The Maddest Obsession (Made Book 2)

by Danielle Lori

  I viewed it in snapshots. My dress on the floor. A slit of light through the blinds. Naked skin. Mine. His.

  I pulled the sheets closer as a deep sickness churned in my stomach.

  He ended the call, tossed his phone on the nightstand, and closed his eyes. After a moment of thick tension permeating the air, he flicked them back open and looked straight at me. We stared at each other as an invasive silence licked at my skin.

  “Jesus,” was what Nico muttered before he closed his eyes again.

  I leaned over the bed and threw up everything in my stomach. Acid singed my throat, and I wiped my mouth with the back of a hand.

  Disgrace.

  Worthless.

  Unlovable.

  Whore.

  It didn’t happen.

  Lie, the blackness whispered.

  I felt the imprints all over me—hands, teeth, lips—crawling over my skin and into my soul with claws made of heartbreak and metal.

  Opening my eyes, I stared at a used condom on the floor.

  My ears rang, my lungs closed up, and I couldn’t breathe. I gripped the sheets, panic tearing through my chest.

  “Gianna . . .”

  “I gave him everything,” I cried, tears streaming down my cheeks.

  “Hell,” he muttered before getting to his feet and pulling on a pair of boxer briefs. He went to pick up my dress but tossed it back on the floor when he saw I’d puked on it.

  “I was a virgin when I married him. I was faithful.”

  “I know.”

  The images from yesterday came back with a vengeance. Our room. My husband. Her. Someone I had considered family. I’d always known there were other women . . . but why her? Betrayal cut through my chest, a fresh and burning wound. Tears ran over my lips, tasting salty on my tongue.

  “It wasn’t enough,” I whispered. I’m never enough.

  “Nothing is enough for my father, Gianna,” he said. “You know that.”

  My throat tightened as I watched Nico grab a shirt from his dresser drawer, because sometimes, I could see Antonio in the way he carried himself.

  I was in love with my husband, a man who didn’t love me. Maybe I could blame Agent Allister for putting the idea in my head one year ago, but somehow, the pain had led me here. To my husband’s son.

  The panic attack reared its head, stealing the breath straight from my lungs. “How did this happen?”

  “Really? You need me to explain it to you?”

  “This isn’t a joke, Ace.”

  “Not laughing, Gianna.”

  He set the t-shirt on my lap, dropped to his haunches next to my pile of puke, and nodded toward my mouth. “Did my papà do that to you?”

  I licked the cut on my bottom lip. “I threw a vase at his head and called him a cheating pig.”

  Ace made a small noise of amusement. “Of course you did.”

  Agent Allister was right now. Hit had become hits, and for some reason, I despised the man, as if he’d set all this in motion. It’d been one year since I’d seen him, but the hatred I felt for him still lay close to the surface.

  “You aren’t going to tell him,” Nico said.

  I didn’t respond.

  “If you tell him, I will make your life a living hell.”

  A bitter laugh escaped me. My best friend was fucking my husband. How did it get worse than that?

  He grabbed my chin and turned it toward him. “We both know you’ll take the brunt of his anger, not me.”

  “It’s my decision to make.”

  He dropped his hand, sighed, and stood up. “Fine, but I warned you. I won’t feel sorry for you, either.”

  I grabbed his t-shirt and slipped it on while he focused on digging through his nightstand drawer.

  “Why, Ace?” I whispered.

  How could you have let this happen?

  I knew why I had. I was a mess. Everything I did was wrong. But Nico? He always had his head on straight. He maintained control in every move he made.

  “I was drunk, Gianna. Really fucking drunk. And, to be completely honest, I still am.”

  He lit a cigarette, the glow of the cherry red and angry. When he opened the blinds and then the window, and light filled the room, another piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Streaks of red covered his hands and ran up his arms. Blood. I didn’t know what it was like being a Made Man, but I’d lived around them long enough to know it wasn’t easy. That sometimes, the toll of it hit them all at once.

  “You look like your papà.” The words escaped me, soft, yet also so harsh in the sunlit room. The sins of the night never did sound so good in the day.

  He blew out a breath of smoke, his eyes lighting with a flicker of dry humor. “Jesus.” He shook his head. “Is that what brought you here last night?”

  Strobe lights. Dirty bathroom tile. Blow. A drip of sweat down my back. Accepting a white pill from a baggie. Nothing.

  “I don’t know,” I whispered.

  “Well, whatever it was, I hope you got something from it, Gianna. Because we’re both going to hell.” He put his cigarette out on the windowsill and left the room.

  I closed my eyes and tried to finish the puzzle, to piece the rest of the night together. But all I encountered was blackness. A blackness that whispered for me to fall asleep and not wake up, ever.

  A box of chocolates tied with an apologetic red bow sat on our bed when I got home that morning. The same bed my husband had fucked my best friend on from behind.

  I climbed into the sheets and ate every one of them.

  Days passed, a blur of colors and feelings and a secret eating me alive. It was all upside-down, like viewing the world from a merry-go-round as it spun, head and hair hanging off the steel platform.

  They were bad days. Cold. Lonely. High.

  Antonio had shown his face only once. He came to bed late and fell asleep instantly. I’d stared at the ceiling until the sun streamed through the blinds, the bed dipped, and his presence disappeared as easily as it had come.

  Soon after, sleep took me under.

  A bright light flicked on, and a draft hit me as the comforter ripped away. I made a noise of protest but choked on it as ice-cold water poured onto my face.

  “Levàntate!”

  I sputtered as the water kept coming and jolted to a sitting position. Wiping my eyes, I opened them to see Magdalena standing at the side of the bed with a large mixing bowl in hand.

  A shiver rocked my body, and I choked up some water.

  “Are you crazy?” I gasped.

  She dropped the bowl and ran a hand down her simple white uniform. “Sí. Pero no tan loca como tú.”

  An ache pulsed behind my eyes. I was soaking wet and agitated, and my words came out harsher than I intended. “You know I don’t speak Spanish, Magdalena.”

  “Porque eres demasiado tonta.” Because you are too dumb.

  I knew that phrase only because she believed it was a great response for everything.

  With a groan, I fell back onto the wet sheets. “I don’t know who thought it was a good idea to hire you. You’re disrespectful, and, quite frankly, a bad maid.”

  The sixty-year-old turned her nose up. “I am not a maid. I am a housekeeper.”

  I was sure they were the same things, but I didn’t have the fight in me to argue with her.

  “Then go housekeep somewhere and leave me alone.”

  She smoothed a streak of gray hair back into place. Looked at her nails. “You have a party tonight, querida.”

  “No,” I protested. “No party.”

  “Sí—”

  “I’m not going to a party, Magdalena,” I said, adding, “I don’t have anything to wear.” At least, nothing my soul won’t bleed through.

  “Nothing respectable, no,” she agreed, eyeing me with irises as dark as chocolate. “It’s for cancer. Una cena benéfica.”

  My stomach and heart dipped. “A benefit for cancer?”

  “Sí. Antonio called and ordered for you to be r
eady by eight.”

  Ordered?

  Under different circumstances, such as a benefit for sea turtles—my second favorite charity—I would tell him to go fuck himself. But, the truth was, I loathed cancer, and my husband had a lot of money.

  “Fine, I’ll go. But only to write a big check.”

  I got to my feet and gave the empty chocolate box a kick as I walked past. It disappeared under the bed with the rest of my demons.

  “Bueno. You have been lazy all week, señora. It is not attractive.”

  Heading into the walk-in closet, I aimlessly pushed clothes on hangers aside. “Thank you, Magdalena,” I responded, “but there’s no one here I want to attract.”

  She dug through my underwear drawer. “Because Antonio’s sleeping with Sydney?” A lacy thong hung from her finger. “What color do you want, querida? Red is good.”

  The vise around my heart squeezed.

  “I see whoever taught you to clean taught you sensitivity as well,” I said, adding, “Nude, please.”

  “I do not clean.”

  “Exactly,” I muttered, walking past her with a loose black top cut off at the midriff and a matching high-waisted skirt I’d made from an old Nirvana t-shirt. With thigh-high boots, it would be perfect.

  I set the outfit on the bed and headed to the bathroom.

  Magdalena followed after me. “I knew she wasn’t a good friend for you from the beginning. Something in her eyes. You can always tell by the eyes. I told you, but you did not listen.”

  I fought an eyeroll. Magdalena loved Sydney and always told me I should act more like her, that my husband might love me if I did. My housekeeper was a habitual liar, a little crazy, and still the most normal person in the house.

  I wished she actually had warned me. Maybe then, it wouldn’t hurt so badly.

  My throat tightened, and betrayal burned the backs of my eyes.

  I grasped the edge of the sink, yellow-painted fingernails stark against the mess strewn across the counter. Dollar bills, the glint of a 9mm, pink blush, a baggie, and a dusting of white powder.

  I stared blankly at my reflection in the mirror.

  Ashy-blond hair straight from a bottle dripped water down olive skin. I met my reflection’s gaze, my soul staring back.

  You can always tell by the eyes.

  Magdalena turned the shower on. “You stink of depression, querida. Wash it away, and then I will do your hair.”

  I stepped in the shower.

  And I washed it away.

  Boots clicking on the marble floor, I waded through floating silver trays carrying champagne flutes that glinted beneath romantic lights. A mini orchestra played in the corner of the ballroom, a low, easy beat allowing monotonous conversation to be heard above it.

  I was numb in the heart, but trepidation flickered to life in the center. I’d ignored Antonio’s order to meet him at the club so we could arrive at the benefit together, and, instead, had come alone.

  I didn’t want to see him. I didn’t want to feel.

  And those two always came together.

  I had almost reached the donation table when my plan to get in and out before my husband arrived went down the toilet.

  “Gianna, you are as beautiful as always.”

  My eyes shut for a second. I turned around, a coy smile tugging at my lips.

  “Aw, you’re cute, too, Vincent.”

  The twenty-nine-year-old and owner of this fine hotel laughed. “Cute, what I’ve always aspired for.”

  In acquiescence to not getting out of here soon, I grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing tray. “Well, you pull it off magnificently,” I replied, my gaze taking in a group of Vincent’s acquaintances who congregated behind him.

  He ran a hand down his tie, eyes crinkling with amusement. “There’s a reason we’ve just ambushed you, and it wasn’t to talk about how cute I am.”

  My expression pouted in mock confusion. “Trying out new conversation, are you?”

  Vincent and his group chuckled. I took a sip of champagne.

  Awareness tickled in the back of my mind, and my gaze drifted to the ballroom’s double doors. My glass halted at my lips.

  Broad shoulders. Black suit. Smooth lines.

  Blue.

  Something in my chest crackled and sparked, like a firecracker on hot pavement.

  Agent Allister stood inside the doorway with a blonde by his side. She held onto his elbow, and he held my gaze.

  You can always tell by the eyes.

  I envied him at that moment.

  His were an ocean beneath ice, where nothing but the darkest creatures could thrive, while mine were a wide open plain.

  He saw everything.

  Every bruise.

  Every scar.

  Every slap against my face.

  I didn’t want anyone’s pity, but what drove me even crazier was that he was indifferent to it all. I’d forgotten what his voice sounded like but, somehow, I could hear what he would say to me now.

  Suck it up, sweetheart. You know nothing of pain.

  Contempt pulsed, hot and heavy, in my chest.

  It was irrational, I knew, but I blamed the man for putting the idea of sleeping with Nico in my mind.

  I blamed him because it was easy.

  I blamed him because he was cold enough it wouldn’t hurt.

  The fed’s gaze took in the group of men surrounding me. He looked away, but I saw the brief thought in his eyes before he and his blonde drifted into the crowd. He thought I was a flirt; a tease. He thought I was unfaithful.

  And now, I couldn’t even deny it.

  Hatred closed around my lungs and stole my breath.

  “I was just telling them about how we first met,” Vincent said. “Do you remember?”

  I brought my attention back to the group, a hot edge flowing from my chest to my grip on the stem of my glass. Forcing a smile to my lips, I responded, “Of course I do. You bet against my horse and lost, naturally.”

  “That, I did.” He dropped his gaze to the floor, clearing his throat with a smile. “But I’m talking about me getting tossed and then asking you to run away with me to Tahiti. And you saying no because you’d already been there, and Bora Bora was next on your list.”

  On cue, everyone laughed.

  I bit my cheek to hide a smile. “I was trying to save you from embarrassment, but it seems you’re a glutton for punishment tonight.”

  “It seems so,” he chuckled. “Morticia is up and running again, and I’m still betting she places this weekend.”

  “Oh, Vincent,” I said with disappointment, “you just love to throw your money away, don’t you?”

  The crowd grew in size until I couldn’t see beyond it, with bets and horse statistics being tossed into the center.

  “Gianna, are you coming to the Fall Meet this weekend?”

  “Gianna, are you betting on Blackie?”

  “Gianna, what about the afterparty?”

  It took thirty minutes to extradite myself from the conversation, and by that time, I’d drunk two glasses of champagne and needed to relieve myself. I used the restroom and then headed toward the donation table, hoping to hand in my check and make a clean exit.

  When I saw Allister’s back where he stood in front of the table speaking with one of the socialites in charge of the event, I stopped in my tracks. Hesitation settled in my stomach, and I took a step in the opposite direction, but, No way. I hated the man, though what I loathed even more was that his presence intimidated me.

  As if to prove something to myself, I waltzed up to the table and stopped close enough beside him my arm brushed his jacket. He glanced down at me before looking back to the middle-aged woman he spoke with like I was merely a part of the décor.

  “Well,” the blonde socialite said, a blush warming her cheeks, “my daughter couldn’t speak more highly of you, and I’m so glad you could make it. I know how busy a man like you must be. The crime in this city has been growing every year.”
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  “It’s been my pleasure entirely, ma’am.”

  I couldn’t hold in a quiet scoff.

  Allister’s lips tipped up, though he didn’t glance my way.

  The words he said to me one year ago filled with his voice once again. Refined, slightly rough, with an amused edge like he always knew something the other didn’t.

  The socialite glanced my way for a second before dismissing me and gazing at the fed, but then, as if she’d just processed what she saw, looked back at me.

  She stared without a blink. “I’m sorry . . . can I help you?”

  I pulled the check I’d written out of my bra and handed it to her. She held onto a corner gingerly, until she unfolded it and looked at the amount.

  “Wow,” she breathed. “This is incredibly generous. Thank you so much.” She scribbled something on a slip of paper and then handed out a clipboard. “I just need you to complete this short form, please.” When I only stared at it, she pressed, “Donor information and a tax receipt.” Her voice lowered. “You can claim this on your taxes.”

  “Oh, I don’t pay taxes.”

  She blinked.

  Allister grabbed the clipboard. “She’ll fill it out.”

  “Okay . . . great.” She took a step to the side before drifting away.

  “Tell me, do you think before you talk? Or do you just let things spew out?”

  “Well,” I said, frowning, “that time, I didn’t think, no. But how am I supposed to know about taxes? Antonio said he doesn’t have to pay them.”

  “Everyone has to pay taxes. It’s the law.”

  “Oh, the one you’re so good at upholding?”

  He shoved the clipboard in my direction. “Fill out the form and shut your mouth before I have to arrest you for tax evasion.”

  “Seems a little counterproductive, considering you’d have to let me out as soon as my husband finds out.”

  A muscle in his jaw tightened. “He’s your savior, is he?”

  I tensed at the dark tone in his voice—a tone that made me feel as if he knew more of my story than he should.

  “He’s my husband,” I replied, as if that said everything, when, really, it said nothing at all.

  I grabbed the clipboard. However, he held onto it for a second, his gaze touching my face before he finally let it go. He turned to look out into the ballroom, bringing a tumbler of some clear liquid to his lips. Probably water, knowing what a killjoy he was.