His Mafia Queen

Shiny Sexy Things

RILEY

My phone goes off before I even step out the door. It's Monday morning, and I've managed to rise early and get my shit together, all so I can arrive at the office before Mike, my editor. I ignore the ringing, because it's a number I don't recognize.

They'll text if it's important. Who calls out of the blue, before seven-thirty in the morning? No one, that's who. Let it go to voicemail. It's probably a telemarketer.

Whoever calls doesn't leave a message, though, which confirms my suspicions about the telemarketers. They don't text. They call again, while I'm waiting outside for my ride. That's another annoyance about this morning: I still have no idea where my car is. Gabriel promised he'd get it back to me, and here it is, time for me to go to my office downtown, and I don't have a vehicle.

Taking a rideshare is an expense I don't need, and after I deal with the editor meeting, I'm planning to muster all my courage and call Gabriel, demanding an answer about my car.

I tap my foot, ignoring the second call. The rideshare isn't here, and I jab at my screen, trying to figure out the driver's whereabouts. A deep blue luxury vehicle rolls into the driveway near my apartment's walkway. No, that's not it, I'm waiting for a different car, something nowhere near as nice. A white cargo van pulls into a spot and idles, but that's not it, either.

The blue car comes to a full stop, and the window rolls down. "I'm looking for Riley Murphy," the guy says in a thick Cuban accent. "Do you know her?"

I squint at the guy. "I'm Riley. Are you my ride?" I point at my phone and start to walk toward the car. Obviously, the rideshare app was wrong.

"I guess you could say I'm your ride." The guy kills the engine, gets out, and chuckles as he walks to me. "You wouldn't be so shocked if you'd answered your phone."

"What?"

He hands me a large yellow envelope, with the keys balancing on top.

"What's this?" I scowl at the items in his outstretched hand.

"Keys. The title to your car. I was asked to deliver this to you."

"That's not my car. What's going on?"

"Don't ask me. Ask Mr. Greco." He shakes the envelope a little, and the keys skid forward a few inches, almost falling off. "Take it."

"This isn't my car," I repeat, this time in a cold voice. I don't have to ask what's going on, because I know. This is Gabriel's doing, and I don't like it one bit.

"Your name is on the title, so as far as I'm concerned, it's your car. Listen, I gotta run." He shoves the envelope and keys at me, then jogs off to the white van idling in the parking spot. He gets into the passenger seat, and the van takes off. I try to get a glimpse of whether Gabriel is behind the wheel, but my guess is no, since there's a dealer logo on the side.

I almost drop the keys.

"What the fuck," I say aloud, allowing my messenger bag to plop to the sidewalk so I can look at whatever's in the envelope. I pull out the paperwork and indeed, there's my name on the title of a brand new luxury car, one that costs more than my entire year's salary.

"I can't believe this." I gape at the paperwork.

Another car rolls up, behind the blue vehicle. That's my rideshare. The driver honks, and I scoop up my stuff and jog to the car, which isn't easy in heels.

"I won't be needing this, I guess. I don't know. Maybe I should just take your ride. I'm sorry," I say to the driver, who rolls his eyes. I can't blame him, because I'm being horribly undecided.