His Mafia Queen

My Love

And a mass shooting.

Oh, and the detail that Gabriel killed the man who raped Catherine. Can't forget that. I start to laugh and cry in total disbelief.

After flopping on the sofa with my wine glass, I turn on the television and find a reality TV marathon about people living naked in the jungle, hoping to distract myself with something mindless.

It doesn't help. I can't stop thinking about that waitress who witnessed the shooting or all the people who lost their lives. Probably they had families, friends, children. Even if they were in the mafia, they didn't deserve to be gunned down in cold blood while eating meatballs. I sniffle and choke back some tears, and grab another glass of wine, wanting to forget it all.

Then there's Gabriel. I sip my wine while watching two hairy guys traipse through some jungle. I can appreciate that Gabriel had more on his mind than returning my call, and yet it seems horribly insensitive. Didn't he know I'd be beside myself with worry?

And the way he'd glared at me during his impromptu news conference was almost humiliating. Surely some of the news people know we're dating. One reporter even said under her breath that she thought she saw the two of us at The Circle the other week (she did).

Then again, if he'd given me preferential treatment, other reporters would've been up in arms. Maybe there was no winning in this situation.

Once I finish the wine, I tug a blanket over my legs and stretch out. The fact that Gabriel's linked, even a little, with this shooting, makes me wonder about a future with him. Is this what I want out of life?

But his recent, sweet words echo in my brain as I shut my eyes, and all my doubts resurface as I fall into a sweaty, troubled sleep.

"You and I have been together a couple of months, and I know it's really soon. Maybe too soon to say these words. But I love you. That's all. I love you."

* * *

I awake to an insistent, angry pounding noise. For a moment, I think it's the television, which is still tuned to the stupid reality program. Then I think it's the rain, which is coming down hard now and beating against the window.

Sweat drenches my body, soaking into my robe, and running like a river between my breasts. It seems as though I was drooling, too. A droplet of sweat falls from my chin and hits my arm, and I quickly wipe it away, feeling embarrassed and gross. Being out in the rain tonight has surely given me a cold.

The pounding noise echoes through my apartment again, and in my half-asleep state I realize it's coming from the front door. A glance at the clock on the wall reveals that it's three in the morning, which means I was asleep for a solid two hours.

"Riley. Riley! Open the door. Now. Goddamnit."

I recognize the growly masculine voice, and let out a groan of annoyance as I haul myself to my feet. There's another few beats of pounding, and I just know my neighbor's probably going to complain about the noise.

"Riley, I'm going to bust this—"

I swing open the door when Gabriel is in mid-sentence and glare at him. "Can you have some consideration for other people who live in this building?" I hiss.

His jaw is set in a hard line and he barrels inside, taking me by the upper arm and slamming the door behind him.

"What the fuck? Ow. Stop." I wrench out of his grip. "Don't manhandle me."

But he doesn't let go, instead gripping my shoulders and backing me up against the wall of my hallway.

"Why didn't you answer my texts and calls?" He stands imposingly over me, his voice loud and angry. His usually well-groomed black hair is wild and disheveled, with strands falling onto his forehead. His jet-black eyes are wide with rage and his skin has a sheen of perspiration, or dampness from the rain.

"I could ask the same of you." It's impossible for me not to sound petulant and pissed.

Without letting go of me, he shuts his eyes for a beat, as if he's summoning his patience. When he opens them, he releases me, and I huff and snort as I wriggle out of his reach.

He walks to the sofa and sits, tipping his head back so it almost hits the cushion. He still seems like he's trying hard to control himself, like he's holding himself back from doing something unwise.

"I was worried. So worried, Riley. Going mad with worry over you. I tried calling several times, and texting. And I couldn't get it out of my head that you were hurt or worse." He follows up with a few swear words, and I'm almost sympathetic.

Almost, but not quite.

Because I'm in an irritable mood — a headache is raging in my brain on top of everything else — I make a show of checking my phone. "Yeah, I see that now. But I was already asleep. It wasn't the best night, you know."

"No shit." He pauses. "I told you I'd see you at home. Why didn't you go there? I went home after spending hours at that fucking restaurant with the mayor, and you weren't there."

"Last I checked, this is my home." I throw myself into the chair that matches my old sofa, not wanting to be next to him.

He sighs and lifts his head to stare at me. "I'm truly sorry I didn't return your voicemail. Everything happened so fast. What a fucking shitshow."

"What did happen, Gabriel?" I fold my arms and tuck my legs under me, not feeling charitable or well. The weird earlier pain in my abdomen has migrated to my side.

He shakes his head. "I can't tell you everything, so I'd rather not say anything."

My lips part and I gape at him, unable to form words. I want to scream and yell, to demand an explanation or an apology. But I can feel the anger and frustration simmering beneath my skin, and I'm petrified of what will happen if I give it the chance to escape. My body trembles as I try to keep my composure, tears threatening to leak from my eyes.

Something inside of me stands up and refuses to let him have the last word. I point my finger at him, and for the first time in my life, I speak to a man with anger in my voice.

"If you're not going to be honest with me, then you can leave. There's the door. I think you know me well enough by now that I won't put anything you tell me privately in the newspaper. You want privacy and loyalty and devotion and I've given you all three. I've given you my love, Gabriel. My love. And you repay me by making me worry for hours that you're dead? Hell no. If you're not going to tell me what went on tonight, and how you're connected to a mass fucking shooting that killed several people, you can take your beautiful Italian ass out of my life right now."