His Mafia Queen

This is the Life

Riley

I barely make it over to the start of the news conference and worm my way to the front, ducking under the TV cameras and taking a seat on the ground, looking up at the podium. I'm not the only one in this position, because I see two other newspaper reporters doing the same.

The city's police chief is at the podium with an angry, serious expression.

"Tonight at approximately six-forty-five, a man walked into the Casa Nostra restaurant, armed with a gun. He open-fired in the restaurant. There were twenty people eating inside, and an additional ten people working." The chief paused as one of his top brass leaned in and whispered something in his ear.

I take this opportunity to check my phone. No texts from Gabriel, three texts from Helen. I surreptitiously type out a text.

At the news conference, here's a video with a witness. I send her the interview with the waitress, and look up at the chief, who is talking again.

"I'm sorry, I misspoke. There were possibly twelve employees and twenty-two customers. When the man started firing his weapon, a patron who was also armed, returned fire. There was a brief shootout and the assailant was killed."

I scribble all this down, hoping I can read my own handwriting.

The chief continues. "We've determined that four people are deceased, and three others are critically injured. All four were declared dead at the scene. Two additional people were taken to Tampa General Hospital as a precaution. They weren't shot, but they experienced cardiac issues. As for the shooter..."

The chief shuffles a piece of paper in his hand, flipping it over. "We've identified him as a Russian national. We aren't giving out his name yet, pending next of kin. We do have the names of the four deceased. They are..."

The chief squints and I hold my breath. Please don't be Gabriel. Please, God. Please...

The chief ticks off four names, all Italian sounding. None are Gabriel. I exhale, but only a little. He could be dying in the hospital at this very moment.

"We don't have the names of the critically injured," adds the chief. "We'll try to get those to you by the next news conference, which should be in a couple of hours. Right now we're chasing down the background of the shooter, and the motive for this incident. I'd like to ask the mayor to come to the podium now, to say a few words."

While the mayor walks up, a TV reporter shouts, startling everyone with his deep baritone. "Chief, is this a mob hit?"

The chief pauses and leans into the microphones. "That's an angle we're seriously looking into. We're not ruling anything out at this point."

A non-answer? Or a clue? My heartbeat ratchets up. The mayor replaces the chief in front of the microphones and talks about the dangers of gun violence.

Thank you, captain obvious.

When he's finished, all of the reporters shout questions at once. I rise to my knees and holler, "Any details on the ages of the deceased? Gender? Anything?"

The chief glances down at me, probably thinking I look like a Goblin down here in my jeans, sneakers and blouse. He then looks to one of the TV reporters, a glamorous redhead in a tight black dress who asks a dull question about officer response times.

"To answer the question about response times, it took Tampa Police less than ten minutes to get here with ten cars. I know response times have been an issue in the city recently..."

He drones on about how he's overhauling the system, and the mayor chimes in. I'm vaguely disgusted at how they're using this as a campaign talking point when four people are barely cold inside that restaurant, but that's politics for you.