Page 22 of Forgotten Comeback (Parisi Family #5)

Chapter

Twenty-One

Gavin

Shaking away the ghosts of the past, my knuckles rap on the door, and I’m beckoned inside.

Inferno’s seated behind his desk without the mask, and I still have to fight the urge to look away, despite all these years.

Behind him, a copy of The Divine Comedy is prominently displayed on the bookcase.

He’s always had a flair for the melodrama.

I sit in a chair across from his desk next to John, who looks ready to unload.

Preemptively, I hold up my hand. “I know this is about last night, but hear me out. I’ve been a journeyman long enough. Why can’t it be my time?”

John shakes his head emphatically. “If anyone were to find out Inferno’s connection to you, it calls into question the league’s fairness.”

“It’s a fucking underground operation. Since when are we concerned with fairness?” I counter.

“The more attention you receive, the more likely someone digs into your background,” John argues.

“So what? It’s been scrubbed,” I point out.

“Exactly. And they’ll keep digging. It’s too much of a gamble, especially when we’ve come this far,” he says.

“I’ve played my part. Always done everything that’s been asked of me, but dammit, I’m asking for this. I’m not getting any younger,” I point out. “Most boxers hang up their gloves in their early thirties.”

“You don’t wear gloves,” John says.

I cross my arms. “Missing the point. I want my shot at the championship, fair and square.”

“I say we let Gavin fight to win,” Inferno interjects, and I almost forget he was in the room with us.

“And the revenue we lose from throwing bouts?” John challenges.

“God forbid we actually put money on me winning,” I snipe.

“Everyone loves a good comeback story,” Inferno answers John. “More drama, more ticket sales, more booze, more bets. Anyone digs, then we dig a shallow grave for them,” he says darkly.

“I’m overruled. Gavin, we’ll get you a new trainer,” John tells me.

I smile victoriously.

“We’re counting on you. Where are you, mentally?” he asks, treading lightly.

“I’ll soon have a new trainer who gets paid to be on my ass; you can take a break,” I tell my eldest brother.

He and Inferno exchange something silently. Twins are annoying like that. “We worry about you,” they say in unison.

Arms crossed, I inform them, “If there’s something to worry about, I’ll let you both know.”

John’s phone notifies, and he checks it. “I have a meeting with the Casino Control Commission. Everyone’s on my ass about the delays with the Diamond project.” He sighs heavily. “We solid?”

“As a rock,” I say, and Inferno dips his head in agreement.

“I’ll be in touch.” John rises and walks out.

Inferno waits until we’re alone before he pins me with his hard gaze. “I didn’t get a chance to talk to you last night, what with disposing of two bodies.”

I run my hand over the back of my head. “I owe you one, brother.”

“You fucking owe me more than one.” He points his scarred finger at me. “Why did you kill Mike’s cutman and assistant trainer? No one’s come sniffing around yet, but it’s only a matter of time.”

I wave my hand. “You and John both worry too much. It’s not like Mike’s gonna go to the cops.”

He leans back in his chair. “That may be true, but we don’t need to be fighting battles on multiple fronts.”

“Not my fault; Mike’s crew tried to force my friend to go with them.” It’s Mike’s head I should’ve pounded with the hammer, if he wasn’t such a pussy sending his henchmen to do his dirty work.

“Since when do you have friends?” Inferno eyes me.

“Hey, I’m a friendly guy.”

He tents his scarred fingers. “Let me guess. This ‘friend’ is the new ring girl.”

I remain silent.

Inferno leans back in his chair. “She’s not your type.”

“She’s not,” I agree.

His eyes go wide. “Oh, shit. You actually like this one.”

“Trust me, I’m as surprised about it as you are,” I mutter.

“Not to play the role of John, but be careful. Loose lips—”

“Sink ships. Got it.”

I start to the door, grinning as I think about seeing Taylor again. Loose lips may sink ships, but a soft tongue makes Taylor come.

Taylor

“I hooked up with the man who had sex with my now ex-girlfriend behind my back. And then I panicked and blocked his number when I got home,” I tell my therapist an abbreviated version of last night’s events.

Abbreviated because I’m concerned the full version might be grounds for an involuntary committal.

“Am I on the cusp of a manic episode, or is this a string of really terrible decisions?”

“We know your pattern before a manic episode,” she says calmly. “Are you having racing thoughts or speech?”

“One instance of racing thoughts, but I was able to talk myself down,” I admit.

“Are you hearing voices or seeing figures that aren’t there?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Do you feel invincible?”

“No.” Last night’s feeling was euphoric, but that’s because it was the best orgasm of my life.

“Have you been monitoring your mood?”

I nod. “It’s been pretty even, other than the stress of the Mia breakup.”

“Are you consistently taking your medication?” she continues down our checklist.

“Yes, except for the one instance I told you about a few sessions ago. When I first went out with Mia, I knew I’d be drinking and skipped my meds,” I remind her.

“But the next day I got back on track, and I’ve been back on track ever since.

” My new medication regimen has been working great for me, except for the weight gain.

Last night, I pretended the comments about my body didn’t sting just a little bit.

They did.

“Stability isn’t about perfection; it’s about consistency,” she reminds me gently, and I nod. “Now that we’ve gone through your checklist, does it still feel like the beginning of a manic episode?”

I blow out a breath. “No.”

“Let’s circle back to what you said earlier; you believe you’ve made ‘a string terrible decisions—’”

“You don’t?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Taylor, I’m not here to judge you. I don’t want you judging yourself, either. Frame it this way: What information can you gather from these decisions?”

A laugh escapes me. “That I’m more susceptible to fuckboy charm than I thought?” I blame my ovaries for getting all excited at Gavin’s dramatic ring entrance.

“Maybe it’s deeper than that,” she suggests. “Emotionally unavailable partners appeal to you for a reason.” She pauses, glancing at the clock. “That’s our time. I want you to journal on this question between now and our next session: ‘Why do emotionally unavailable partners appeal to me?’”

After therapy and a morning of mind-numbing errands, I return home with more adulting to look forward to, being that I’m scheduled for an early shift at the Diamond. Unlike Kat, dealing cards is far from my passion; it’s a steady paycheck and decent health insurance, the latter a necessity.

Parking on the street, I start to my front door, but a neighbor flags me down. “Tay-lor!”

I inwardly groan, shoving my pharmacy bag into my purse as I clutch my new journal.

“Hey, Mrs. Parker, I only have a minute to chat. I’m working this afternoon and need to get ready,” I say, attempting to stave off an hour-long conversation about how certain neighbors need to do a better job of maintaining their flowerbeds.

It’s me; I’m the neighbor.

“Oh, this will only take a minute.” Famous last words. “I met your prince of a boyfriend this morning,” she says excitedly.

My eyebrows lift sky-high. “What are you talking about?”

“Handsome young man with the most striking gray eyes.” Fucking Gavin. “Oh dear, I wasn’t supposed to say anything. But since I’ve already let the cat out of the bag, I can’t wait for you to find the surprise he left you!” She claps her wrinkled hands with delight.

“Me too.” I smile tightly, marching to my front door and unlocking it, stepping inside.

I tear through the downstairs, finding nothing before I sprint upstairs to my bedroom. My heart beats like a drum as I fling open the door.

A black gift bag is on my bed.

With shaking hands, I yank the tissue paper out of the bag to find my panties from last night, along with a note.

You forgot these. Evidence has been washed away (and panties dried, delicate cycle).

~ Gavin

The zipper nearly flies off my purse from me ripping it open. Phone in hand, I pull up Gavin’s contact and unblock him, my thumbs typing at record speed.

Call me, or I’m calling the cops.

My phone rings, and I accept the call. “Knew I’d get you to unblock my number,” Gavin says with laughter in his voice.

“Gavin, what the fuck? You broke into my house!”

“Because you blocked me,” he says, as if that’s a completely logical response.

“That doesn’t give you the right to commit burglary!”

“I didn’t take anything, so it wasn’t burglary,” he corrects me.

“How the hell did you even get in?” I say, exasperated.

“Your back door. You should replace that cheap lock,” he informs me.

“Better believe I’m replacing the lock,” I grit.

“What a coincidence. I’m outside with a new lock and tool kit.”