His Mafia Queen

Little and Fierce

RILEY

"You're from the news? There's no fuckin' way I'm talkin' to you, lady."

The middle-aged guy with the southern drawl closes his front door with a bang before I can plead my case. The photographer and I glance at each other and sigh as we shuffle toward the sidewalk, past the neatly trimmed lawn. It's late in the day, on the cusp of sunset. The warm, winter sun in Florida is giving way to long shadows and the promise of darkness.

"Well, at least he didn't threaten us with violence like the last guy," Brynn says cheerfully, and I snort out a laugh. We're at our cars parked on the street now, and my eye spies the guy who just slammed the door. He's watching us from the window, but I don't give a shit.

I do give a shit about my article, though.

"Brynn, what am I going to do? I'm supposed to write this story and I'm getting nowhere. It's almost dark. Monday's the deadline." I allow my head to tip back, groaning in frustration. "This Friday the thirteenth is living up to its reputation."

"Girl, I don't know, but I can't stay any longer. I have to cover that football game." Brynn's crazy talented with her camera but our editors keep her busy covering local high school sports. Rarely does she have time for assignments like this, and I've squandered her precious time. A waste of a day.

I playfully swat her with my reporter's notebook. "I'm sorry this wasn't better. I really thought all these people would talk after yesterday's article. I assumed everyone would want to talk about Doyle."

She lifts a shoulder into a shrug and pulls out her keys. "The old boys' network runs strong here in Tampa. You'll learn that. You've already pissed a lot of people off with that story. You headed back to the newsroom?"

My hand reaches for the handle of my beat-up car. "Probably not. I think I'm going to stop by one more house, the woman who supposedly knows about Doyle's ties to Gabriel Greco. You know, I didn't tell you. I got a weird email from his lawyer."

"Greco's lawyer? What did it say?"

I pause, mouth open, wondering if I should tell Brynn about the message. It was an offer to have cocktails this weekend, at his mansion on some island near Tampa. Because it seemed like an invitation to a party, I wondered if I'd somehow been mistakenly put on a mailing list or something.

Usually people who were accused of being mafia kingpins didn't casually invite reporters over for drinks. Something was off about that email, and I hadn't responded. Hadn't even told my editor yet, because it was so strangely worded, so stiffly formal. It also struck me as odd that a man like Greco would invite me, or anyone, to his house on Valentine's Day, which was tomorrow night. I'd heard enough about the man to know that he probably wasn't begging for company on the holiday of love.

Ms. Murphy,

Mr. Gabriel Greco is requesting your presence Saturday evening for cocktails and more.

– Michael Malka, Esq.

Weird, right?

I decide not to say anything. I'm new at the Tribune and don't want my colleagues to think I'd socialize with a man like Greco. I want my private life to remain that way, especially with my past. As far as anyone at the paper's concerned, I'm just one of many overeducated reporters with student loan debt who took a low-paying job at a mid-tier paper as a stepping stone to something bigger.

"It was a veiled threat to not publish more stories involving him. You know. Legal shit." I toss off the words like it's no big deal, like that knot in my stomach isn't even there.