His Mafia Queen

Desire That Won't Fade

"Jesus Christ." I pause. "I'm sorry to put you through this, Andre."

"It's fine, sir. They have a sirloin dinner buffet. I hope you don't mind that I indulged."

Andre somehow always knows what to say to make me chuckle.

"Please keep him out of trouble. Any sign of a raid, get him the fuck out of there, okay?"

"Of course. I've scoped out all the exits and didn't use the valey."

"Great. I'll see you when you get here," I say tersely before hanging up, the weight of the situation pressing against my temples like a vise. Goddammit.

The phone trembles in my grip, the urge to hurl it against the cold, stone fireplace strong. My father's presence will undoubtedly be a shit show, a dark cloud looming over my carefully constructed empire. I can sense it—the familiar tendrils of his old ways seeping into our lives once again. And now, he has the audacity to bring it to my doorstep, to invade the sanctuary I've painstakingly built in his absence.

Of course, it all makes me feel a mixture of guilt and rage. He saved me by taking the fall for my actions. I repaid him by making money and continuing the family business.

My phone buzzes once more, another interruption in an already chaotic evening. Is it Stephanie again? No, it's one of my loyal bodyguards, saying that he needs to talk, immediately.

"Fuck, what now?" I mutter aloud, sinking onto the plush leather sofa, my head resting heavily in my hands.

What is it, I text back. Why is he being so cryptic?

Do you mind if I call you? It's a bit complicated. It's about that assignment you gave me.

I stare at the phone, confusion clouding my thoughts. What the hell did I ask this man to do? I'm juggling dozens of people in Andre's absence. I rack my brain, retracing the steps of my tangled assignments. And then, the memory resurfaces, a horrible realization.

Oh, hell. He's the one assigned to Riley.

I text him back, ordering him to call me. Placing the phone on the bar, I pour myself a stiff drink, the liquid amber of whiskey swirling in the glass. Even though I indulged in excess last night, I know I'll need a bracing dose of liquid courage to confront the chaos descending upon me.

As the phone rings, I press the speaker button, the sound filling the room.

"Yeah?"

"Boss, I'm over at the ballpark. The one where the Rays play," he says, the noise of the cheering crowd in the background nearly drowning out his voice.

"What the fuck are you doing there?" I snap, my voice slicing through the air.

"Ms. Murphy is here," he reveals, his words hitting me like a sucker punch to the gut. Riley, at a sporting event? I frown.

"Get the fuck outta here," I retort. "Riley would never go to a game."

"No, really, boss. She's here. Got pretty good seats, too. Right behind home plate," he confirms, his words twisting the knife deeper into my heart.

We'd talked about going to a game together. She loved her hometown team the Red Sox, though she preferred watching the games on TV from the comfort of her home, in small, controlled doses. The idea of experiencing the prolonged monotony of a live game had bored her, or so she had claimed.

Had that been a lie?

"Tell me more," I demand, my voice edged with a mix of desperation and possessiveness.

"Well, she's eating a pretzel and drinking a boozy milkshake," he says. The memory of her delighting in sweet, alcoholic cocktails, often topped with a decadent dollop of whipped cream, floods my senses. Once I'd brought home her favorite kahlua-mint chocolate chip shake, and you'd have thought I'd purchased the biggest diamond at Tiffany's.

I remember the moment clearly. She'd gotten whipped cream on her top lip, and I'd licked it off.

Then I took her in my arms and told her how much I loved her.

The memory almost makes my knees buckle with despair.

"Who's she with?" I demand, my voice strained, my fingers tightening around the glass in my hand.

"Some guy who lives in her building," he reveals, each word landing like a blow to my already battered soul.

"Name? Do you know it?"

"Beckett Sinclair. The same guy she was talking to a few weeks ago at that art gallery party."

"Motherfucker," I hiss, the venom lacing my voice as I struggle to keep my composure. Jealousy and rage intertwine.

"He's got his arm around her. Uh, sorry, boss." I can tell he's scared to give me this detail.

It takes ten excruciating seconds of deep breathing, my eyes squeezed shut, to quell the rising rage inside me. The thought of another man touching Riley ignites a fierce protectiveness. I want to lash out, to reclaim what is rightfully mine. My blood feels like it's freezing in my veins.

"Boss? You still there?"

"Yes," I reply, my tone strained but controlled. "I want you to stay at the game, observe their every move. Find out where they go, what they do after. If either of them step foot in each other's apartments, I want to know immediately."

"Consider it done, boss," he assures me, and we hang up, leaving me alone with my restless thoughts. The room becomes my prison, the weight of my own foolish mistakes practically crushing me.

As my phone buzzes once again, I groan aloud.

Gabriel? You there? I'd love to get together tonight.

Instead of responding, I down the rest of my drink. I'm about to text Andre and ask him to look into this bastard's background. Then I realize he's with my father in a strip club and my mood plummets even more. For the millionth time, I wish Riley was still in my life. She'd inject a spark of rational advice in this situation with my father. She'd temper me. Calm me.

Be my rock.

Gabriel? You there? I'd love to get together tonight.

Instead of responding, I down the rest of my drink. Then I text my second-best option for advice: Catherine.

Did you encourage Riley to date that Beckett asshole?

Three dots appear, as if she's typing a message, then the phone rings. I swear, I'm taking more calls tonight than a fucking old-timey operator.

"I can't believe you have the audacity to ask me that question after what you did to her." Catherine sounds like she's spitting mad.

"She is on a date with that fuck, at this very moment. At a ball game."

"Gabriel, good lord. You're the one who broke up with her. You don't get to play possessive mafia dude now. You let her go. Deal with it."

This wasn't the soothing, friendly advice I was hoping for. "You know I don't 'deal' with jealousy and anger well."

"Well, I'm afraid you're going to have to. You fucked this up, Gabriel. Are you willing to grovel to get her back?"

I pause and let the question sink in. "I don't know. Maybe."

"Well, until you know, you're going to be pissed and alone. Or maybe just pissed, since you weren't alone last night. What the hell was that, with that bimbo? I saw a photo of you two."

"Stephanie's not a bimbo."

"She's not Riley, either. Listen, I gotta go. Talk later." She hangs up.

I sit on the sofa, unsatisfied. The only person I want to talk with about my father — about anything, really — is miles away, in the arms of another man.

All because of my stupidity.