His Mafia Queen

His Possession

RILEY

We're in the back of his chauffeured car. It's been ten minutes since I made my grand entrance before him in this dress, these heels, all this hair and makeup.

Ten minutes. And he hasn't said one damned thing. Not a "you look beautiful," or a "wow you clean up good." Nothing. Zero. Zip.

What a dick.

"How was your meeting?" I ask, trying to hide the peevish tone from my voice.

Gabriel turns away from the window to stare at me with those molten, dark eyes. "Excellent. I got some rather surprising news on a couple of fronts."

"Anything you want to discuss for the article?" That is why I'm here, after all. But I'm insanely curious about his meeting. It's entirely possible he was doing something nefarious, or meeting with other mobsters, or even planning Doyle's demise. I still don't trust Gabriel entirely when it comes to the Doyle disappearance—there's something he's not telling me, I can feel it.

Gabriel slowly rubs his chin while staring at me. I shouldn't be wondering what he looks like with dark stubble, but I am. Tonight, his jaw is smooth and sharp, matching the crispness of his black tuxedo. He's devastatingly handsome, which is making my job as a reporter so much more difficult than it should be.

"Do you know a Jack Fitzgerald?" His voice, clear and sharp, cuts through my thoughts.

My face crumples in confusion, then I grin. "I knew about three of them in high school. Oh, and there was old Jack Fitzgerald who ran the bar on Broad Street in Southie. I think he died a while back, that's what my mom told me."

Gabriel continues staring at me, as if he's trying to leach information from my very pores. He doesn't say anything, and that makes me nervous enough to ask questions.

"Why? Should I know a Jack Fitzgerald?"

Gabriel shrugs. "You tell me."

Okay, this is weird. I lift my hands in the air. "Well, one of the Jacks I knew in high school works for the city of Boston as a meter reader. The second one, he's a little older than me, he works for his father's hardware store.

"And the third?"

Jeez, why is he so insistent? Now I'm curious who Jack Fitzgerald is. "The third one died of a fentanyl overdose our senior year in high school. I didn't know him that well, but it was pretty sad."

Gabriel nods. "So there's no other Jack Fitzgerald in your life? Or your father's life?"

"Can't speak for my father. I don't make a habit of talking to my dad about his friends." Considering that Dad knew the asshole who killed Lorna, I stay away from any questions about the men in my father's circle.

Now I'm getting annoyed, and my hardscrabble Boston accent is sneaking through. "But there's no Jack Fitzgerald in my life."

"Okay, fair enough." He says this softly as he exhales, as if he's relieved for some reason.

"Why do you want to know?" I can't help but probe.

He flashes me a cold, haughty stare. "None of your business."

"Well, I think it is my business, if you're all up in my business," I huff.

We drive in silence and I stare out the window as the angry tension crackles between us. Part of me wishes I'd chosen to go home and forget all about this man. We're in Ybor City, the historic district, and we pass by old brick buildings that once housed cigar factories.

"You look beautiful," Gabriel says in a low, husky voice.

My head whips around. Why is he saying that now, after he responded in such a nasty tone to my question? And why do I crave to hear compliments from him?