GABRIEL
"Oh, babe..." I scoop up the obviously drunk Riley and take her into bed.
"Sorry, I'm really sch...sch...schtressed. And maybe a little drunk, too."
I gently lay her on the fluffy white duvet cover and sit on the edge of the bed as she fumbles for the hem of her T-shirt. Her blonde hair is messy and hanging in her face.
"I hate clothes," she declares.
"Let me do that for you," I say making a quick work of her T-shirt and yoga pants. She doesn't have any underwear on underneath, and she gives me a full show as she sloppily climbs into bed. But the desire I normally have for her has been replaced with cold, calculating rage.
Not for her. But for that piece of shit.
"All this hair," she whines. "I want to cut it off."
"Babe, let me help." I go to her bathroom, grab a brush and an elastic, and return to the bed. Carefully, I brush her hair while she makes little happy moaning noises. Then I attempt a braid on her beautiful blonde hair.
"Where did you learn to do that?" she asks, giggling.
"My niece. I learned on a My Little Pony. I have to say, your hair is much easier to braid than a rainbow pony's."
She dissolves in a fit of giggles, and I'm glad she's in a better mood. I hate seeing her upset.
I get Riley settled in the bed. Once I kiss her forehead, bring her water, and rub her back, I think she's asleep. I'm just about to go out into the living room so I can grab my cell and continue texting Andre, who is investigating Beckett's background when Riley stirs.
She grabs my hand. "No, don't leave. Are you mad at me?"
I sweep hair off her face. "Of course not, babe. I'm very, very concerned about you. And pissed off, obviously. Also I still have a lot of work to do. I cut an online meeting short."
Online meeting = going to fuck up Beckett with my bare hands.
"You didn't do anything to him did you?"
I study her face, trying to figure out why she's so concerned about this asshole's well-being.
She follows up quickly with, "I know I may be drunk, but the reason I don't want you beating his ass is because I don't want anything to happen to you. I don't want you to get in trouble."
She starts to cry.
I have to bite back to smile. Sometimes Riley is so naïve, so sweet. She has no idea that casually roughing up some loser would just as likely earn me a medal of honor in this city then an arrest.
"No one's getting in trouble. Come on, drink some water." I hand her a giant plastic glass and study her while she gulps it down.
I open my mouth to chide her about drinking and getting dehydrated. The last thing I want is for her to land back in the hospital.
She glances at me over the rim of the glass. "You're about to scold me, aren't you?"
I can't help but chuckle. "You know me too well."
"I've been staying hydrated. Joke's on you. I'm still a little drunk, though."
She hands me the glass, hiccups, then buries herself back into the bed. "It's okay. I'm right here."
I rub her back until she's breathing heavy, then there's a soft knock on the bedroom door. Shit. It must be one of my guys, with an urgent message. Who else could it be? I don't want Riley waking, so I tiptoe to the door and slip out.
Sure enough, it's one of my guys. "Sir. Andre's here, and he's requesting to talk with you."
"Send him in."
What the fuck happened if Andre's here in person? Last I knew he was at the office, researching Beckett's past. Andre has skills as good as any PI when it comes to finding out unsavory details on someone's background. It's half the reason I hired him.
Well, that, and his cool demeanor.
I wait for Andre in the living room, easing onto the sofa. He looks harried as he walks in with a thick file folder under his arm.
"I didn't think this could wait. I printed out several documents and reports on Beckett Sinclair." He hands me the file and perches on the edge of a sleek white leather chair.
I flip open the file folder, scanning the first page. It's a detailed report on Beckett Sinclair. Date of birth, information on his bookstore, state permits. Normal shit.
"He's only been open four months? Why'd he pick Tampa? Is he from here?" I murmur the questions aloud. Then
Then I get to his background. My eyes widen as I take in this information.
"Beckett is from South Boston?" I ask. "That's where Riley grew up. But he's what, ten years older than her?"
He nods grimly. "There's more. Keep reading."
I continue scanning the pages, gleaning details on Beckett's background. He comes from a working-class Irish-American family, got average grades in school. Dropped out of community college after a year. He has no criminal record, not even a parking ticket. The guy is squeaky clean on paper. Too clean. My instincts tell me there's more to the story.
"So what's the catch? Everyone has skeletons in their closets. This guy looks too fucking perfect."
"Exactly. After some digging, I found Beckett's family has...connections. His uncle Patrick was affiliated with the Irish mob back in the 1980's and 90's. Patrick's from Ireland and had ties to the IRA."
"Had?"
"No one's heard from Patrick for years."
I rifle through the pages and study photos of the man. He looks nothing like Beckett; he's older, bald, and sports a nasty expression. Beckett, at least when I saw him, looked like any hipster guy in his thirties from an east coast city. Soft and pliant. Unthreatening — at least to me. Riley's a different story, though.
I digest this news, gears turning. The Irish mafia mostly died out, but pockets still exist in Southie and Charlestown. Riley's dad is on the edges of that, according to what little she's told me. If Beckett has ties to the Irish mob, it explains why he's managed to stay under the radar.
But why did he unexpectedly show up in Tampa? It's not as though the Irish have ever tried to make inroads in Florida. This is Italian territory, has been for nearly a century. The only ones that have the balls to take us on are the Russians, and we've all but snuffed them out.
"What happened to Patrick?" I ask.
Andre shakes his head. "He disappeared in 1996. Most likely dead. But his reputation carries weight, even today. He's like a folk hero in Southie. Get this: rumor has it, he even had FBI agents on the payroll."
"A man after my own heart," I mutter cynically. "But Beckett might be leveraging those connections for protection."
I scowl, shoving the file folder onto the coffee table. Beckett clearly has an agenda involving Riley if he's bold enough to come to my city and stalk her. The fact that they're both from Southie is too much of a coincidence. What I can't figure out is why.
"There's a piece we're still missing. Beckett clearly knows Riley somehow if he tracked her down. See what else you can dig up on connections between their families in Boston."
"That piece is in the file, sir. Go to page fifty."
I reach for the folder and flip through again. "Did you print all this out at the office? Jesus. We're going to run out of printer ink," I grumble.
Andre smirks, knowing I'm complimenting him.
"Oh, fuck, look at this," I mutter. "Beckett's father and Riley's father were childhood friends. Practically brothers."
"Look at the records from the Suffolk County Jail on page sixty."
I study the pages. "Riley's dad did a short stint in county lockup in 1989 for assault. That was before Riley was born. And guess who his cellmate was?"
I look up and Andre and I speak at the same time. "Patrick Sinclair."
In a low voice, Andre adds, "Riley's father was only there for thirty days on a misdemeanor. Patrick was awaiting trial. He served eighteen months for money laundering."
My mind whirls. I know Riley's father is on the fringes of the mob up in Southie. This paints a different picture.
"There's more...." Andre says. "Two months after Patrick Sinclair disappeared in 1996, Riley's father came into a lot of money."
"That's a couple of years after Riley was born." I scowl. Riley made it seem as though she grew up poor.
"He gambled it all away within a few years, though."
My hands ball into fists. I know I'm supposed to meet Riley's father in a few weeks, but this information sends me even more into a rage. What kind of man gambles away a fortune when there's a baby at home? A piece of shit, that's who.
And Beckett... how the fuck does he factor into all this? I'll find out before either Riley or I step foot on a Boston sidewalk.
Beckett clearly wants something from Riley — whether it's information, retribution, or sex. That son of a bitch won't get near her, I vow. She's been through enough. I'll make sure he wishes he never stepped foot in my city.
"Andre, it's time we had a little chat with Mr. Beckett Sinclair."