His Mafia Queen

Breaking Apart

RILEY

Catherine says something in a low murmur, but I can't make out the words over the whooshing of blood in my ears.

My hand finds the wall and I flatten my palm against the cool surface, seeking something grounding, something solid. Already my legs feel as if they're going to buckle, and I wonder if I'll be able to make it back to the office to sit before I collapse or puke.

Or both.

Should I even return to the office? How am I going to resume my interview with Cath after Gabriel leaves?

If he doesn't leave, that will be even worse. Their voices become audible, as if my hearing is tuning them in like a radio dial.

"Gabriel, I'm doing an interview now."

"Oh. I'm sorry to have interrupted. The place looks great."

As much as I want to not hear this conversation, I can't tear myself away.

"The reporter's wonderful. You should meet her. Hang on. Let me go get her."

Oh, fuck.

"You don't have to, really. I only wanted to stop in and say hi."

This would be a great moment for the earth to open up and swallow me.

"Hang on. Just a second."

Muted footsteps echo through the airy space and I'm turning to scurry back to the office when Catherine comes barreling around the corner.

"There you are. Come. You can meet my early muse." She looks positively radiant, her smile wide and bright.

"Uhhh..." I'm only capable of communicating through grunts.

"I'm surprised you haven't met him." She reaches for my arm and tugs. "This will be great for your article. Maybe he'll even want to be interviewed."

"No, no, no, Cath. I don't do—" Gabriel's voice dies in his throat when he sees me, being pulled into the room.

"This is Gabriel Greco. Riley, he's a... businessman. A well-known one. And Gabe, this is Riley Murphy, a reporter for the local paper."

All I can do is stand there, slack jawed, clutching my notebook and pen, with my legs feeling like jelly. Gabriel's black eyes reveal a flicker of emotion, then it's as if an invisible veil drops over them. He's looking at me with a thousand-yard-stare, as if I wasn't just in his bed hours before.

Shame, anger, and abject sadness wash over me.

Catherine talks for a bit about how we were doing an interview, then her head ping-pongs between the two of us. "You're sure you haven't met?"

"We're acquainted," I manage to grind out.

Gabriel can't meet my eyes. He's biting his lip and has his hands on his hips, like he's apprehensive about something. Or pissed. I can't tell which.

"Yes," he says slowly. "Acquainted."

Catherine's eyes widen. "Oh. Oh! Well, great. Anywho, Gabe and I were dear friends growing up, and he was my muse for a lot of my early paintings."

She called him Gabe. She knows him on a deeper level than I ever will. I feel as if someone's reached into my chest and ripped my heart out.

Something in my brain clicks, perhaps a self-preservation instinct. Or the desire to not projectile vomit. I pat my crossbody handbag. "I'm getting a text. One second."

Frowning, sweating, I dig around for my phone. Of course, I'm getting no such text, but every cell in my body is screaming to get the hell out of this place. Otherwise I'm going to say several inappropriate things. It's a miracle I'm even being this polite, and deserve an award. I should haul ass out of here and never talk to either one again.