The Unforgettable Kind

by Melanie Munton

“Jesus,” I muttered, examining the still bleeding injury.

  “You should see the other guy.”

  I pushed past him and into the kitchen. After grabbing a bag of frozen peas from the freezer, I rushed back into the living room and forced him down onto the couch. “Hold this against your lip.”

  He tried shoving my hand away. “I’m fine.”

  “Do you want your lip to swell up like a balloon?” In a gentler voice I said, “Let me take care of you.”

  His grip on my wrist eased, his eyes softening. He took the bag from my hands.

  “Is there a first aid kit somewhere?”

  He nodded slowly. “In the bathroom.”

  He was looking at me like I was the most precious thing in the world. And that felt really, really good. I returned from the bathroom to find him in the same position, still staring after me. With any other guy I would have been unnerved by his intense scrutiny, but this was Kade. Although I was still concerned about how our making out was going to affect our relationship.

  I found some antiseptic wipes and started cleaning his cut. “What the hell happened?”

  He shrugged, not even flinching, though I knew it must have stung like hell. “I was picking up some groceries and I ran into him in there. I was just going to ignore him, but I overheard him on the phone, talking to you. He was begging you to call him so he could tell you how sorry he was and how much he wanted you back. I followed him out to his truck and…”

  “Attacked him?”

  His jaw clenched. “Not at first, no. I just wanted to tell him what a piece of shit he was and to leave you alone. Then he got pissed and started saying stuff about you and me. How you were probably screwing me behind his back. That’s when I kind of lost it.”

  “I guess I can’t fault you for defending my honor. Didn’t realize you were so noble.”

  He snorted. “Yeah, I’m a regular knight in shining armor.”

  I sighed. “This is exactly the kind of thing I was worried about. I don’t want people spreading lies if we were to suddenly show up at school holding hands. I don’t need—”

  He grabbed my wrists. “Sam. People are always going to talk. You know that better than anyone. I can handle it. But like I said last night, we’ll do this however you want. I’m in no rush.”

  I brushed the hair out of his eyes, my tension easing. “It’s a good thing he didn’t do much damage to your face. After all, your looks are basically the only thing you have going for you.”

  “Is that so?” His fingers started inching down my arms, moving lower and lower. “I think you deserve to be punished for that comment.”

  His fingers hovered over my ribs, and my eyes went wide.

  “Don’t you dare.”

  Before I could escape, he went in for the kill and tackled me to the couch.

  “I told you, no tickling!”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t recall that,” he shouted over my raucous laughter.

  I struggled to break his hold, screaming until my eyes started to water. Over the commotion of our wrestling I heard my phone ringing from my back pocket.

  I smacked his chest. “Phone! I have to get that. It’s probably the cops, coming to arrest your delinquent ass.”

  He eased off me, waggling his eyebrows. “Admit it. You totally go for the whole bad boy vibe.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Pretty cocky now, aren’t we?” I pulled my phone out and answered. “Hey, Jaz. I’m over at—”

  “Sam.” Her tone made my heart jump up into my throat. “You need to get to the hospital. Right now.”

  I swallowed, suddenly terrified out of my mind. “Why?”

  “It’s Judith Canton. Sam…she died.”

  Oh, God.

  Trent’s mom was dead.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Mixed Emotions”

  by The Rolling Stones

  Now

  Kade

  I’m getting coffee in the studio’s break room the day after the touch football game when a flurry of blond hair and a green dress flies past the doorway. The sound of heels clacking against tiles follows Sam’s hasty journey down the hall. Wondering what the hell her hurry is, I rush after her.

  “Sam! Hold up!”

  She glances over her shoulder at me but doesn’t stop. “No time. I have to talk to Mike.”

  This sounds urgent.

  Uncaring that I wasn’t invited to this meeting—though it doesn’t really sound like Sam was, either—I follow her into Mike’s office. More accurately, I hesitantly trail behind after she bursts through our boss’s closed office door.

  “You will never believe what I found.” She slaps a stack of papers and a flash drive down onto his desk.

  Mike stares at her wide-eyed, holding the receiver of his desk phone to his ear. He takes one glance down at the stack of papers and tells the person on the other line, “Let me call you back,” and hangs up. As if he expects it to bite him, he carefully reaches out and inspects the flash drive.

  “What the hell is this, Samantha?”

  Wired and excited, she points down at the papers, stabbing them with her finger. “This is evidence that Reggie Fernadino and a handful of other NFL refs are cheating. They’re on someone’s payroll, Mike.” She nods at the flash drive in his hand. “And that’s video evidence of him and the others intentionally missing calls or making the wrong ones in big games. This is legitimately happening. I’m one hundred percent sure.”

  “When did you do all this?” I ask, flabbergasted. I didn’t leave her place last night until after ten.

  She looks back at me, her body buzzing with anxious energy. “Last night. I couldn’t sleep, anyway.”

  If we were alone right now I would demand that she tell me why she hadn’t slept. I want to hear her admit she couldn’t stop thinking about me or our kiss. Because I’m in the same boat. Sleep didn’t come easily last night, what with Sam dancing naked through my dreams and all.

  “You said they’re on someone’s payroll,” Mike says, drawing our attention back to him. “Who do you think is bribing them?”

  “That’s the best part.” She pulls one sheet out of the stack and hands it to Mike. “Guess who Fernadino grew up just down the street from back in Hell’s Kitchen. And who he’s related to through his cousin’s marriage.” She pauses in suspense before she drops the bomb. “Raphael Esposito.”

  If I dropped a pin right now, we’d totally be able to hear it hit the carpet.

  Mike shoots up from his chair. “Are you serious? You think the goddamn mafia is fixing NFL games?”

  “It’s not that far-fetched, Mike, and you know it,” Sam argues. “It’s a well-known fact that they’ve been involved in illegal sports gambling for decades. But there’s never before been evidence presented that they’re directly fixing the games. Do the research and you’ll see that Fernadino has always had a close relationship with the Esposito family, even though he’s clearly tried to bury it from the public over the years.”

  Mike leans across the desk, spittle flying from his mouth when he shouts, “This isn’t just any Esposito family, Samantha! It’s the Esposito family! One of the five Italian-American families of New York City. The actual mafia. We’re talking horse heads in your bed here.”

  “Yes, I know who the Espositos are,” she says in a firm voice. “And it’s not like I’ve pulled up Fernadino’s bank statements that show actual payments coming from Raphael’s personal account. But I’m saying there is a connection here. Watch the tapes and you’ll see that something fishy is definitely going on. It’s at least enough to take to the commissioner.”

  She’s talking about the NFL commissioner, which is enough to infuriate me. Because that would involve Aaron fucking Simmons. The son of a bitch ex-boyfriend who called her last night as I dry-humped her against the wall. Apparently, someone is going to have to remind him that Sam is no longer his.

  I volunteer for the job.

  Mike pops a piece of Nicotine gum into his mouth. �
��This is huge, Samantha. You can’t make these kinds of accusations without absolute proof. The Espositos have the kind of power and influence that stretches farther than you can even imagine. And if you’re wrong, you could be looking at losing more than just your career.”

  My body stiffens.

  Hearing that Sam could ever be in danger of any kind has panic surging through my veins. My first instinct is to drag her out of this room and lock her away in a safe house. I’ll throw her over my shoulder kicking and screaming if I have to, which wouldn’t go over well. She’s like a dog with a bone when she thinks she’s onto something important. She won’t give up, no matter if it puts her at risk.

  “All I’m asking is that you at least watch the footage,” she insists. “Then make your decision. Who knows, maybe the league is already investigating it. I can’t be the only one who’s connected these dots.”

  “Exactly,” Mike snaps back. “The league handles cheating situations. It’s not your job, Samantha. You’re not a reporter, and you don’t know how high up something like this might go. I don’t want one of my people getting caught up in this.”

  “We have a responsibility to these players if we think someone is taking advantage of the system.”

  I know that tone of conviction. She’s not rolling over on this. I know her too well. She’s already sunk her teeth in.

  “At least one of Fernadino’s no-calls has resulted in a player getting concussed. That isn’t right. Like it or not, we have an obligation here.”

  Mike falls back down into his chair, blowing out a heavy breath. “I’ll look at everything. If I think you’ve got a case, I’ll take it to the commissioner. But I’m on the record for saying I don’t like you getting involved.”

  “Noted,” she says, sounding satisfied. “Thank you.”

  He scowls. “Don’t thank me. Even if this is something, we still might get stone-walled, so don’t get your hopes up yet.”

  “Still. Thanks for listening.”

  He waves her off, focusing on the stack of papers. “Out. Go do some work that won’t bring the hammer down on us, metaphorically or otherwise.”

  She chuckles. “You got it.”

  My back teeth grind together at her nonchalance. As if this situation isn’t a huge fucking deal. She heads for the door, like she’s completely forgotten I’m even in the room.

  Oh, hell no.

  I’m right on her heels as we exit Mike’s office.

  “I need to have a word with you.” I snatch her arm up, lead her down the hall, and lock us both inside her office.

  She shrugs out of my hold. “Why are you always herding me everywhere like cattle? What’s the problem?”

  I stare at her in disbelief. “Problem? Were we not just in the same room? You’re talking about going after the fucking mafia, Sam.”

  She rolls her eyes. “It’s not the entire mafia, Kade, and I’m not a cop. It’s not like I’ll be the actual person arresting anyone if this turns into a scandal.”

  “Do you really think that matters?” I yell, unintentionally raising my voice. “If the league goes after Fernadino and the other refs and any of them are stupid enough to finger the mafia, the Espositos will exhaust every one of their resources to take down every person involved in exposing this. They have a reputation for taking ruthless revenge. Don’t take this lightly. It’s not a fucking game.”

  Her mouth flattens into a thin line. “I’m fully aware of what I’m risking here. And I know damn well it’s not a joke. But these assholes shouldn’t be able to control the outcome of games. No matter who may or may not be involved, I had to do something.”

  “And you did do something. You passed it along, but now you’re done with it. I don’t want you digging into this any deeper.”

  Her eyes glint with temper. “I thought we already covered this. You have no say whatsoever in my personal or professional life, Kade. You don’t kiss me and then think you can control my life. That’s not how it works.”

  “No.” I back her up against her desk, boxing her in with my arms. “You don’t kiss me and then get to act like I don’t matter. That’s not how we work. What you do affects me, Sam, because I care about you. What happens in your life impacts mine.”

  “It used to,” she whispers.

  “It still does. Even more so now because I’m not going anywhere this time. Like it or not, I’m here to stay.” I take her face in my hand, thumb caressing her supple cheek. “I know you can take care of yourself, but that’s not going to stop me from doing all that I can to protect you.”

  “I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine,” she says softly. “You don’t have to worry.”

  “I’m always going to worry about you. You mean too much to me. You always have.”

  Her eyes search mine for a few seconds before she looks away. “You have a funny way of showing it.”

  So, we’re back to that.

  Just further proof that we need to quash everything that happened in the past by bringing it out in the open. But what am I supposed to do when she won’t talk about it? She fervently resists me every time I try to explain what happened in my apartment eight years ago. Mules have nothing on her stubbornness.

  It irks me when she looks grateful after I step back to give her space. She sure as hell hadn’t wanted space last night.

  “And here I thought we were making progress.”

  Her gaze darts to mine. “Yesterday was nice, I’ll give you that. I liked hanging out as friends like we used to. But what happened after doesn’t erase everything that came before. One kiss doesn’t wipe the slate clean.”

  My laughter drips with bitter sarcasm. “It was two kisses. And what if that phone call hadn’t stopped us, huh? What if it had been more than just another kiss? Would that have wiped the slate clean?”

  She narrows her eyes. “We got caught up in the moment. Don’t throw that back in my face.”

  “Fine. As long as you don’t throw the fact that I want you back in my face. Don’t make me feel like some creep who mauled you against your will. Or that I had ulterior motives with that goddamn kiss. It was as simple as me not being able to fucking control myself around you. I don’t expect to be forgiven of anything with sex.”

  The atmosphere in the room sparks, like the flickering embers of a fire. We’re seconds away from being fully engulfed in flames if one of us doesn’t neutralize the situation.

  It takes her a few moments, but she eventually nods.

  A stalemate.

  I can let it go for now. I don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of gaining any ground when her defenses are up like this, anyway.

  I turn for the door. “Just do me a favor and don’t go spreading the word about the Fernadino thing to anyone else. This has to be handled the right way.”

  “I’m not naïve. I know what this involves.”

  I shoot her a stern look before I leave, hoping I’ve made my point.

  The problem is that I don’t think she really does know what this involves.

  I need to make a call.

  One I’ll probably regret.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Danger Zone”

  by Kenny Loggins

  Kade

  I walk down the hall as I scroll through my phone’s contacts. I tap on the one I want just as I come across one of the extra audio/visual editing rooms that I know is soundproof. Thankfully, it’s empty, so I close myself inside as the call dials.

  “Didn’t expect to hear from you so soon,” a deep voice comes over the line. “Especially since it’s my turn to cash in a favor.”

  “That how you answer all your calls?”

  He laughs. “More often than you might think. A lot of people owe me favors.”

  I smirk. “I believe you.”

  “What can I do for you, Jennings?”

  I pause to consider what I’m about to do. This man may not be an Esposito, but he certainly has connections and pull within those circles. His wealth and
influence is different from Esposito’s, but it’s still powerful.

  Cristiano Rossetti.

  One of the five “Brooklyn Brothers,” as they’re known to most people. Or at least to the people who know they exist.

  The Rossetti family is the “sixth family” of the so-called Italian-American mobsters. But they actually aren’t mobsters, at least not anymore. Word has it that shortly after the six families came over to the US from Sicily in the early 1900s—the Espositos, D’Angelos, Mancinis, Rinaldis, Ferraros, and the Rossettis—the Rossettis distanced themselves from the others when certain family members became involved in illegal activities. It’s said that old man Rossetti sought a brighter future in America and had a change of heart. He no longer wanted his family name associated with crime, thus forever labeling the Rossettis as outcasts. They went over to Brooklyn, while the other five—like the Espositos—stayed in Queens, and then eventually relocated to Hell’s Kitchen.

  There has always been speculation as to what the Rossettis are really involved in and whether they’re actual mafia or not. But the longtime feud they’ve had with the other families, particularly the Espositos, has trumped much of that suspicion. To everyone in Brooklyn, the Rossetti family is honest, hardworking, and filthy rich. They help those around them by giving back to their community, and have become revered as local heroes more than anything else.

  Nico is the oldest of the brothers followed by Cris, Luka and Rome—the twins—and Ace, the youngest. Cris and I started up our friendship years ago after meeting at a charity benefit in New York City when I was a scout for the Giants and doing guest analyst spots for ESPN. As somewhat of a real estate mogul, he helped me get a good deal on my place in New York, as well as my apartment here in Atlanta after I moved here. I’ve hooked him up with countless NFL tickets, including the Super Bowl, which he’s reciprocated with invaluable investment advice that has paid off quite handsomely for me.

  We have a long history of exchanging favors.

  And what I’m about to ask of him will be the most critical one of all.

  His financial prowess in stock trading and real estate has not only made him über wealthy, but has also garnered him the reputation of a man who can have anything he wants.