His Mafia Queen

Drowning

GABRIEL

Two hours later, Riley's asleep. The pills, chocolate, and herbal tea worked their magic, and I pull the duvet over her body.

I pause to kiss her temple. Even in sleep, her face is pinched with worry. Not that I can blame her — Riley went through hell tonight.

What happened tonight was so fucking unnecessary. Even though it was her mother who pulled the trigger, it was her father who set this entire shitshow in motion. I was pretty certain that Mrs. Murphy decided to kill her husband for reasons that had nothing to do with this weekend.

From what Riley told me — and from what I saw in her mother's expression — that shot was a long time coming. I knew she was an abused woman from the second I laid eyes on her. And if she killed Beckett, well, she probably did the world a favor.

I just wish she hadn't turned the gun on herself. I know she did, because I had one of my guys call Stef, who contacted a source of his on the police force. Mrs. Murphy died from a single gunshot to the head.

A double murder and a suicide, according to the cops. It was like Riley and I were never there, as far as anyone was concerned. Luck is on our side.

I rub Riley's back while she sleeps, until she lets out a soft snore. Now I know she's good and out. While I should join her in bed, I still have a fuck ton to do.

Like figure out a way to get home. What's happening with this storm, anyway?

I return to the living room of the suite and pour myself a Scotch. My phone's on the sofa, buzzing. Muttering a string of curse words, I take my drink and check the phone.

Ten missed calls from Andre.

"What the fuck," I grumble, and dial his number.

He answers on the first ring. "Where are you?"

"I'm at a hotel in Boston. All flights are grounded because of a storm—"

"I know," he interrupts sharply. He never interrupts. "I've been trying to call. Things have taken a turn, Gabriel."

"What do you mean?" Christ, what now? "And what's that noise in the background? It sounds like you're grinding meat or something."

"It's the shredder," he snaps. "The Martinez investigation is wider than anyone thought. Rumor has it the feds are getting a search warrant for the house."

I pause, not sure if I heard correctly. Something isn't right in Andre's tone. Why is he in the office at the house shredding papers in the middle of the night? "My house?"

"Yes. The lawyers are trying to reach you. They're flying to New York and will drive to you in the storm, if needed. They should be there by dawn."

"Andre, what the fuck are you trying to tell me?" I'm shouting now. Andre has never sounded so serious.

"Sir, the feds are investigating you and Martinez for cocaine trafficking."

Maybe luck wasn't on our side after all.

# # #

RILEY

I wake in an unfamiliar bedroom. It's pitch black, and I sit up, rubbing my eyes.

I'm also wearing scratchy leggings and a... Red Sox T-shirt? What the hell?

Climbing out of the bed, I fumble in the dark. My hand touches what I think is a curtain and I pull it aside. A flood of light enters the room, practically blinding me. I blink several times, unsure if I'm dreaming or not.