RILEY
Gabriel's shoulders slump, his entire body looking like he's deflating before my eyes. "You should hate me, Riley. You should be afraid of me. You should run."
"You're right."
He blows out a breath. "I didn't intend for you to see me like this."
"I'm sure." I can't look at him, mostly because I don't know whether I should be pissed, or scared, or sad — or if I should hug him and ask if he's okay.
What does one do in this situation? There's no manual for dating a mafioso.
"Are you hurt?"
"No."
I continue to stare out the window, but I can feel his presence, his warmth, next to me. "Can you tell me what happened?"
"You're sure you want to know?"
I twist to face him, and grimace at the sight of dozens of small red dots on his face. "Your shirt was bloodstained and you have splatter on your neck. As the person you've been fucking for a couple of months, I think I deserve some sort of explanation, no?"
"We're doing more than fucking," he hisses. "That was a low blow."
The fury's rising in me. I'm thinking of my father, and how when my mom questioned his late-night activities with the local gangsters. Dad's response was a backhand to Mom's face, and I'm wondering if Gabriel's going to fly off the handle in a similar fashion.
"I deserve to know, because this is more than fucking."
He hangs his head and stares at his hands, which are pressed together in a prayer. "A man stole from me."
"Stole money? Goods? Services? Puppies? I need more information, Gabriel."
"He didn't give me all the money he owed me, and then he..."
There's a pause and I narrow my eyes.
"He purchased from a competitor, and that was against our agreement."
Nothing is adding up. "That seems like a flimsy excuse to hurt someone."
"I can't explain the full story."
"Why not?"
Gabriel lifts his head and stares at me with fury in his eyes. "Because I'm trying to shield you from any liability, if it comes to that. You would be compelled to testify against me. We're not married so we don't have spousal privilege in court."
I hold my breath for a few beats, letting the seriousness of the situation sink in. He did something awful tonight, I can tell.
"Did you kill someone?" I ask in a low voice.
Gabriel stares into my eyes, but says nothing. A chill races down the column of my spine.
"I don't know what that means."
"It means, this is a question you don't want to know the answer to."
Finally I break away from our staring contest. "Fuck," I whisper.
"It's complicated."
"Of course it is." I rake in a few breaths, trying to control my pounding heart. "This is the life you chose."
"No. No way. It's the life I was born into."
"Does that make it any better?"
"No. But I'm trying to make things better. I do make things better, for many, many people in this city. By building affordable housing. By giving to charity. By backing the best political candidates, which aren't always the ones who do my bidding."
I seriously doubt the latter, but he probably believes it. "But occasionally, people have to die?"
I'm barely able to spit the words out.
"Sometimes."
"So, that's what happened tonight?"
There's a long pause, as if he's wrestling with telling me. Then, finally, he answers with a heartbreaking phrase.
"I can't tell you."
That means he did. I know it. I can read his body language, interpret the meaning behind his weary tone. And, he's not vehemently denying murder, which is probably the biggest red flag of all.
"Oh my God." I gulp in a few breaths. The man I'm sleeping with killed someone earlier. And now we're sitting on his bed, having a quiet discussion while I bake cookies downstairs.
This is madness. And yet, I feel rooted in place. Feel like this is my home. And by "this," I mean Gabriel's arms.
"And I'm supposed to accept this, roll with it, because you're powerful, rich, and too god-damned gorgeous for me to walk away?"
"No. You don't have to accept this, but I need you to understand that I can't run from this life. It's who I am, it's my legacy, and it's my future."
"Of course you can run away," I say. "You can do anything you want. You're Gabriel Greco. You have more money than you know what to do with. Please." A snort leaks out of my nose.
He shakes his head. "It doesn't work like that."
"What doesn't? The Mafia?"
He shoots me a glare. "I'm being more honest with you than I have with any other woman, ever. Hell, I don't know if I can even trust you."
His hand goes to his hair and he tugs.
"Why do you trust me?"
"I don't fucking know. I just do." He looks at me like I'm a piece of abstract art he's trying to figure out. "I want you in my life. I want to be with you. And I'm trying to figure out if this — this part of me — if it ever gets out, you'll stand by me."
His tone is so anguished that my heart breaks a little.
I put my hand on his arm. I can feel the muscles twitching, and I wonder if it's because he's clenching in fear, or because he's teetering on rage.
"Are you angry that I'm asking questions?"
He shakes his head.
"Then why are you shaking?"
After a few seconds, he says, "I'm afraid. Afraid you're seeing the real me and you're going to leave."
I take his hand and twine his fingers into mine. "It's a thought. But something is telling me to stay. It's as if I can't walk away from you. As if you're my flame, and I'm a moth."
"Are you going to stay tonight?"
I nod slowly. Of course, I shouldn't. The right thing to do would be to leave and go straight to the police. Or leave town, never return to Florida again.
But I wouldn't do that to Gabriel. Couldn't. And I doubt I could tear myself away from him, for reasons that I can't comprehend, or won't admit.
"We should set some ground rules."
"About what?" I ask.
"Us. This. Me."
"I guess that makes sense." Once again, the words what the fuck run through my head.
"Rule one. We don't talk about my business, unless it's charity or condo developments."
"Okay," I murmur, still unsure of what I'm agreeing to.
"Rule two. If you see me like this," he gestures to his face, "You don't ask any questions."
"Hmm."
"Rule three. You agree to a code of silence when it comes to me, and if matters ever take a turn for the worse, legally, you agree to allow me to hire you an attorney."
My eyes widen and I freeze. "That's pretty fucking serious."
He nods. "It is."
"The other two, well, those are hard enough. You're asking a reporter not to ask questions." I scowl at him. "But the other rule...Christ."
"It's your choice. As much as I want you in my life, I don't want to pressure you. All I want is for you to be protected. Do you have any rules you'd like to bring up?"
In his own twisted way, he's such a nurturer. My anger melts. He's trying to make me feel more comfortable, trying to listen to my concerns.
"The man. Was the man you...met with...tonight, a good person?"
"No. I can assure you he wasn't. But I'm not going to elaborate."
Should that make me feel better? "Okay. Rule number one. I don't want to see you like this. At all. If you think I might see, take a shower, hose down in the front yard, something. Anything. This is too gruesome."
"Understandable."
"Rule two. I want to know if we're going to be around any women you've slept with. I don't want to be caught off guard."
He nods slowly, a look of surprise crossing his face. "Fine."
"And rule three. When we're not together, if I don't hear from you for more than a day, I need to know who to contact if I'm worried about you."
"Reasonable. I'll give you Andre's private number. He usually knows where I am, and I'll now make sure he always does. Anything else?"
I shake my head. "Can't think of anything right now."
"So do we have an agreement?" Gabriel reaches out and strokes my hair.
I shudder in a breath. "Yes."
He leans in and his lips meet mine. Yet as we kiss, I can feel the confusion in my heart. His kiss is gentle, reverent, almost. But my emotions are in turmoil; I want to cry, yet I also want to pull away.
Most of all, I want to know why I adore this man. We kiss slowly for several minutes, and then another, more immediate issue flashes in my brain.
"Oh, shit!" I cry against his mouth, pulling back and jumping to my feet.
"What?" A look of panic crosses Gabriel's face.
"The cookies! I'd just put them in when you came home. Crap, crap, crap. That's why I came here tonight. My oven broke, and I have this party tomorrow at work. Also I know your cook has the good vanilla extract here. I'm making my Granny's Irish butter shortbread cookies."
Gabriel grabs my hand and kisses the palm. "You can bake in my kitchen any time."
As I let go of his hand, hoping to save my baked goods, Gabriel laughs. "I'm going to take a shower. Save a few for me."
"I will! Meet me downstairs and if they're edible, we'll have them with some Bailey's Irish cream."
I sprint downstairs, feeling jittery from our conversation. I don't know what it says about me that I'm staying. Or that I still want to be with Gabriel after he bloodied a man.
In the kitchen, my cookies are perfect, a stark contrast to everything else in my life. The air is perfumed with vanilla and sugar, and I'm instantly transported to my Grandmother's Boston kitchen.
What would Granny think of what I'm doing?
Well, I know the answer to that: she'd shrug. Her own husband had been connected with the Irish mob.
Maybe my ability to dissociate from the horror of tonight is my legacy. I have no fucking clue, but I do need to try to salvage these cookies.
"Yes!" I cry when I open the oven and see the perfectly baked orbs of delicious, buttery dough.
I slide them onto a cooling rack — Gabriel's kitchen really is perfectly stocked, almost like a professional chef's space — and put another sheet in to bake.
Some time later, Gabriel comes downstairs and I feed him a cooled cookie, and his eyes roll back in his head while groaning with pleasure.
"I had no idea you were this talented with the cookies. You really are going to be the death of me." He kisses my nose, and my entire body warms from his affection.
And just like that, against all my better judgment and common sense, everything is back to normal hours after my boyfriend killed a man.
Perhaps that makes me no better than him.