Riley
I stand there, gaping at him in the distance while emergency lights swirl in the darkness, wondering what I should do. Call to him over the sound of paramedics and crying people dotting the street? Wave wildly to get his attention and risk letting everyone here know that we're together?
Now that I think about it, the mayor knows. And so does the chief. Duh. Gabriel and I have run into them socially, only then, I'm dressed to the nines. Not wearing my grungy reporter clothes like tonight.
I'm like a fucked-up version of Lois Lane, if Lois was sleeping with Lex Luthor. Or is Gabriel more of an antihero Superman, and we're living in some alternate, corrupt universe? It's all bullshit, I decide, because I'm not living in a comic book or fairytale tonight.
It's more like a nightmare.
What to do, what to do... maybe I should slink away and hope he doesn't see me.
It's impossible for me to decide and it feels like my feet are frozen to the sidewalk. Part of me wants to duck under this police tape and run to him, feel his arms around me.
Another part of me wants to throat punch him. Why hadn't he told me he was okay?
At least he's alive. Unhurt. That's the only positive thing I can think of right now. Although the thought of him being in the middle of a mass shooting makes my blood run cold. Was he even in the restaurant when it happened?
What is his link to this place and to the people who were shot?
I watch him, the chief, and the mayor, stand in a cluster a few feet from the front door of the restaurant. The mayor's gesturing wildly, the chief is nodding, and Gabriel is looking from one to the other with a flinty expression. To anyone else here, they're three official-looking men handling a tragedy.
For an excruciating five minutes, I watch, silently hoping Gabriel will somehow sense my presence and come to soothe me. Ask me how I'm doing. Assure me that he wasn't in the restaurant when the Russian guy opened fired.
Tell me that everything is going to be okay.
Finally, Gabriel nods slowly, as if he's finally absorbing some information. I wonder what they're talking about. What's going through his mind right now? Does he suspect I'm here? He knows I'm working the crime beat tonight. Did he even get my message?
So many questions swirl in my mind, and none of them are good.
Gabriel puts his hands on his hips and looks around while the chief and mayor stare at a piece of paper. I'd give anything to know what's being said.
Helen buzzes me, and I answer. "Hey, I'm in the middle of something."
"That's okay, I wanted to tell you that the story's looking great. Nice job tonight. We've got a full version with your byline on the website, and it's going in the printed paper tomorrow morning."
I'm so stunned I almost drop the phone. From the tone of every other conversation we'd had tonight, I felt like I was on the verge of being fired. Such is the news business, I guess.
"Thanks," I finally manage to squeak out.
"I'd like you to stay there for a while longer, maybe get some more witnesses and the next news conference. Then you can head to the hospital. I don't have anyone else to go there."
"Absolutely." I keep my eye on Gabriel. His back is to me now, as if he's surveying something on the other side of the building.
A raindrop falls on my notebook, and I wait for another.
Helen hangs up, and I don't move. Gabriel turns slowly, says something to the mayor and the chief, then faces me. He's a few car lengths away, and for a second, I don't think he sees me.
But from the look on his face, I know he does. His expression registers a brief shock, as if he's surprised to see me here, then a fierce determination. He squeezes the mayor's elbow and murmurs something against his ear, then stalks toward me, his long legs eating up the distance. A light rain has started to fall, almost a mist. Gabriel ignores it, as does almost everyone else in my field of vision.
I feel pinned, as if a predator has set his sights on me. Against the backdrop of the police lights, the sight of him walking toward me with his suit pants, formal shoes, and buttoned down white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, is enough to strike fear in me.
Is he a victim in this situation, or the devil who inspired this carnage?
He reaches the police tape and we're just inches apart, divided by a barrier of plastic.
"I tried calling—"
"I'll see you at home." His eyes shift from side to side, as if sweeping the scene behind me.
I rear back, startled and more than a little angry. This is the reception I get, after hours of worry? This is his attitude? "Excuse me?" I say, the hair on the back of my neck bristling with indignation.
"Riley, I don't have time to talk." His voice is rough, almost mean. "I'm in a world of shit, and I'll explain everything later—"
"No," I interrupt. "I need to know why you didn't return my call. Why you didn't text me. Why you didn't tell me you were okay. I've been worried for hours, Gabriel, and it's not fair."
I'm on the verge of tears, a state I don't want to be in while covering a crime story.
Gabriel hauls in a breath and continues to look everywhere but at me. "Goddammit," he swears under his breath. "I don't need this shit right now."
"What?" I ask, fuming. "How dare you blame me for wanting to know you're okay?"
"That's not it, babe." His tone is low and has softened a touch, which makes my heart crack a little.
"Then what is it?" I'm thoroughly bewildered by his attitude tonight.
My answer comes a second later, when a crush of TV cameras, photographers and reporters join us, clamoring for an interview with him and nearly pushing me out of the way.
* * *
Gabriel
Fuck me. All I want is to grab Riley, throw her in my car, and drive as far away from this goddamned place as possible.
But now I've got these reporters to deal with, and a confused, scared Riley. Who is also a reporter, here doing a job.
"Mr. Greco, why are you here? What can you tell us about the shooting? Can you share anything about the victims? Did you know them?"
I pause and survey the crowd. What the fuck am I supposed to say? That a mafia war has started between the Italians and the Russians? That four of my men were killed? That the piece of shit who started this massacre is lying in the dining room inside, his face half blown off?
Riley's staring at me as if I've sprouted a third limb. She's right in the middle of the reporter scrum. I hold up my hands to quiet the din and give everyone a stern glare.
"I'll answer a few questions. One at a time, please."
"Why are you here, Mr. Greco?" The question comes from the slick TV reporter who's seemingly everywhere in town. I see him at charity balls, at restaurants, hell, even once at a Bucs game.
I clear my throat and the flashes of a half-dozen cameras pop and burst, practically blinding me. "I own this property. The chief, who is a dear friend, called me this evening while I was at dinner to tell me of the tragedy, and I came here immediately."
Riley, who is only a few inches away, visibly relaxes. She pulls out her phone and points it in my direction, which both pisses me off and makes me despair. For the first time since I met her, I want her out of the news business, away from all this tragedy. I know she's normally a feature writer, penning stories about pleasant topics.
But not always. As long as she's with the paper, she'll be at risk for covering stories like this.
We'll be having a conversation about this later.
"Did you know any of the men?" I'm startled to hear Riley asking the next question. She's looking at me almost accusatorily, and I'm not sure if she's trying to look tough for her colleagues, or if she's asking because it's her job.
It's a valid question. "I'm working with the police to determine that," I say coolly, sidestepping the question. "Of course, I know the owners well, and I'm thankful that they're unhurt."
She presses her lips together and I can tell she knows I'm not entirely speaking the truth. The woman knows me well.
"Can we get inside and shoot footage?" One cameraman shouts.
No fucking way, I want to yell. Instead, I calmly reply, "It's a crime scene, so you'll have to check with the chief."
Riley's nostrils flare. It's raining now, and everyone looks annoyed, especially her. The sound of her voice on that message earlier cuts into me, and I wish I'd taken the time to call her, to let her know I was okay. But when news of the shooting came from the chief, I'd been at a restaurant near my house, and my bodyguards had ushered me to safety, fearing the worst.
There had been no time for calls or reassurances. I had to act. Had to get my men prepared.
For war.
"What can you tell us about the Russian national who allegedly open fired?" a reporter asks in an obnoxious bellow.
That I'm glad he's dead and he's a piece of shit.
I run a hand through my damp hair. Keep it cool, keep it superficial, and get the fuck out of here. "I can't say anything right now. All my thoughts and prayers are with the victims this evening, and to everyone who had to endure the trauma of the events inside the restaurant. My prayers, and that of the entire Greco family, are also with the first responders. The police, the EMTs, the medical workers. They're the true heroes in situations like this, and I'm glad we have professionals here in the city to handle such tragic events."
Butter up the cops. That's the only essential thing at a time like this. Well, that and figuring out how to keep my men safe. How to keep Riley safe and at my side. I can't have her flitting around the city when the Russians are clearly out for blood.
"Now if you folks will excuse me, I need to speak with the chief. Please keep up the good work. I know you're all doing your jobs, and this is a difficult night. Please be on the lookout for some free coffee and donuts, I'm going to have someone from my real estate company bring them by for you all. I think you'll be out here for a while."
That seems to make all the journalists happy. Well, all but Riley.
I take one more look at her. She up at me through her lashes with a wounded, afraid expression. As much as I want to whisk her away right now, I can't. I need to get to the hospital and visit the guys who were wounded then meet with my capos to find out how we're going to handle this.
I nod at her. She opens and closes her mouth, as if she's about to say something. But the incessant questions of the other reporters drown her out, and I hear the chief calling my name from the front door of the restaurant.
As difficult as it is, I turn and walk away, hoping that she'll meet me at home later so I can explain everything properly. We've got a lot to discuss later, and something tells me she's not going to like one word of what I have to say.