His Mafia Queen

His True Self

GABRIEL

I know the bastard sees me. How can he not?

I'm standing between two parked cars, in the shadows. Riley's back is to me, but I command enough attention that the prick has noticed me.

I stare, hard. Unblinking.

I hated that fuck from the moment I saw him in the restaurant, gazing at Riley with lust written all over his face. My ability to read people is sharp, and I could tell he was the kind of man who would profess to be an intellectual, a geek, but actually be a predator.

Probably women rejected him his entire life, and now that he has a little bit of corporate power he tries to force it on young, innocent women.

Riley's not innocent, thank God. She knows exactly what's going on, as far as I can tell from her body language. She keeps stepping back, and her hand's in her purse, hopefully grasping her cell or her keys as a weapon.

But I'm here, and she'll be fine. I point at the guy, and he freezes.

A couple of things could happen. One is that the guy will tell her that a creepy-as-fuck man is staring at them. Riley will turn and see me — and hopefully be relieved that I'm here.

Or the guy will get freaked out and leave Riley alone.

His eyes shift from left to right, and he stares at me. Then he looks at the building and says something.

When he walks away, I step back into the darkness so Riley won't see me.

My mission isn't over yet, though.

# # #

The man doesn't take a cab back to his hotel. Riley had mentioned that the out-of-town editors were staying in a nearby hotel. It's several blocks from the restaurant, and fortunately, the guy walks there alone.

I follow.

That makes what I'm about to do so much less complicated. Although, if need be, I'd break into his hotel room. I haven't ruled out the possibility if he somehow gets into the hotel before I can catch up with him.

About halfway to the hotel, the guy looks over his shoulder and spots me. Unlike other cities, the streets of downtown Tampa are almost empty at night. They're dark corridors punctuated by palm trees and flickering streetlamps. There are no pedestrians because the businesses all close. A pretty dismal place, and this guy knows it, especially when he spots me, a well-dressed man in a suit and tie behind him.

He picks up his pace until he's going along at a jog. Surely he's recognized me from the parking lot.

I overtake him easily and drag him into an alley, slamming him against the hard brick wall of a building.

"What do you want, man? My wallet? Take it! It's yours!"

I pin him to the wall, his sweater gathered in my fists, which are pushing his chest into the brick.

"I don't want your fucking money." I spit in his face and he winces.

"Then...then...what? Please, let me go. Please? I have a girlfriend back in New York."

Typical. "Then what the fuck were you doing hitting on that reporter?" My tone is a menacing growl.

"Who? Riley? I wasn't, I swear. And what's it to you, jerkoff?"

With one hand, I pull him toward me. With the other, I punch him squarely in the left eye. I've always had a great right hook.

He howls in pain. Now he's aware that I'm not fucking around.