The Sweetest Oblivion (Made Book 1)

by Danielle Lori

  His underboss’s cold indifference touched me as he passed, and I was suddenly and surprisingly glad I’d run into Nicolas instead.

  A burning sensation remained around my waist, and my heartbeat fluttered from the impact and the worry creeping in. “Did you kill my brother?”

  “Should have,” was all Nicolas said before the front door shut behind the two men.

  I inhaled in relief, but it was short-lived when Tony left my papà’s office and swayed down the hall like he was drunk. He was bare-chested and his dress shirt was wrapped around his hand. Blood dripped bright red to the marble floors.

  My brother was tall, slightly brawny, and covered in scars. From the two bullet wounds to an innumerable amount of others that I could only guess the cause. Probably from the illegal fights I knew he participated in.

  Tony didn’t say a word as he passed, but I followed him into the kitchen. With the swinging door pressed against my back, I watched him grab a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard and struggle to open it with one hand. He eventually managed by holding it against his chest and twisting. He took a long pull before sitting at the island. “Go away, Elena.”

  “You need to see Vito.” He was the vicar at church, but also had medical experience to patch up wounds. It was the Lord’s work, after all.

  “I’m fine.” He took another pull on the bottle, spilling some down his bare chest.

  He wasn’t fine. He was smearing blood across the countertop. And he’d appeared drunk before he started drinking like someone had just broken his heart.

  “I’ll call Vito.” I went for the cordless phone near the fridge.

  Tony glanced at me with a remorseful expression. “I’m sorry, Elena. Didn’t know it’d go that way. Honest.”

  My heart squeezed. “I forgive you.”

  He laughed weakly. “You shouldn’t.”

  Tony usually had a smug look on his face, but when he smiled—a real smile—it drifted away and he became pretty charming. This was the brother I loved, even if I didn’t get to see him often. Sometimes it felt like you needed to be the worst you could be to survive in this world.

  I didn’t know why he’d killed whoever Piero was, but I would pretend it was self-defense. Tony had been thrown into this life as a young man, and while my chains were tight, so were his in a sense.

  “Can’t help it,” I replied.

  He shook his head when I began dialing. “Don’t call Vito. I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine. Tony, you really don’t look so good.” His tanned complexion was sweaty and pale.

  “I’m fine, Elena.”

  I sighed. It was just like Papà to leave Tony bleeding without calling for help. I hung the phone back on the hook because my brother had said it in that voice. Even if Vito came, Tony wouldn’t have anything to do with him. Too stubborn.

  I crossed my arms and leaned against the counter with my hair still dripping water to the floor. “Why don’t you like Nicolas?”

  He snorted and took another drink. “Lots of reasons.”

  “Well, what’s the number one?”

  “He fucked my girlfriend.”

  My eyes widened. “Jenny?”

  Another pull.

  “Did she tell you?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “He sent me a picture.”

  Ouch.

  “Are you sure it was her?”

  “Butterfly. Lower back.”

  “Oh . . . well, that was rude of him.”

  Honestly, it was hard to feel sorry for Tony. He’d cheated on Jenny with that servant Gabriella and I wouldn’t doubt others. I didn’t take Nicolas as a man to sleep with other men’s girlfriends for the hell of it, though, and I had a feeling . . . “What did you do to him?”

  A not-so-nice smile tugged at Tony’s lips.

  And there it was. There were always two sides to every story.

  He took another pull, and with a frown I watched the blood drip down the side of the island and collect into a small pool. Drinking was only going to make him bleed more. I pushed off the counter and pulled the bottle straight from his lips. Whiskey splashed down his chin and chest.

  His eyes narrowed, but his next words were slurred. “Jesus, Elena.” He looked wasted, or really close to passing out.

  I unwound the shirt from his hand and recoiled. “Oh my god! You have to go to the hospital, Tony!”

  A bullet-shaped hole went straight through his hand like the barrel had been placed directly to it. I covered my mouth, the urge to gag rising in my throat. As I backed up to find Benito, Tony passed out. He fell sideways out of his chair, leaving a smear of red across the counter, and landed with a heavy thunk on the kitchen floor.

  Crap, crap, crap.

  “Benito!” I yelled.

  “Why are you shouting?” Adriana asked as she breezed into the kitchen in galaxy leggings and a sports bra.

  “Your fiancé shot Tony!”

  “Dead?” She raised a brow, focused on picking the best apple out of the bowl on the counter.

  “Where’s Mamma?” I asked.

  She shrugged, peeling the sticker off a green apple.

  I sighed. Fine. If they want to play this game . . . I nudged open the swinging door and shouted into the hallway, “I’m calling 911!”

  On cue, Benito, Dominic, and my papà pushed their way into the kitchen.

  Papà narrowed his eyes on me, but then noticed his only son lying on his back in a lot of red. He spoke quietly to Benito—he always spoke quietly unless he was mad—and then my cousins hauled Tony up, one under his arms and one by his ankles, and carried him out of the kitchen.

  “Not Vito,” I told my papà. “The hospital.”

  “Yeah, yeah, Elena. They’re taking him,” he said dismissively, his gaze coasting over the blood on the floor.

  I eyed him, wondering if he was telling me the truth. My papà never took any of us to the hospital without a fight.

  He glanced at me, noting my suspicious gaze. “It’s just as good as a hospital,” he snapped.

  Ugh. I had no idea where they were taking my brother. Most likely a doctor Papà had on his payroll.

  “Hey, has anyone seen my drawing pencils?” Adriana interrupted.

  “Behind every great fortune, there is a crime.”

  —Lucky Luciano

  I MIGHT NOT HAVE HAD a good reason to dislike Nicolas Russo in the beginning, but after meeting him, after he shot too close to my head, and after he put a bullet through my brother’s hand, I now had substantial motive to immensely dislike him.

  The whys of it all didn’t matter.

  Tony had been gone all night. It wasn’t until I’d gotten back from dance practice twenty minutes ago that I learned he was going to be okay. He was given a 75 percent chance of having full function of his hand again.

  Apparently, Jenny had volunteered to move into his apartment and help him out. My mamma told me this with a roll of her eyes. She really didn’t like Jenny. And after hearing she’d cheated on Tony with Nicolas, I wasn’t sure what to think about her either. Granted, I would have dumped Tony years ago if I was her, but I didn’t understand sticking around if you weren’t going to be faithful. It made me believe she was only around for one thing.

  I sat cross-legged on the couch, watching a documentary on recent humanitarian crises, still dressed in my sweaty leggings and an off-the-shoulder top. It was one of the hottest days of the summer so far, and Benito had left the windows down the entire drive home. He’d said the wind did great things for his hair, and so I never got to cool off. I pressed a cold water bottle to my face.

  The front door opened and my papà’s voice filled the foyer. A rush of awareness ran from my nape down the length of my spine. I realized Nicolas was here before I even heard his voice, deep and indifferent. A strange dance began in my stomach.

  Even though I stared at the TV, I had no idea what was happening because I was hyperaware of every noise coming from the foyer.

  As their ste
ps went by the living room’s double doors, a cell phone rang.

  “Take it,” Papà said. “I’ll be in my office.”

  Since it was silent, I imagined a nod from Nicolas. My papà’s footsteps drifted down the hall.

  “Yeah?” Nicolas drawled. A couple of seconds passed before, “Motherfucker.”

  I tensed. It sounded like he was going to kill someone, and his steps were coming straight for me. Before I knew it, he reached over my shoulder and stole my remote.

  “Hey,” I protested.

  He didn’t respond; he only changed the channel. Breaking News flashed on the bottom half of the screen, and the blonde newscaster went over the details of a large drug bust at the border.

  Nicolas stood behind me, close enough my ponytail brushed his stomach. His hands gripped the back of the couch on either side of me as he leaned slightly over my head, his attention on the TV like I wasn’t even here. It was invasive and rude.

  My pulse drummed in my ears as my heart tripped up in what could only be called anticipation. My body’s unwilling reaction brought a rush of annoyance in. I didn’t like this man—heart fluttering or not—and I suddenly didn’t care how inappropriate it would be to talk back to him.

  “Yours?” I asked smoothly. “Bummer.”

  A tug on my ponytail. “Watch it.” His words were low and distracted.

  Warmth spilled into my chest, like I’d just gotten away with playing with fire. I wanted to do it again. Was this how people became addicts?

  “There are seven other televisions in this house, Russo.”

  Another tug on my ponytail, but this time he pulled it all the way back so I was looking at him upside down. His eyes narrowed. “I’m beginning to wonder if this Sweet Abelli even exists.”

  I swallowed. “You shot my brother.”

  Was his fist . . .? It was wrapping around my ponytail. Once. Twice.

  His gaze flicked to the TV. “He deserved worse.”

  This man was going to watch the news with a fistful of my hair? My God. Maybe it was due to my head being at an awkward angle and my blood not circulating as well, but my brain wasn’t getting enough oxygen. And the fact that he smelled so good, like clean soap and man, made the corners of my vision hazy.

  “You’re not a judge and jury,” I breathed.

  His gaze came down to me. “He almost got you killed, yet you stick up for him?”

  “He’s my brother.”

  His expression hardened. “He’s an idiot.”

  My mamma’s voice filtered into the room from down the hall, and slowly, he unwound his fist from my hair and took a step back.

  A moment later, she entered the room.

  “Nico, I didn’t know you were coming today.” Mamma’s tone was tight. She didn’t like that he’d shot Tony either, but she must have known it was coming and hid in her room all night. “Will you be staying for lunch?”

  “I’m sure he’s got plenty of stuff to do, Mam—”

  “That sounds great, Celia.”

  “Great.” Mamma sounded like she meant the opposite. I was so glad to have her back on my side. “I’ll prepare a spot for you then.”

  “Thank you.”

  Her steps grew faint as she left the room.

  “You know what pisses me off?” His tone was dark, but somehow it only awoke a thrill beneath my skin.

  I knew the answer to this question.

  “Assuming?”

  I focused on the TV, pretending not to care about what he was doing, but my heart faltered when he moved close behind me. I held my breath as he slowly set the remote back in my lap, and then right at the hollow behind my ear, he whispered, “Smart girl.”

  A shiver ran down my neck, but then he left with a parting word.

  “Don’t fucking do it again.”

  The sun burned hot and heavy. I imagined if I lay on the brick patio, I would be as well-done as my steak.

  “Really, Celia,” Nonna complained. “It’s hotter than blue blazes out here and I can still see a bloodstain on the patio.”

  I’d changed into high-waisted shorts and a short top that bared a sliver of my midriff, and a drop of sweat still ran down my back.

  “Some fresh air is good for you,” Mamma replied.

  “So is edible food,” Nonna muttered, pushing shrimp around with her fork like they were still alive.

  I kept my eyes on my plate as I ate, mostly because Nicolas sat directly across from me. He wore no jacket, and he’d rolled up his white dress shirt. I was right. Black ink started at his wrist and disappeared into his shirt. It wasn’t often I’d met men with tattoos—at least, not ones so obvious. The only thing I could make out was the ace of spades tattooed on the inside of his forearm. I guessed he accepted the nickname “Ace,” which I’d heard he was called. I might have read a few articles on him myself.

  He sat next to Adriana, and they both seemed like they’d always done it. She’d even given him a look because his leg was touching hers. It was strange to imagine them as a couple, yet I’d seen them exchange words, which I’d believed would be a difficult feat in itself. I thought Mr. Rabbit had even been brought up. I’d assumed they wouldn’t be good for each other at all, but I was beginning to wonder if I’d been wrong all along.

  Papà and Mamma were discussing something between themselves and Nonna was picking at her food, when Adriana suddenly said, “It’s called manspreading.”

  Nicolas’s gaze flicked to my sister. “What?”

  “Manspreading. How you’re sitting.”

  He didn’t respond, only sat back, rested his arm behind Adriana’s chair, and then, like he was merely getting comfortable, stretched his legs out a little further.

  My sister’s expression hardened.

  All right, maybe I spoke too soon about them working well together.

  “You know, Nico,” Nonna started, “I don’t blame you at all for shooting Tony. He’s had it a long time coming and his papà hasn’t done a thing.” Papà grunted, apparently now listening to the conversation. “That boy has shot four of my vases. Don’t know what I’d do if he ruined another.” She sounded like it was the most grievous thing Tony had ever done.

  “Glad to hear it,” Nicolas drawled.

  Mamma shot her a dark look, and my nonna smiled triumphantly at her plate. These two were all I needed to see to know I would never live with my mother-in-law.

  I chewed my lip, hesitating. I’d been waiting for the right moment to ask Papà something and now seemed like the best time. He was always easier persuaded around other people, most likely because he didn’t want to come off as a controlling jerk.

  I’d hardly left the house for anything but dance in six months. Surely he couldn’t punish me forever?

  “Papà,” I started, “one of the dancers is having a pool party on Sunday in celebration of the Summer Recital. And I was wondering if I could go . . . ?”

  “Which girl is this?” he asked.

  I shifted under his eagle-eye stare. “Well, actually . . . his name is Tyler.”

  Nonna harrumphed. “Since when are you into beta males, Elena?”

  I shot her a look for giving Papà the wrong idea.

  She pursed her lips and focused on poking at her food.

  The table went quiet while he gave it some thought. I swallowed as Nicolas’s gaze warmed the side of my face.

  Papà took a drink and set his glass down. “I want the address and the owner’s information. And you’ll take Benito.”

  I let out a small breath. Was I being forgiven? Guilt pierced through my chest because I knew I didn’t deserve it. “Thanks, Papà.”

  “I’m going inside before I melt,” Nonna said, getting to her feet. “This was the worst day to eat outside, Celia. Don’t know what you were thinking.”

  “We don’t break our captains. We kill them.”

  —Vincent Gigante

  “MERCY.” MAMMA GRIMACED, AS I’D just explained the plot of her book club novel. “I don’t even fe
el bad for not reading that one.”

  She hadn’t read a single one of them—I had.

  “Okay, I have to go,” she said, putting a heel on with one hand and an earring in with the other. “Your papà and Benito are out, but Dominic is in the basement. Oh, and help your sister pick out her cake flavor. Tua zia Liza needs to know today. Please, Elena!”

  I sighed and climbed off my parents’ bed.

  “Leaving!” Mamma’s voice drifted out of the room.

  I heard a faint “Finally” from my nonna as she passed the doorway with her servant Gabriella in tow. She’d gone on her afternoon walk, or, more likely, sat on the patio for five minutes of fresh air while gossiping.

  A couple of moments later, I pushed the kitchen door open. Adriana sat cross-legged on the counter with two plates of cake before her. Her elbows rested on her knees and her fists were under her chin, while only wearing her yellow polka-dot bikini.

  “What are the flavors?” I asked, coming to stand before the island. The sun was the only light in the room, casting the windowpane reflection across the counter.

  “Pink Champagne and Luscious Lemon.” She said it like the options were really Tasty Garbage and Rotten Apricot. She was going to drag this out for as long as she could. Asking my sister to make a decision was like requesting her to write out the equation for time travel.

  I tried both by scooping some up with my fingers. “Definitely the lemon,” I said, opening the cupboard for a glass.

  I didn’t normally have dance practice on Tuesdays, but with the recital coming up we’d had it every day. My thighs burned as I stood on my tiptoes to get a cup from the top shelf. Benito and my other male cousins were all taller, yet they always took the glasses from the bottom shelf just to annoy the girls in the family.

  “I was leaning toward Pink Champagne,” Adriana groaned.

  “Then Pink Champagne it is,” I said as I filled my glass from the fridge water dispenser.

  She shook her head. “No, now it doesn’t seem right.”

  “The lemon, then.”