I suppress an eye roll and perch on the ottoman across from him. “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions,” I say. “I write a blog on the purple heroin epidemic. I was told you were involved in some of the distribution channels.”
When he doesn’t say anything, I add quickly, “It would be completely anonymous.”
Geoff’s smile sags into a sneer. “You can ask me any question you like. Doesn’t mean I’ll answer it.”
“What do you have to lose?”
“What do I have to gain?” He reaches out and places a hand on my knee. “How about a little tit for tat?”
Ugh. Emphasis on the tit, I presume.
I brush his hand away. “Your interview could help people. Is that not enough?”
Geoff sighs and leans back against the sofa cushions. He flicks the TV off and waves his hand at me.
“Go on then. Ask your questions.”
I pull a notepad and pen out of my purse. “Was your main contact a member of the Irish Mafia or the Colombian drug cartel?”
“They’re basically one and the same these days,” he replies. “But my friend runs with the Irish.”
“Were you selling for them?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Nah, just consuming.”
“And what made you want to seek help?”
Geoff grins. “I thought to myself that once I got into a rehab center, some pretty little thing with big tits might drop into my lap.” He pats his crotch. “So come on then. Don’t be shy.”
I scowl, disgusted. “I’d appreciate it if you would take this seriously.”
“And I’d appreciate it if you would suck my dick.”
I’ve had enough. I get to my feet, but Geoff hops up behind me and reaches around to squeeze my breasts. He laughs, and I can smell his breath, hot and acrid. My stomach roils with disgust.
In one swift move, I wrench his arms down as I drop my body weight. Geoff lets out a shout of surprise as he rolls over my back, slamming into the wood floor with a loud bang. He lies there, disoriented, and I press my foot against his windpipe.
“Don’t you ever fucking touch me again,” I growl.
His hands claw at my ankle, trying to pull me off, but I press harder. He makes a weak gurgling sound, eyes whirling around the room.
“And for that matter, if I hear that you’ve laid a hand on anyone in this facility, I will make sure that you regret it. Do you understand?”
He doesn’t answer, and I grind my foot down harder.
“Do you understand?” I demand.
“Yes!” he rasps.
I let him go, and Geoff sucks in a giant gust of breath and rolls onto his side, muttering something about me being a bitch and a tease. He can say what he wants as long as he keeps his mitts to himself.
As I storm out of the sitting room, I find one of the guards standing in the hallway, his hand on the gun at his hip. It is the closest any of them have gotten to me since Gabriel all but banished me, and his sudden appearance is startling.
“Do you know that clown?” I ask, jamming my thumb in the direction of the asshole still rolling on the ground.
The guard, whom I don’t recognize, doesn’t respond, and shifts his gaze to the opposite wall, as though I don’t exist. Gabriel has clearly ordered them not to engage me. I let out a frustrated sigh.
“Whatever.” I head toward the front door, calling over my shoulder, “Teach him a lesson about how to treat a lady.”
Ana is surprised to see me home early. I pay her for the extra hour anyway and go to check on Harry, who is happily enjoying his afternoon nap in his crib. He just turned two years old, and he has grown so much in those two years that I’m worried I will blink and he’ll be a teenager. He has dark, feathery hair and eyes a deep shade of mahogany like his father. His cheeks are round now, but I expect as he gets older, they will become sharp and chiseled like Gabriel’s. He’s going to be a handsome kid. I hope the girls are ready.
Gabriel hasn’t been over to visit Harry since we were expelled from the mansion. I’m beginning to wonder if he ever will.
I miss him like crazy, and it hurts knowing that he will never forgive me. It can’t have been a coincidence that he was arrested the very same day my article went to print, even if I can’t make sense of where the police found the connection. The guilt lies so heavily on me some nights that I lie in bed, unable to breathe, struggling under the weight of my loss.
But I did what I had to do. I won’t regret that.
I glance out the window and see a familiar black town car pulled up against the opposite curb. I’ve noticed its presence a couple of times. At first, I just assumed it was my security detail, but they drive everywhere in an SUV. Plus, I’ve seen Gabriel in that very town car before. He has been watching me, and I don’t understand why. He hates me, doesn’t he? Why would he bother checking in on Harry and me if he has stepped out of our lives?
Before he has a chance to drive away, I snatch up the baby monitor and bound down the stairs. My heart thumps at the bottom of my throat, blood singing at the thought of getting to see Gabriel face-to-face after one long, aching month.
I’m angry at him for pushing me away, and sad that my actions drove him to do it. I’m worried about him too. All in all, I think Gabriel and I are due for a long chat, and I’m going to seize the opportunity to initiate that now.
I fling open the front door and sprint across the street, but the town car purrs to life and slides away from the curb before I can reach it. I try to peer through the tinted back window, desperate for a glimpse of the beautiful man responsible for so much of my pain, but I get nothing.
I stand in the middle of the street and watch the car disappear into the distance, shoulders slumped. He won’t even speak to me. He’s that livid.
I swear and head back inside, already itemizing a list of household tasks that I can dive into to distract myself. Gabriel doesn’t want to speak to me, so maybe I should just leave it at that. We will live our separate lives, and he can continue watching from a distance.
And me? I guess I’ll continue loving him from a distance.
3
Gabriel
I slam the car into reverse, swearing under my breath, and jam my foot on the accelerator. The car zooms backward through the alley, and next to me, Silvano Gambaro grips the edge of the passenger seat.
“If you’re going to be any good to me as a consigliere, you’ll need to have a little more nerve,” I remark as we squeal onto the main street, cutting off a truck in the process. The truck beeps angrily, but I barely notice, jamming the car into first and then speeding forward.
“You need me for my skills and objective advice,” he replies, eyes glued to the road ahead as I weave through traffic. “Not for my ability to keep my lunch down while you drive like a maniac.”
I laugh. “You sound just like Vito.”
A couple months ago, my right-hand man Vito Gambaro was killed in a shootout with the Irish mob. He chose his younger brother to succeed him, and I’ve been putting the younger Gambaro through his paces ever since.
Silvano’s phone rings, and he answers, exchanging a few terse words with the person on the other end while I race through a busy intersection and narrowly avoid crashing into no less than three cars.