RILEY
Had I known what the next hour and a half entailed, I would've said no. I would've begged off, claimed to be exhausted, declared that I needed a couple of hours to myself. Or maybe canceled the interview and the article altogether.
Because this—watching a shirtless Gabriel lift weights, do pushups, and jump rope—is pure fucking torture. Especially since I keep replaying our kiss in my mind.
Somehow, I assumed he'd be clothed. Or less sexy. I was kind of hoping he would smell weird, or let out little unattractive grunts. But no. Every movement is fluid and silent, and somehow he smells...fresh. Despite the light sheen of sweat covering the miles of his beautiful, smooth skin.
I'm perched on one of two weight benches, pen in hand, notebook on lap, and I've only scribbled a few things so far.
GABRIEL GRECO
Focused
Physically strong, wearing a faded, dark blue t-shirt and gray shorts
Takes shirt off... (I underlined that three times).
Trail of dark hair down muscular abs
My eyes flicker to his chest, then the sprinkling of hair that trails from his bellybutton to the perilous netherworld that resides under the waistband of his shorts.
I drag my gaze back up to his face. Good lord, I'm objectifying the guy. How inappropriate. Of course, he's smiling and knows exactly what I've been staring at. Bastard.
"Care to join me?" he says, the rope making a whizzing sound as it slices through the air and circles his body. Nothing on his body is jiggling. Every muscle is rooted in place, like a slab of granite. Apparently, he has zero body fat.
"Ha. No, I get my exercise in other ways." Did I mention that I'm also somehow suddenly incapable of normal conversation?
"Oh, yeah?" Surprisingly, he doesn't leer or say anything provocative. He stops skipping rope and walks over to the free weight set, which takes up one entire wall of the home gym. He grabs a large hand weight. "What kind of workouts do you do?"
I can't help but stare at his back muscles, and the small beads of sweat that cling to his olive-hued skin.
"Riley?" He turns with the weights in hand.
"Uh. Yoga. I do a lot of yoga." It's not a lie, but I suspect my definition of "a lot" of exercise is probably vastly different than his. I try to attend the Saturday morning yoga class on a nearby beach.
If I'm not hungover.
"That's really cool. I need to work on my flexibility." As he speaks, he effortlessly curls the weight, flexing and tensing his rock-hard bicep.
"So, you're into physical fitness. Any reason?" I inwardly cringe at my stupid, softball question. But this is essential. I need to get him comfortable before I ask anything tough. I gawp at his arm muscles.
Liar.
"I actually was on the track team at USF in college. Working out helps me manage my stress."
I scribble this down, along with a couple of follow up queries on a separate page, under the imaginative heading of QUESTIONS. I'm so busy writing that I'm startled when Gabriel stands next to me. I yelp and jump to my feet, and my notebook flutters to the floor. He bends over to get it and checks out the first page.
"No, Gabriel—" I reach to grab the pad of paper and he easily turns away with a grin.
"You're quite observant of me taking my shirt off. And"—he flips a page—"the size of my bicep. You wrote, 'how big is it?'"
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.
Gabriel sits up, nodding. "I acknowledge my privilege. It would be offensive to claim otherwise."
"At least you're honest."
There's that glittering smile again. "I'd like to think I have something other than money fueling my success. But I'll let you be the judge of that."
"Did you always realize your privilege?" My tone is pointed.
"Yes. My grandfather made me deeply aware of it. He never wanted me to think of myself as better than anyone else. I knew otherwise."
"That's...arrogant."
"It's true, though."
I scribble down this exchange. "From what I've read, your grandfather was quite wealthy. How did he know to pass down those values?"
Gabriel reaches for his shirt, which is slung over a barbell. "His father instilled that in him. My great-grandfather came from an extremely poor family in Naples, Italy, before coming to America. He arrived here in Tampa when he was fourteen, and by the age of twenty he was rum running during Prohibition from here to Havana. Then, at twenty-five, he opened a cigar factory."
"That's quite the local history."
He slips the T-shirt over his head and the interview immediately gets easier. I exhale a long breath, relieved that I won't have to look at all those muscles. Okay, I'm also a little disappointed.
"Yeah, have you heard of the lectores in the cigar factories?"
I frown. "The people who would read newspapers and books to the cigar factory workers?"
Gabriel nods. "My great-grandfather started that tradition here. He'd seen it in Havana. Once a month, he'd read the paper to his workers. My family has always encouraged literacy. I started a charity in my great-grandfather's honor, the Lectores Foundation. It provides reading support to at-risk children here in the city."
As he takes a long drink of water from his sleek, black aluminum bottle, I take notes. Is he telling me this because he thinks I'll be impressed? Is this an important detail? Or is he trying to paint a portrait of himself as a philanthropist, when he's really nothing but a criminal?
I'll hold off on those questions for now, because I want to know more about his family.
"You've mentioned your grandfather several times."
"He was my role model. My everything. He instilled every shred of ambition that's inside me."
"Did you live with him?"
"Some of the time. My parents' home wasn't far away, just over the bridge in South Tampa. I'd spend summers in Italy with my nonno and nonna, we'd all fly over together."
He tells me a little about their family farm in Italy. Wine, and olive oil. Quite traditional and old-world, from what I'm hearing.
"So, that's how you speak Italian?"
He tilts his head. "When did you hear me speak Italian?"
"When I walked out to breakfast this morning."
"That's right." He pauses. "Yes, my grandparents only spoke Italian to me. My grandfather spoke four languages. Italian, Spanish, French, and English. He wanted to make sure I did as well."
"You speak all four fluently?"
He nods casually, like it's no big deal.
"Your grandfather sounded like a smart man."
"The smartest."
"How old were you when he passed?"
A shadow crosses his face, and then the cool, collected expression returns. "Sixteen. He was quite old by then, and had been sick. His death wasn't a shock, but it left a hole right here, nonetheless." He pats his heart.
"Understood. I was quite close to my grandma. There's nothing like grandparents, is there?" I smile, thinking of my mimi, the redhead grandmother from Ireland who wore the muumuus and folded me into her fleshy body with so much love.
Gabriel sighs. "Grandparents are the best."
"It's interesting, you don't talk about your father at all, and yet you've told me so much about your grandfather. How come?" I don't mention that I know about his father's murder conviction. Surely, he knows that I'm aware—I put it in the paper, after all.
He swallows hard, and straightens his spine. The look in his eyes goes from being calm, almost amused, to hard and flinty in a heartbeat. It's almost scary how quickly his entire aura changes.
"I don't discuss my father."
"With me? Or with anyone?"
"Anyone."
"Really? How come?" Lorna used to say that this was one of my best traits as a reporter. That I didn't know when to stop asking questions.
The muscles in Gabriel's jaw bunch and tighten. "There are some things that are off limits in conversation. This is one of them."
An uncomfortable silence hangs in the air, and I dip my head to scrawl a note. Very defensive, I write. Why?
I glance up and he's glaring at me. For the first time since yesterday, I'm genuinely afraid of him—he looks as though he wants to strangle me, like I've asked him the most inappropriate thing. It seemed like a benign question. I've called him a mobster and told him to fuck off, and he hasn't had anything close to the reaction he's having now.
It's almost as if my questions have not only offended him, but physically hurt. I don't think I've ever had anyone react so viscerally to such an ordinary interview.
"I need to shower and get ready for my meeting. Unless you're going to join me in the bathroom, I'll see you when I return. Please be ready for the party tonight. Cassie will assist you in getting ready."
He stalks out of the gym before I can close my mouth.