His Mafia Queen

Prisoner of the Past

GABRIEL

Apparently, Catherine Trafficante didn't get the memo that you're not supposed to speak ill of the dead. But that's Catherine: blunt and inappropriate, awkward and honest. It's what I adored about her as an arrogant guy in college, but now that I'm a man, I'm not so sure. I prefer subtle and cunning, sharp and analytic.

Like Riley. But I can't allow myself to think of her now that another woman's in front of me, because it seems like a betrayal of what we shared. Riley exists in a pure, beautiful place in my mind, and that's not where I am physically at this moment.

I don't remove my sunglasses, nor do I say anything. I merely study Catherine, trying to figure out why she's here after disappearing for over a decade, why she's standing like a ghost in this cemetery, whether she's trying to seek answers for her father's sins of the past.

Because she won't find them here amongst the corpses.

"Walk with me," I say, stepping toward a row flanked by grave markers. For some reason, it feels wrong to talk with her near her father's mausoleum. It's like a betrayal to him, and to Catherine.

She falls into step with me, and we're silent for a beat. There used to be a time when Catherine and I would spend long hours in silence, studying or reading. Most people didn't understand our relationship, thought it was odd that we weren't dating, that we were only friends. Never did we hook up or fuck, which in retrospect was odd, given our ages.

Only once did we talk about taking our relationship to another level. We'd jokingly made a pact one drunken night that if we both turned thirty-five and were single, then we'd marry. Neither of us are thirty-five quite yet, and that conversation had been before everything happened, before our lives changed.

Now, our silence feels horribly awkward and our pact seems like it was made in another lifetime.

"Why did you come back? Why now? Why bother?" I finally ask, unable to contain my curiosity. The implications of her return could complicate matters for me and Alessandro. It's the last thing I want.

"I needed to make sure he was dead and buried."

"Understandable."

"I also wanted to see you." Catherine stops, and I do as well.

She looks like a gothic vision with a backdrop of the granite headstones, and I stare down at her. She's so short, a wisp of a woman. And she looks so damned different than when we were friends. Not in a bad way, just different. She's still delicately pretty.

"You could've picked up the phone. Or emailed. You didn't have to fly across the country to see me."

"I didn't think you'd want me to show up at your house in Tampa." A little smile plays on her scarlet lips.

"I wouldn't have minded." It's the truth. But now, seeing her here like this, almost feels antagonistic. Wrong. My instincts tell me something's off about this entire situation.

"I was also told that my father left a letter for me. I came to retrieve that. Wanted to face my past in person."

I nod, unsure of what to say. I can't be angry at her, not after what she endured. She's allowed to feel any way she wants, after what happened.

Catherine tilts her head. "You know, I can tell what you're thinking. I've always been able to do that, you know."

I raise an eyebrow. "What am I thinking?"

"You're wondering why I'm here. If I'm going to screw anything up for you and the little deals you had with my father."

"Accurate."