Besides my championship ring, I don’t give a crap about any of the other things. Not when every shitty day of my incarceration has been a reminder of how corrupt our justice system is.
One man in particular bears the entire responsibility ofmyinjustice though.
District Attorney Mark Fletcher.
The very name ignites another explosion of fury in my chest.
I wrestle for control as I wait for the prison gates to open, as I wait to take my first lungful of free air in three long years.
When they do, I walk out without looking back.
Long strides take me to the taxi waiting by the gates. I yank open the back door and slide into the worn plastic seat.
“Where to, mister?” the driver asks, eyeing me warily in the rearview mirror.
I should head straight to the airport, jump on a plane to New York and the condo I bought for my last year in the NFL.
Or I should give him the address for the most expensive hotel in Downtown Chicago, check in, shower the prison grime off my body, order the priciest steak on the menu and wash it down with a whole bottle of M Black whisky.
Instead, I give him the address I’ve memorized and imprinted on my brain. “Twenty-Seven-Hundred North Cable Street.”
Two weekslater
I pullthe keys from the ignition and step out of the Mustang rental.
After months of work by the PI my lawyer hired, and two weeks of my own surveillance, I know Fletcher’s routine by heart.
After double-checking that he’s still a greedy asshole with ruthless ambition, I also know exactly what to do to him to make him play ball.
His ambitions have gotten loftier in the past eighteen months. He’s eyeing higher office, schmoozing the right people and mercilessly mowing everyone who stands in his way in order to achieve his aims.
In short, the man who put me away has gotten worse since I’ve been in prison. And he shows no signs of stopping.
Not if I have anything to do with it.
The bombshell on the flash drive tucked into my pocket will kill his every last hope. Anticipation floods me as I mount the steps to his Cable Street home.
Retribution. At last.
If I have my timing right, he’s half an hour from heading out for his Saturday round of golf with the mayor. He sure as hell won’t be making it today.
I press and lean on the doorbell, then fold my arms as I listen to it echo inside. A full minute later, I’m still waiting.
Gritting my teeth, I press again, holding it for longer.
I chose Saturday because I didn’t want to deal with the housekeeper who comes in Monday to Friday, or the driver he uses during the week. Fletcher likes to drive his fancy sports car at the weekend.
I tense when I hear footsteps approaching the door. Then I frown because they’re too light to be male. Did I get the housekeeping thing wrong?
Well, too bad. Whoever’s around will have to—
“Porca miseria, where’s the fire?” The door flies back and my thoughts, and every last ounce of air in my lungs, scatter to the wind.
My mouth dries and I feel as if I’ve been jabbed with a cattle prod.
The girl in front of me is hands down the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
She’s a delicious package of youth and health and curves, the sun streaks in her long honey-blonde hair a feast for the senses.