Page 37 of Corrupted Queen

“I have to go,” I say. “I will speak to you in the morning.”

I hang up and run my hand over my face, massaging the aching muscles of my temples. I don’t know why I am so edge—if it’s just the residual unwelcome vulnerability from the interview, Vito’s words or the backlash from Alexis I know is to come.

14

Alexis

Gabriel’s face splits into a toothy grin, beaming sunshine into the camera lens. The only time I have ever seen him smile like that is when he plays with Harry, but even then it’s different. This smile is deliberate, organized somehow. As though each of his teeth is filed in a specific order and his cheeks have a quota for how wide they must stretch. To me it looks wrong, but to the interviewer he has just become the most charming person in the world.

“Oh, tell me more about this Alexis,” she says playfully. She has the kind of husky voice that is perfect for television.

“She’s a journalist,” Gabriel says, adding cheekily, “So as you can see, I don’t hate all journalists.”

The two share a laugh. My stomach turns. I force myself to keep watching, even as my face heats to a nuclear level. I don’t know whether it’s anger or embarrassment.

How dare he?

Gabriel never consulted me, never asked if it would be okay for him to flog our family dynamic to reingratiate himself with the public after the whole assembly of leeches fiasco. And I know that’s what he’s doing because there is not a chance in hell he would mention me for even a second if doing so wasn’t useful to him.

The thought just makes me feel used. He is smiling more on camera than he has smiled at me since I came back to the mansion, and a strange and ugly jealousy rears inside of me. But who am I jealous of? Certainly not of Polly, who is preening, but who I know Gabriel wouldn’t hesitate to snap at if the compulsion came upon him.

I’m jealous of my own relationship, I realize. Or, rather, the version of my relationship that Gabriel is painting for the viewers. Because Gabriel and I are not in a relationship anymore, not one built on trust, affection, and cooperation like a good one should be. We had that once. The reason we don’t anymore is because of Gabriel and his lies.

It’s not fair for Gabriel to pretend that we have this great love story. I wonder what Polly and the general public would think if Gabriel told them the real story. The manipulation. The intimidation. Not to mention the outright kidnapping.

“Momma, look,” Harry calls from the floor, where he has made a lopsided tower of blocks that looks like it’s going to fall over at any moment.

I sigh and stop the video, closing my laptop and sliding it onto the sofa cushion next to me. Leaning down, I paste on a grin and marvel at Harry’s achievement.

“Wow, buddy! That looks amazing.”

I move a couple of the blocks to stabilize the structure, mostly because Harry hasn’t cried all morning and I’m worried if it falls that might set him off. Unfortunately my hands are still a little unsteady from my wavering emotions and with one false move, I knock it clean over. Harry giggles and bounces on his heels.

I guess his father’s not the only one who takes pleasure in destruction.

Harry starts stacking blocks again and I scoot back up to the sofa, pulling my laptop over and going through my emails. At the top of my inbox is one from Debbie, which I haven’t replied to yet. She’s asking how the article is going, but the truth is I’ve been sorely neglecting it.

Sure, I creep around the mansion at night and note Gabriel’s movements, but other than that, I’ve come up a bit dry in terms of research. If I intend to get anywhere with this anytime soon, I need to pursue leads with a little more tenacity, whether they’re from inside or outside of the house.

One thing I do want to look into more is the locked storage shed I saw yesterday when I was taking Harry for a walk through the grounds. I’d never seen it before, and I didn’t know if that was because it wasn’t here the last time I was or if it was because of its tucked-away location—just beyond the copse of trees at the east side of the house.

I’m keen to get past the heavy padlock, but the only problem is I don’t have a reason to be outside at night. In the summer, I might have been able to take a nighttime stroll without drawing suspicion, but there is a definite chill in the air now, especially at night, and any guard worth his salt would wonder what I was doing out there and report my movements. Plus, if I leave the mansion under the cover of darkness, it will look like I’m trying to escape.

I need to think a little more about how I’m going to get inside that shed.

I decide to write back to Debbie. I tell her that I’m still researching but should be able to start writing soon. I know this will frustrate her. In the week I stayed at her house, I made almost breakneck progress on the story, and now that I only have the last few threads to connect, I’ve essentially come to a standstill.

I know that purple heroin is probably being distributed throughout the city via the Italian and Irish mobs, but I don’t know what their working dynamic is—or why they’re working together in the first place—and I don’t have a clue where they’re getting it from.

The frustrating thing? I share a bed with the don of the Italian Mafia most nights. All the answers I’m looking for are tucked away behind his closed eyelids. I wish I could tap him like a maple tree for the answers I need.

I hear the front door open and close down the hall, then heavy footsteps walk over the tile and up the stairs. I would recognize those powerful footfalls anywhere. Gabriel is home.

“Come on, Harry,” I say, scooping him into my arms. “I need to have a talk with your daddy.”

I take Harry up to the nursery and set him in his playpen, then slide up to Angelo outside of the room. I bat my eyelashes.

“Will you watch him for a minute?” I ask sweetly.

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