His Mafia Queen

Every Delicious Thing

GABRIEL

There are no bigger motherfuckers in this world than politicians.

I've met the powerful gangsters in Italy. Drank Scotch with the most feared arms dealers in Russia. Hell, I've even broken bread with obscenely rich cartel leaders in South America.

But Florida politicians are in a league of their own. Entitled, corrupt, greedy—whatever dishonest adjective you throw at them, they're it. Of course, someone like Riley might wonder if I'm just like them.

I can't answer that, but I prefer to think of myself as a mercenary. Taking from the rich and giving to the poor, and all that. And I do give a lot to the indigent in this community. Not through parties like this—although I do that, as well. No, my money gets to people in back channel ways, anonymous and stealthy. Like the time I heard a thirteen-year-old was gunned down, another victim of gang violence. When I heard that his mother couldn't pay for the funeral, I stepped in.

She never knew. No one did.

I've made my peace with my place in this fucked up world. Part of the deal is that I must attend events like this. Usually, I make an appearance, chat up a few people, then vanish.

It's rare that I bring a date, which is why everyone in this place is staring at me and Riley. Well, and probably because Riley is so fucking stunning. Her blonde hair, her red lips...and that body.

God, I'd like to bend her over and fuck her right here in front of all these people. I'm a private man, but that's what she's doing to my brain—making me want to show the world she's mine.

That's a dangerous development.

I'm standing in line at the bar for our drinks and I glance over at her. She's leaning against the column, studying the room with a smoldering stare that could melt the ice caps if she focused hard enough. That's the other thing I appreciate about her: she's sharp. It's as if she's taking a mental snapshot of everything in this room for future reference.

There's also a vulnerability about her, though, like when she asked me not to touch her, for fear she'd be seen by her boss. It's admirable how much she cares about shit like that. Of course I'll respect her wishes; I wouldn't dream of doing otherwise.

I stare at the bartender, who's yukking it up with a woman at the head of the line. Christ, could this take any longer? I don't want to leave Riley alone for too long. God knows which bottom feeder will try to hit on her.

As much as I want Riley—and make no mistake, tonight she's going to end up in my bed—I still don't fully trust her. Maybe it's because she's a reporter, or possibly it's because of the timing of the Jack Fitzgerald news.

She denied knowing the guy, and seemed sincere. But people can be liars, and good ones. Just look around at all these politicians...

I finally get our drinks, a red wine for her and a Scotch for me. When I turn to head in her direction, I notice she's talking to a man. I can only see the guy's back, and his bald head. A pang of fierce, possessive jealousy strikes me like a lightning bolt, and I have to stop for a second to compose myself.

Where the fuck did that come from? I take a deep inhale, my nose assaulted with the scent of what smells like hundred dollar an ounce perfume. It's as if steeling me from my own internal cues. When I get closer to Riley, I realize it's her publisher. I swagger over and give her the wine glass.

"Cheers," I say, clinking my glass to hers. Then I turn to Sam Groff, the Tribune publisher. I've known him for years. "Sam, nice to see you again."