you think that we're all misogynists who don't let our sisters and daughters go to college? Thugs? What? Why wouldn't I go to school?" There's no edge to his voice, only a teasing, mocking tone. But his dark eyes have a flicker of hurt in them. Either that, or he's excellent at showing false emotion. I don't know him well enough to discern, but my gut tightens.

Have I misjudged him?

"No. I don't know." I lift a shoulder into a shrug.

"I'm just like everyone else, Riley. Write that in your notebook."

He walks to a mat and drops to the floor, easing into a slow pushup that strains his arm muscles.

"Except you're not," I blurt, once again sitting on the weight bench. "You're not like everyone else. You live in a historic mansion with your own gym, you have every politician in the state on speed dial at your beck and call, and you drive around in a chauffeured, armored car. What about that is like everyone else, Gabriel? The question isn't how you're average, but what makes you different? And how did you get that way?"

He picks up the pace on the pushups, now clapping in between each. Finally, he's out of breath from exertion. After what seems like an eternity, he stops, rolling over on the mat. He raises his arms overhead in a diamond shape and stretches out. His eyes flutter shut and a beam of sunshine from a nearby window bathes his body in light.

He's heartbreakingly handsome right now, and I can only stare at him.

"That's what you're here to discover, Riley. What makes me so different?"

He doesn't open his eyes when he speaks, but his words echo through my brain. I didn't expect him to be so ...interesting.

"Money." Damn, I'm really blurting out all my thoughts today.