Page 31 of Forgotten Comeback (Parisi Family #5)

Chapter

Thirty

Gavin

A natural gas explosion caused a house fire, killing a man and his elderly neighbor…

I toss the newspaper on Inferno’s desk, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. “We’re supposed to do nothing about John?”

“John had an out and chose not to take it,” Inferno says. “Either he has a death wish, or he has a plan.”

“Did you know John was into…”

“Dick?” Inferno finishes for me.

“We don’t know if that’s true or if Romeo assumed it.”

Inferno shakes his head. “A man like Romeo Parisi assumes nothing.”

“You’re taking this far too calmly.” I eye my brother.

He lifts his shoulder. “Would you prefer hysterics?”

“Maybe?”

“Ace’s is wiped off the map. You’ll train in the arena until we can get another gym up and running. Your new coach will meet with you this afternoon. I’ve written off Russell. If you killed him—”

“I didn’t kill him,” I grit.

Inferno holds up his hand. “I was going to say, I don’t care whether you did or not, just don’t kill your new coach. Our club scene will continue operating business as usual. Poker parties remain on pause.”

“And the construction company?” I ask.

“The foreman will run things for the time being. We can’t collapse just because John chose dick over family.”

“Now you’re assuming.” I cross my arms.

His scarred fingers drum on his desk. “I’ll be happy for John to prove me wrong. In the meantime, we carry on.”

“Easy for you to say. I’m going to have a target on my back after kidnapping a capo’s wife,” I point out.

“Then I’d suggest watching your back.”

“Great advice,” I mutter.

Taylor

“Could I suggest a more modern style?” The shoe salesperson diplomatically suggests as I try on a pair of granny heels. The Diamond’s pretty strict about dress code, and I’m not getting paid enough to throw out my back, so orthopedic heels it is.

“Nope. I’ll take this pair,” I tell her, and she nods with resignation as she disappears to the back to find the box.

I’m having to start from scratch on my entire wardrobe, and it really pisses me off. One of many reasons why I’m pissed off…

My phone notifies, and I check the messages from Kat.

I would say she’s blowing up my inbox, but it’s way too soon to joke.

Hey, I know that was a lot…but talk to me!!!! Not over text tho. Let’s meet up for brunch like old times!!!!

Old times? I don’t see how we can go back to old times like nothing happened, not after her husband drugged and threatened me. Thank God Fabio never asked me about my connection to Gavin, because I seriously doubt I’d be alive right now if he did.

I like you, but for the next little bit, I’m going to treat you like I don’t.

I’ve been replaying those words over and over. Did Gavin act that way to hide his connection with me from the family to protect me, or am I giving a psychopath too much credit?

My fingers type a slew of angry sentences before I take a deep breath and delete them.

I have to work.

Bubbles appear, and I resist the urge to block her ass too. Instead, I pull up my calendar, and dammit, I missed my therapy appointment this morning.

Scrolling through my contacts, I call my therapist’s office and get that sorted before moving to the counter and paying for my shoes.

After a morning of shopping, I get in my car—a car that was magically delivered to Kat’s condo early this morning—and drive, my mind reeling.

Gavin’s on my shit list, and I’m on the mob’s shit list. Oh, but I can’t tell my therapist any of this, because I’ve been threatened into silence by said mob boss.

“Arrrrrrrrr!” I scream at the top of my lungs.

Driving across town, I park and hop out, hitting the lock on my key fob with a little too much force. A woman on a mission, I make my way through the maze of storage units until I reach mine and unlock it, rolling open the door.

My feet falter. I haven’t been in here since Nana’s death, and all the things I’d rather not deal with are trying to bubble to the surface, but I shove them down. I’m mentally hanging on by a thread here as is.

Stepping inside, I walk smack dab into a spider web. “Gah.” Hating the feeling, I knock the web off my arm before grabbing a box of supplies and lugging it out.

“Can I help you with something?” A man calls.

“Thanks, but no. My dad and brothers will be here any minute to help,” I lie, in case this man is another psychopath. I’m learning AC’s full of them.

I hug the box tighter when I make eye contact with him.

So weird.

I’ve never seen gray eyes in my life, and suddenly two men have them. His are missing the unusual gold rings like Gavin’s eyes, though.

Gavin.

My face sours like I’m sucking on a lemon.

The man’s eyes widen. He probably thinks I’m the serial killer. “Alright, then. Have a good day.”

“You too,” I tell him, pausing to make sure he’s gone before returning to my unit. The final boxes are lugged to my car, and I return to Kat’s condo.

Multiple trips are required, but I get my haul upstairs to the guest room. Opening the first box, I unwrap my older works and prop them against the wall, examining them.

It’s not that they’re bad, but they feel foreign. Like I don’t know the woman who painted these happy scenes.

I roll out a plastic tarp to protect the floor before laying out my materials.

First off, time to prep my canvas. Grabbing my paintbrush, I get to work.

As those dry, I switch over to my sketchbook.

My pencil seems to have a mind of its own, and I don’t rein in the stream-of-consciousness-style drawings.

Page after page of sketches flows from my hand.

Opening another box, I grab a pre-prepped canvas and remove the lid on a bottle of red paint. With brush in hand, I begin flinging red droplets.

It’s chaotic and wild and dark, and I haven’t felt this artistically free in a really long time.

Creativity searing through my veins, I move on to the next project, a woman possessed with images needing an outlet.

It must be on my mind from the spiderweb incident earlier, because I find myself sketching a spiderweb. My pencil flows over the paper, and I examine my work. A spider with large human eyes is staring back at me, a ring around each iris.

With an annoyed sound, I go to erase the rings, but they look pretty cool, so I decide to leave them. Opening various acrylics, I mix my palette before dipping my brush.

My phone buzzes, and I grab it from my overalls’ front pocket, turning off the alarm. “Ugh.” I groan.

Making a final swirl of gold, I clean up and get ready for work. “Shouldn’t there be PTO for when a fuckboy you’ve been messing with turns out to be a psychopath?”

Without Bonnie, it’s a sad, one-sided conversation.

Gavin

I sneak to the back door and easily take care of the pin tumbler. The lock pops open, and I enter the condo. Immediately, I feel the lack of Taylor in this space. Makes sense, considering I blew up her house.

Hustling upstairs, I start in the bedroom, lying down on the unmade bed and taking a deep inhale, but the scent on the pillow’s all wrong; no cinnamon.

I hop out of bed and walk across the hall to the guest bedroom, flipping on the light. Crimson-spattered plastic covers the floor, and for a second, I’m wondering if man-eater really lives up to her nickname.

But I spot the paints, brushes, and canvases littering the room. I had no idea Taylor was an artist; she didn’t have a studio at her old house.

The house I destroyed.

Really regretting that decision.

Whimsical watercolors. Frou-frou flowers. Saccharine sweet sunsets. The paintings on display aren’t my vibe, and I don’t really see much of Taylor in them, even though they’re signed by her.

Sidestepping a red splatter of paint, I examine the artwork lying flat, still shimmering with wet paint.

A morgue, with a woman on a body cart, a toe tag that says, “Can’t you see I’m dead?” Faceless men in suits surround the body, holding contracts, medical bills, and a court judgment. A silhouette of a woman hides in the corner.

A little girl holding a cactus pot. Her face is covered in a skull mask, and she’s holding hands with a ghastly black figure.

A corpse levitating in the air, being strangled by tree branches. Long, red hair covers the dead woman’s face.

An abandoned gas station at sunrise, blood spraying out of the gas pumps.

The final canvas, a silhouette of a ring girl standing on top of a pile of dead boxers, holding up a sign that says, “Bloodlust.” Severed penises make up the audience.

Dark. Distressed. Disturbed.

As if I needed another reason to be obsessed with this woman.