The Sweetest Oblivion (Made Book 1)

by Danielle Lori

  “Can now. The marriage, Elena.”

  How could I have forgotten? As I drove on Russo streets for the first time, it was beginning to feel real. My sister was marrying Nicolas. My throat felt tight.

  “What are we doing here?” It felt like I was visiting another world, when it was only a part of New York City I hadn’t seen. It made me realize how sheltered I was. The only other countries I’d been to were Italy and Mexico. The former was to visit Mamma’s parents and family over there; the latter was for yearly vacations, though I thought that was just a guise for Papà’s business meetings with Mexican cartels.

  “I just have to drop something off at Nico’s.”

  I swallowed and tried to will my body into complacency, but I couldn’t stop the rush of anticipation from zinging beneath my skin. I gave my head a small shake in frustration. The truth was, I was incredibly attracted to my sister’s fiancé, whether I liked him or not. And I didn’t. The idea that I might get to see him from the car window was enough to have me on edge. I hated it, but I didn’t know how to turn it off either.

  The city passed before my fresh eyes as we drove deeper into Russo territory.

  We lived in a classy, spacious community in Long Island. The only neighbor you could see from the backyard was Tim Fultz. He owned a law firm Papà laundered money through; at least that’s what Benito told me once. He was a nice guy, besides. Our neighborhood was quiet and private, and I’d always assumed Nicolas resided in something similar, but he didn’t. He lived in the middle of the Bronx, in a red-brick home with a small white porch and a private drive that went to a garage in the back.

  Benito pulled into the drive, drove to the back, and parked next to Nicolas’s car. The detached garage door was up, and two vehicles sat inside, one with its hood open. They were both black, just like Nicolas’s soul. I didn’t know a thing about cars—who could blame me? I’d never even been taught to drive—but I was aware these were classics. One was a Gran Torino. I only knew that because I’d seen Gran Torino not too long ago. Benito had cried, though he would never admit it. And since seeing a man cry was the saddest thing in the world, so had I.

  My heartbeat jumped when Nicolas stepped out from behind the hood, wiping his hands with a rag. He wore dark jeans and a plain white t-shirt. I’d never seen a man covered in grease who looked this good. I let my head fall against the seat.

  “Son of a bitch. I’m bleeding again.”

  Sure enough, a red stain had bled through Benito’s white dress shirt. We were going to a pool party, but he wouldn’t be swimming or dressing down. Where would he put his gun?

  “Didn’t you get stitches?”

  “Yeah.” He pulled the keys out of the ignition. “But I split a couple open.”

  Stupidly, I asked, “Doing what?”

  “Gabriella.” He smirked.

  “Yeah, about that . . .” My nose wrinkled. “Can you keep it away from the kitchen?”

  His gaze narrowed before filling with amused clarity. “I know we all have our kinks, Elena, but you’re my cousin. Find someone else to watch.”

  I rolled my eyes, opened the door, and got out before I knew what I was doing. I didn’t want to sit in a hot car, not while my skin was already warmer than normal from being in a certain man’s proximity.

  Nicolas leaned against the garage, towel in hand. His gaze found mine, narrowing at the edges, before coasting to Benito, who handed him a manila envelope. These men sure loved their manila.

  “Hey, man, can I use your bathroom?”

  Nicolas’s attention fell to the bloodstain, and then he nodded once. “Second door on the left.”

  “Thanks,” Benito said, heading inside.

  Nicolas and I stood there, watching each other. His gaze went to the white bikini strap I wore underneath a pink cover-up dress, paired with wedge sandals. It was a cute ensemble, but I only got a squinted condescending stare.

  I frowned, crossing my arms defensively.

  He looked at me for another second before heading back into his garage. I stared at his white-clad muscled back until he dipped his head under a car hood and ignored me. Quite the host, this one.

  It was one of those days the heat grabs on and doesn’t let go. We’d had a cool summer up until a week ago, but with the start of August tomorrow it seemed to be hitting us all at once. The sun burned hot and unforgiving, enough to make my olive skin redden if I stood beneath it long enough.

  Something about the relentless heat and watching Nicolas wipe the sweat off his neck with the collar of his t-shirt made a warm haze permeate the corners of my mind.

  A fan whirled near the door. A baseball game filtered out the open window of the neighboring house, and a small TV played the news in the corner of the garage. I wanted to catch the highlights, but it was too quiet, and to get closer I’d have to walk within the two feet of space behind Nicolas. I hesitated.

  With the idea that I was being ridiculous, I made up my mind. Every nerve ending tingled as I squeezed past him to get to the wooden workbench and stool. I grabbed the remote and turned up the TV, but it took much longer than it should have to find the volume button. I was attuned to every movement, every noise behind me. Connected to him like static electricity. A drop of sweat ran down my back, and goose bumps rose on my skin.

  I tried to watch the news, but it was like reading with Nicolas around: impossible. I pulled my hair into a ponytail while pretending to listen to the blonde newscaster’s words.

  I could feel his gaze on my bare shoulder blades as I twisted the tie around my long strands. Breathless. Itchy. Hot. I should have gone to church today because this was the wrong way to feel in the presence of one’s soon-to-be brother-in-law. But I’d stayed home, or I’d be late for the pool party.

  My nails dug into my palms. Why did I have to be attracted to this man? If given the choice, I’d rather be infatuated with fifty-year-old, married Tim Fultz. Maybe if I spoke to Nicolas, his terrible personality would make this strange attraction fade away. It was worth a try . . .

  I turned around, leaned against the workbench, and ignored the nerves coursing through me about starting a conversation with him. “Your place is . . . nice. Not at all what I expected.”

  He side-eyed me with a look that made my heart stutter, while working on something beneath the hood of the Gran Torino. “And what did you expect?”

  I swallowed under his attention. A few words from him were more exciting than they should have been. “I guess I expected a little more . . . fire and brimstone.”

  His gaze turned darkly entertained. “Hell.”

  “Or padded rooms . . .”

  He wiped the side of his face with his sleeve, his focus on his work. “For thinking I’m a psychopath, you don’t seem to fear being alone with me.”

  “I can scream. Loudly.”

  He glanced at me, like my words had an entirely different meaning—like he might like to hear me scream. My breathing became shallow.

  The baseball game from the next house over filtered in, and I glanced out of the garage. Nicolas had a chain-link fence, no privacy . . . for someone in his profession, it wasn’t normal. “Your neighbors are so close,” I noted.

  His expression sparked with dry amusement. “What, you think I shoot someone every time I eat lunch?”

  I lifted a shoulder, biting my bottom lip.

  He stared at me, and me at him. This conversation was doing nothing to ruin his appeal. He was slightly sweaty, grease-stained, and tattooed. None of which I thought I could appreciate until now. This strange attraction sank so deep, my cells shifted and grew heavy as they soaked it in.

  “The only acts of violence I’ve committed this week have somehow revolved around you,” he pointed out.

  “You mean last night when you promised you wouldn’t do anything? Was that one of them?” My words were sweet as I tilted my head.

  “Wasn’t it you who called me a cheat, Elena?”

  I wasn’t even sure how he did it, but my
name rolled off his lips in a low, suggestive drawl that ghosted across my skin like a shiver. Heat ran between my legs.

  “Don’t say it like that.”

  “Like what?”

  I grew flustered. “You know what you’re doing. Stop.”

  He walked toward me with a car part, setting it on the workbench. My entire side tingled at his proximity a couple feet away. I turned in his direction and leaned my hip against the table. I didn’t know what I was doing in here, watching him work, but it was almost . . . thrilling. Like living on the edge. Who would rather sit in the car?

  He took a similar-looking part out of a box. I couldn’t believe he did his own mechanic work. I guessed even men like him had to have a hobby.

  “What are you doing with Benito?” His tone seeped with indifference, but interest shone through.

  “We’re going to a pool party.”

  After a moment, he said, “Tyler Whitmore’s, I imagine.”

  “Yeah—” I froze. I knew this interaction was going over too smoothly. “Why do you know his last name?”

  “You can find out anything these days, Elena.” He said it with a dark edge, while wiping his hands off.

  My teeth clenched. “I didn’t ask how, I asked why.”

  His gaze came my way, hard and intimidating. “I’m marrying into your family. That makes your business now mine.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” My eyes narrowed. “That makes Adriana’s business yours, not mine. I have plenty of men in my life already.”

  “Guess you got another.” His words were deep. Smooth. Final.

  I opened my mouth to say something—something about how much I disliked him—but before I could work out my thoughts into coherent words, he told me, “Maybe rethink what you’re about to say.”

  I closed my mouth. He was so confident, unconcerned, while my stomach twisted with worry for Tyler. The last thing anyone wanted was their full name on Nicolas Russo’s radar. Frustration clawed beneath my skin. He’d come and butted into my life like he had a right to. He would make a disaster of it.

  I couldn’t keep it in.

  “Have you always been unhinged? Or is your controlling, delusional nature a product of inadequacy?” I said it sweetly. Sweet as poison.

  He continued tinkering with his part, his gaze staying focused like he hadn’t even heard me.

  I had to admit, it felt good to get that off my chest. Great, actually—

  A cool rush of shock flooded me as he grabbed the back of my neck and pulled me within a foot of him. My heart was in my throat and my eyes squeezed shut, because I didn’t want to see how he was going to kill me. All I felt was warm skin and a tug on my dress, and then his hand slipped from my nape and he was gone.

  After a couple seconds, I opened my eyes to see him walking away with a part in hand.

  I stood there, frozen.

  “Never really thought about it,” he drawled. “But I guess I’ve always been.”

  Feeling something out of order, I glanced down.

  My lips parted in disbelief. He cut my bikini strap.

  I had a feeling this wasn’t even because of the comment; he just didn’t want me to go to that party.

  Benito’s voice filtered into the garage, though I couldn’t see him over the car. “I used your kit under the sink to fix a couple stitches. Hope you don’t mind.”

  I tried to catch my breath and collect myself while they talked for a moment. I slipped my bikini top off under my dress—it was worthless now. I wasn’t a girl who could go without a bra. Not to Benito’s standards, but close. I’d have to cross my arms the whole way home and tell my cousin my strap broke. He’d believe me, and he wouldn’t even notice anything. Men were oblivious.

  “You ready, Elena?” Benito asked. “Let’s go.”

  “Coming.”

  As I passed Nicolas and noticed that Benito was preoccupied with texting next to his car, I tossed my bikini top under the hood. “Don’t psychopaths like souvenirs?”

  The tiniest hint of amusement pulled on his lips, and one grease-stained hand fisted the white fabric before I left the garage.

  Benito sat in the driver’s seat, sunglasses on. “Sorry I took so long. ‘Bout fucking passed out fixing a stitch.”

  As I imagined, he never noticed my missing bikini top. Didn’t ask questions about the broken strap. He only took me home. But before we reached the red front door, his suspicious gaze burned my face. “What’s on your neck?”

  I wiped the spot, coming away with a smudge of grease. Unease leaked into my blood. “Um, I don’t know.”

  He didn’t respond, didn’t hear my heartbeat ricocheting in my chest. Though, something dark crossed his expression before I could disappear upstairs.

  I didn’t ask to get manhandled by Nicolas Russo, by my sister’s fiancé. But the one unfortunate truth I was scared Benito might read on my face was . . . I liked it.

  “I want to live my life, not record it.”

  —Jackie Kennedy

  I WAS BEGINNING TO THINK this attraction was my punishment for him. This was karma. While he had touched me, I’d wished for someone else, and that someone came in the form of my sister’s fiancé.

  The rest of Sunday passed with nothing but humidity, icy air-conditioning, and thoughts on my mind. Before him, I was a virgin, had never even kissed a man. An entire world of lust and sex had always been there, but I was unaware until I’d stepped into a low-income apartment holding the hand of a man I hardly knew. He didn’t know the Sweet Abelli, and, to me, that was all that mattered.

  When I walked out the door, with that broken chain lock and a cheap ring on my finger, it was as a different woman, with a stain of red I could never remove, and a deeper, darker desire in my blood. Once you set foot into that hazy, carnal corner of the world, you couldn’t go back. The ingenious part was that you didn’t even want to. I attributed this to my problem and came to terms with the small fact that I was losing my mind.

  When I’d heard my future brother-in-law in the foyer a few minutes ago while doing laundry to pass the time, I’d gone out of my way to cross his path. I hadn’t needed a drink of water, and I certainly hadn’t needed to wear the tiniest pair of shorts I owned while getting it. I was close to crossing a line, but I didn’t know how to stop myself from toeing the edge.

  I understood my attraction to the man. His hands were rough, his voice deep, his presence commanding . . . he checked all the boxes I needed but didn’t want.

  Whenever he was near, an invisible string pulled me toward him, vibrating with the promise of a thrill if I gave in to the heavy tug. I hadn’t known I had such a lack of self-control until him. The part that gave me a bitter taste was that I didn’t even want to show restraint.

  At least I knew I couldn’t step over the line completely. It took two for that to happen, thankfully.

  Nicolas had been on the phone in the foyer as I’d walked past him. His gaze had coasted from the marble floors, up my thighs, over the ridiculous shorts I was now regretting, and then to my face. He’d looked at me like I was gum on the bottom of one of his expensive shoes. It was a mystery how I could be so attracted to him.

  Since that brief, wordless interaction, I’d been trying to conceive a plan to get over this all-consuming interest in everything Nicolas Russo.

  I could ignore him. However, I’d already told myself I would do that, and look where it had gotten me: in the kitchen drinking a glass of water I didn’t need, while wearing tiny shorts you could call underwear. I could go to Confession and then pray for the good Lord to save me, though with my luck, Father Mathews would tell my papà.

  The most feasible option was to try to turn the attraction on to someone else. That might cause issues in itself, but at least I wouldn’t be lusting after my sister’s fiancé. The problem was, if this were possible, I would have already done it.

  Frustration ran through me, and I dumped the rest of the water into the sink. I was being ridiculous. I just needed to put the a
ttraction behind me. Mind over matter. Easy, right . . .?

  I didn’t have so much faith in myself after all, so, Monday evening, as we were on our way to Don Luigi’s to have dinner with the Russo family, I posed a hypothetical situation before my nonna. It had to be vague—very much so—otherwise she’d easily put it together with her astute ways.

  “Nonna,” I started hesitantly, “say you’ve . . . wanted this . . . dog.”

  Her nose wrinkled from her spot in the town car. “I would never get a dog. I have allergies.”

  Dominic sat between us, texting. He was my quietest and broodiest cousin. And he smoked too much weed. I could smell it on him now.

  Benito drove, singing along to Rocket Man by Elton John with his Aviators on, even though the sun had already fallen below the skyscrapers. Mamma sat in the front seat, fixing her makeup in the mirror and complaining when Benito went more than three miles per hour over the speed limit. Adriana had ridden with Papà and Tony, surprisingly. I was sure my father just wanted to chastise her about all the stuff she shouldn’t do while married to Nicolas.

  “Imagine you weren’t allergic and you did want one, Nonna. But you want your . . . neighbor’s dog.”

  “We’re not getting a dog, Elena,” Mamma said.

  “Cazzo. I know.” I only spoke Italian when I wanted to curse. I hardly ever swore, except for damn, hell, and maybe ass with a hole on the end now that I’d met Nicolas. But that was mostly inner monologue, so it didn’t count. “It’s hypothetical,” I said. “Now, say your neighbor’s dog is so . . . cute, and you want him—er, her for yourself.”

  “I think, if I could, I would rather have a cat,” Nonna answered while looking out the window.

  “Fine,” I sighed. “A cat, then. You want your neighbor’s cat—”

  “We’re not getting a cat, Elena,” Mamma said.

  Oh my god.

  “I know. I said it’s hypothetical—”

  “Why does it smell like skunk in here?” Nonna’s brows knitted.