His Mafia Queen

The End of the Beginning

RILEY

Tonight might be the end of me and Gabriel.

I glare at my phone. He hung up on me. Told me we're "taking the jet" to Miami and then ended the call.

It was a window into the full display of his arrogance, and I'm not sure I like it. Or perhaps that's just an excuse because I'm wary of his answer about Kyle.

Stupid, sexually harassing, horny Kyle. This morning when he walked into the newsroom, he looked like he'd gone nine rounds with a prizefighter.

Everyone looked aghast when they saw the deep purple bruises on his face, and his taped-up index finger. He claimed he was mugged on his way back to the hotel, but I knew better.

As I looked on in horror, I believed Kyle at first, that someone jumped him while walking. Then when he refused to look me in the eye, or acknowledge me even, I started to have my suspicions about Gabriel.

When Gabriel refused to answer my very direct questions just now, I became certain.

"Dammit," I whisper out loud, to no one. I'm standing on the sidewalk outside of the newspaper. There's no one around, and I dread returning to the newsroom, where all the managers have gathered today. I don't have a lot of work today; the new crime reporter is out meeting with sources and I'm supposed to be "making a list" of articles I'd like to write.

"Think about Easter, that's coming up," Mike had told me this morning, when I asked him what I should be doing. "Decorating eggs, bunnies as pets, menus. Things like that."

Easter bunnies as pets? I'd been writing about murders and mafiosos. Bunnies are the last things I want to write about, but apparently this is my new life.

I stomp to my car and climb in. Part of me wants to cancel on Gabriel tonight, to tell him that our entire relationship is a terrible idea.

But.

I still yearn for him. Still desire him. Still fantasize about him and want the taste of his skin on my tongue.

But do I want him to commit violence for me?

I adore being with him.

But did he pull strings to get me off the crime beat?

These are things I need to discuss with him tonight. I need answers, not kisses, not conversational dodging. It's difficult to focus when I'm with him because of all the lust swirling around. Take last night in the bathroom — I didn't plan on making out with him on a sofa in a restaurant bathroom. But he short-circuits my brain and I get distracted.

A difficult conversation is necessary if we're going to continue this relationship. It's important that he knows that he can't just ignore my concerns, or my desires.

Sure, I didn't want Kyle to harass me last night. I also didn't want him to be beaten within an inch of his life.

I push out a sigh and start my car. If I'm not going to cancel tonight, I need to find something appropriate to wear. He's seen every nice thing in my closet. It's not like I have a vast wardrobe, and nothing fancy for a dinner in Miami.

And we're taking a jet...

"How ridiculous," I snort aloud.

All right, screw it. I'm going to the mall to find a dress. It's not like anyone at work will miss me, since I don't have a deadline, and since everyone is fawning all over the injured Kyle. Plus, Mike thinks I'm out finding the scoop of the century about Easter rabbits.

I drive ten minutes to the mall, get out and wander around from store to store. Nothing seems right, and as I'm trying on a few slinky black dresses, I suddenly feel like my body's being dragged down by cement blocks. Taking off the dress, I slump on the bench in the dressing room, familiar with this sensation.