His Mafia Queen

An Inconvenient Truth

Riley

With my heart slamming against my ribcage, I dash to my desk and grab the essentials: my purse, two notebooks, a fistful of pens. Keeping the same frenzied pace, I reach my car in record time and get on the road.

I've never covered a mass shooting before. They're so ubiquitous, though, that I figured at some point I would have to. And now I'm dreading it, wishing I was doing anything but this. I mentally tick off the details Helen had told me back in the newsroom and try to recall what I know about the neighborhood.

Multiple casualties...every cop car in the city...an Italian restaurant...

"Oh my god," I cry out loud.

Gabriel. He was going out to dinner. Had he told me where? For a few blocks I rack my brain. No. He didn't. Normally he takes people to The Circle, he'd told me a while back, because he enjoys the prime rib.

But what if he was going to this place tonight? Fear clamps hard on my chest, like a vise grip. I reach for my phone that I'd thrown on the passenger seat, and fumble. The cell tumbles onto the floor outside of my grip.

I swear out loud and pull into an empty tire shop parking lot. There's no way I can drive and reach the phone, and in my manic, worried state, I shouldn't be trying to talk and drive anyway.

With shaky hands, I retrieve my phone and pull up Gabriel's number. The sound of the ring echoes in my car speaker and I grip the steering wheel with one hand.

Come on. Answer. Gabriel, please answer...

It goes to voicemail.

"Dammit." I slap the steering wheel and dial him again, hoping he'll think it's urgent and know he needs to pick up.

He doesn't.

I leave a panicked and probably nonsensical voice mail. I flub the name of the restaurant, calling it Cosa Nostra, then try to correct myself and finally giving up. "Just call me, okay? I want to make sure you're okay."

As I'm tapping out a text to him, another message pops up. It's Helen.

Are you there yet? TV is reporting three dead so far.

This inspires another string of foul language to come out of my mouth. I abandon the text to Gabriel, hoping the voicemail will be enough to prod him to get in touch. I'm still a couple of miles away from the restaurant and Helen wouldn't be pleased if she knew how I stopped to make a personal call.

As I turn onto the restaurant's street, I can see dozens of flashing red and blue lights slicing through the night sky. The eatery's sign is illuminated, stark white amidst all that color. But I can't get closer than three blocks — there's a cop on the street, directing people to a detour.

I slow as I approach the officer and roll down my window. "Hi, sir, I'm press, with the paper. Is there a place I should park?"

The officer, an older guy, looks around then bends over, leaning into my window. "Take a left here, and park in that florist lot across the street. You see all the TV trucks? Find a place between one of those. That's the best I can do, I hope there's still a space or two there."

"Thanks," I tell him gratefully, although now that I'm looking at the lot, I'm not sure his advice was helpful because the lot is so packed.

It's been five minutes since I left Gabriel that voicemail...

It takes me a few minutes to park because I have to wedge my car between a TV van and a palm tree. Of course I'm being extra careful because this is a new car. With my old one, I'd just jam it in there and not worry about a thing.