GABRIEL
I swear to God, I've paced my dimly lit office a thousand times tonight, the sound of my footsteps echoing against the book-lined walls. The ticks away relentlessly, a constant reminder of the passing minutes and the hell about to come.
The soft glow of the evening sun filters through the drawn curtains, casting a somber hue over the room. It's six o'clock, and I'm waiting for my father to arrive.
Thank fuck my hangover has dissolved, like the dissipating smoke of a burned-out cigarette. The combination of Gatorade, aspirin, and four pieces of dry wheat toast have miraculously resurrected my throbbing head and queasy stomach. Although the pounding in my temples has ceased, a lingering uneasiness settles in the core of my chest. It's not from the remnants of last night's alcohol-fueled escapades, but rather from the knowledge that something is very fucking wrong.
My father should be here by now.
Just as I'm lost in my thoughts, my phone vibrates with an incoming text, jolting me back to the present. Anticipating that it's Andre, my trusted assistant with an update on my father's arrival, I scoop up the device from the polished surface of my desk. The screen lights up, revealing a name that makes me sigh and roll my eyes in exasperation: Stephanie.
Hey babe. Had a great time last night. Let's do it again tomorrow? Unless you're free tonight...
While I debate whether to return her message, my thumb taps on the call button for Andre. He answers immediately. The distant sounds of laughter and thumping bass music leak through the speaker, a stark contrast to the tension coiling in my chest. "Where are you?" I ask.
Andre clears his throat, his voice muffled by the noise in the background. "One moment, let me step outside," he says. A brief pause follows, and then his voice resonates clearly. "I'm here now. Gabriel?"
Something isn't going according to plan. By now, Andre should be just arriving to the city, but he and Dad have obviously taken a detour. A weary sigh escapes my lips, and I begin another round of restless pacing, my footsteps echoing through the opulent room. "Gabriel?" Andre's voice interrupts my disquieting thoughts.
"I'm here," I respond, my tone weighted with impatience. "The question is, where the fuck are you? And where is my father?"
"He wanted to stop," Andre explains, his voice tinged with a mixture of apprehension and resignation. I can tell he was hoping not to have this conversation with me. "He insisted on going somewhere before your house."
My eyes flutter shut briefly, a momentary reprieve as I try to compose myself. I count to ten, silently willing the tension to dissipate. "Where?" I ask, my voice measured but tinged with frustration.
"The Pink Pony strip club," Andre confesses, his words hitting me like a blunt force to the chest. My hand instinctively goes to my temple, massaging it in small, soothing circles. My fucking father, always stirring up chaos. The man is a whirlwind of disorganization, brashness, cynicism, brutality, and violence. And apparently, an insatiable hunger for tits and ass.
Then again, the man's been in prison for several years. I can't hardly blame him for wanting to get laid, but I could've helped him discreetly here at the house. I'd have called over a group of willing women for him, if that's what it took to keep him happy.
Now I have to deal with this bullshit.
"Let me talk to him," I demand.
"Um, sir..."
"Now."
"He's, ah, in the VIP."
"The man's been out of prison for five minutes and he's getting a lap dance?" I can no longer hide my fury.
"I tried to dissuade him, but he insisted I give him all the cash in my wallet."
"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.