His Mafia Queen

The Last Supper

RILEY

My mother's asleep. My father's gone. Gabriel hasn't answered my last text. I'm locked in my childhood bedroom, crying and having an existential crisis.

I can't believe my father wanted to set me up with Beckett. Does that mean he and Beckett schemed for him to fly to Florida, open a business, and chat me up in various places? Did Beckett move into my building to be closer to me? Did he plan to meet me at Cath's gallery opening all those months ago?

How long have my father and Beckett been planning this stupid, crazy scheme? And why?

Gabriel and I need to get the hell out of here, now. At the very least, go to a hotel.

I pace the room and take down a photo of me and Lorna. It's of us, at middle school graduation. We're laughing and wearing our white gowns and caps. We were so young. Now, confusion and fear taint every memory. The laughter frozen in that picture mocks the chaos consuming me.

I wish she was here now. She'd know exactly what to do, what to say. She'd be such a comforting presence in a world gone mad. Since she was murdered, nothing has been the same. 

I start to cry again and the phone buzzes with a text. I lunge for it. Thank God it's Gabriel.

I'm sending the car for you. We need to talk. I'm taking you to dinner at an Italian place in the North End. Be ready in 30.

I re-read the text three times. There's something off about it. Probably because he didn't follow up with I love you, like he always does. This is an all-business text. He knows something's wrong.

OK, I respond.

Before I leave, I check on Mom. She's still in bed, snoring. I pull a light blanket over her and kiss her cheek. Fresh tears are streaming down my face as I walk out of the apartment, but I quickly dry them.

I'd rather stand on the street than sit upstairs for one more minute.

Gabriel's guy picks me up in the black SUV, and I shut my eyes the entire ride, hoping for a quick nap. It should take only about a half hour to get to the Old North End — that's the Italian section of the city, clear on the other side of downtown — but today, because of the rain, it's almost an hour.

I'm even more frazzled by the time I walk into the Napoli Trattoria. The air is laced with delicious smells, of garlic, bread, and tomato sauce. My stomach rumbles. The restaurant hums with an inviting energy, the soft glow of amber lights casting a cozy spell. If this were any normal night, I'd be excited about walking in here. It has all the hallmarks of a romantic dinner.

But tonight has nothing to do with romance. It might be my final meal in Boston. How ironic that it's Italian, and not Irish. A final fuck you to my father, perhaps...

A serious, older maître d stops me at the front. "Can I help you, miss?"

"I'm meeting someone here. I'll have a look around."

"No. I will help you. Name, per favore?"

I'm not amused by the Italian formality tonight. Probably they don't allow random people to wander around because everyone in the place is mobbed up. My eyes sweep around the room, but I find only the faces of older Italians. 

"Gabriel Greco," I say.

The man smiles. "Of course. Right this way."

He whisks me to a private dining room in the back. Of course. Gabriel's there at a table, looking as handsome and collected as ever. He stands as I enter, holding his arms open.

"Riley, baby."

I step into his embrace, fighting not to sob more. His familiar scent surrounds me, soothes me. Gabriel's my one port in the storm.