The Maddest Obsession (Made Book 2)

by Danielle Lori

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” I took a sip of my latte, then said, “He gave me his number.”

  “Really? Why haven’t you called him?”

  “Because I don’t want to call him. I just want to know why he hasn’t called me.” Perfectly logical.

  Valentina laughed. “Listen, your fed is a total hottie—God knows, I wouldn’t tell him no if he’d like to go downtown—but he’s dirty. And I mean, really dirty.”

  “Trust me, I already know. He killed Prince Charming.”

  “What? Oh, never mind. I don’t want to know. Ricardo told me nobody knows where the fed’s from, that he sort of just popped up in the underworld one day with connections from La Eme to the Bratva.”

  I dodged a cyclist at the last second. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, he’s this super-important guy with super-important connections . . .” I muttered, rolling my eyes.

  “Apparently, he’s good with computers, like some kind of genius or something. Like Einstein, just without a conscience. Guess that’s why the Bureau picked him up. You can’t trust anyone who works for the government, Gianna. He’d probably knock up another woman with twins the second you two became steady.”

  “Your imagination is extraordinary.”

  “Thanks.”

  A beep told me I had another call, and when I saw it was from Chicago a zip of anticipation shot through me.

  “I have to go, Valentina. I’ll chat with you later.”

  “Toodles.”

  I answered the other call. “Hello?”

  “Gianna.”

  The sorrow in her voice cooled my veins.

  I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, my pulse fluttering in my throat. “Tara . . . how is she?”

  A long pause, and I knew.

  I knew my mamma was dead.

  “No . . .” I stood still, but the ground moved, threatening to crumble and swallow me whole. My throat felt thick, and my words were nearly inaudible. “I’m supposed to see her tomorrow.” The plane ticket to Chicago suddenly weighed twenty pounds in my purse.

  “Gianna . . . I’m so sorry, but she’s gone. She was strong for so long . . .”

  My latte slipped from my fingers, splattering on the pavement. The sun warmed my skin, but inside, I was nothing but ice. My ears rang, and the bustle of this New York City street was shrouded by the hands of grief.

  “I’ll come see her tomorrow,” I said mindlessly.

  “She loved you so very much.” Tears and a smile touched the nurse’s voice. “You were everything to her.”

  Pink church dress. Her smile. A hand on my heart. “Dance to this . . . whenever and however you want.”

  Pain, raw and angry, escaped from its cage deep inside and grabbed me by the throat.

  “Why?” I sobbed. Why her? Why was this world so unfair? So bitter? Why did love hurt worse than pain?

  “The fact she survived such an aggressive cancer for so long was a miracle, Gianna. You were blessed with more time with her.”

  The only blessing was Tara. She was the only reason I could see my mamma in the hospice center she’d resided in for the last two years. My papà forbade me from visiting—from breathing, if he could.

  Tears burned the backs of my eyes, my heart, my soul. “Thank you, Tara, for everything you did for her . . . for me.”

  “Yes, well, I couldn’t live with myself if I kept a mother from her daughter.”

  As I stared blankly ahead of me, the world felt so big, so heavy, its weight too painful to bear.

  Someone bumped into my shoulder, knocking my phone from my hand.

  It cracked on the sidewalk.

  I didn’t remember how I made it home. But sometime later, I stood on my terrace as rain spilled from the sky. Cold. Lonely. High. I cried, sobs that rocked my shoulders. I cried twenty-four years’ worth of pain. I cried until my stomach ached and I could cry no more.

  It was the last thing I remembered as I woke on a hard jail cell floor.

  One count of drug possession and driving under the influence.

  Numbness had spread through my veins and settled in my heart. I sat with my arms around my knees, staring ahead. I somehow knew Allister wouldn’t come, but I didn’t want him to. I didn’t want anyone to save me. Maybe this was where I needed to be. Nonetheless, I was escorted out of the precinct thirty minutes later and straight to Ace’s club.

  He glanced at me, shook his head, and looked back at the papers on his desk. “Do you understand the shit it takes to get you out of jail? I have enough on my plate without having to look out for you.”

  I understood the significance of what he’d said, but still, I felt nothing. Someone’s suit jacket rested on my shoulders. It was heavy, and for a second, I thought it was guilt.

  “I’d fucking leave you there if I didn’t think you’d crack like an egg the first time someone interrogates you. You need a damn therapist, Gianna,” he bit out, running a hand through his hair. “The shit you went through . . . Your papà makes me fucking sick. I wanted to end him when I was ten years old.”

  Our fathers had been family friends. I’d known Nico since I was five, and he six. Maybe it was the perfect romantic story—Nico had seen most of my twisted little pieces. But I could never love Nico. He hadn’t saved me.

  “I know what you’re going to say, but I have to ask it: Would you like to go home to Chicago?”

  I shook my head.

  “Then your single life is over.” His gaze met mine. “Pick one of my men, Gianna, or I will do it for you.”

  One week later, I became Mrs. Richard Marino.

  September 2015

  “HAVE YOU EVER WANTED SOMETHING, Sasha, something you couldn’t shake, no matter how fucking hard you tried?” Her soft, vanilla scent, the impression her hands leave on me for days, her ridiculous clothes, her husky laugh that lights up my body. “Then you get a taste of it . . .” And it gives you fucking chills. “And you forget why you didn’t want it in the first place?”

  Sasha opened her mouth, closed it. “You want something you can’t have.” The words poured from her lips in thought and disbelief, like she didn’t believe I couldn’t have whatever I wanted.

  Her and me both.

  I rolled the agitation off my shoulders. “I wanted something I could have.”

  “Interesting use of past tense. Maybe you don’t want it because you’ve always known you could never obtain it.”

  I let out a sardonic breath, hating that Sasha was fucking right.

  I’d always set Gianna on an unreachable shelf, and not even because she was newly married to Antonio and oblivious to me when I first met her, but because there was something genuine and astute about her. She’d see me for what I was really was. Dirty. Stained. She’d see everything I’d tried to obliterate about my childhood. And I fought hard to escape my past. I refused to be dragged back.

  I should be relieved she was out of reach once again, but, with the recent memory of her lying on my bed, finally staring up at me with sweet, submissive eyes, I didn’t feel any form of respite. It felt like something had been fucking stolen from me.

  “So, you got a taste for it . . . and I’m assuming you realized it was unobtainable once again while in the computer lab last week?”

  I ran a thumb across my jaw.

  My business overseas had taken longer than I thought, but one month shouldn’t be long enough to come home and find Gianna fucking married. Hearing the news, nonchalantly, from Ace on the phone had felt like a blow to the stomach. It stole my fucking breath, turned my blood to fire. I’d lost it. I’d destroyed every goddamn computer in that room.

  I’d known, if I touched Gianna, it would be over for me. I’d known she would feel too good to ever go back. But, Jesus, I wasn’t a saint. She was half-naked, her tits in my face, and I’d dreamed about them for so long I had to know what they tasted like. They tasted like they belonged to me; like they were mine.

  And now, after that realization, she was another man’s. I c
ould eliminate that problem within the hour. My hands sometimes shook with the fucking urge. But she wasn’t in this like I was. She hadn’t called me when she was in trouble. I bet I hadn’t even crossed her mind. She’d been under my skin for years, I knew more about her than I ever should, and I wasn’t even on her radar.

  I suddenly wished I was in Moscow at that moment—to kill my fucking brother. Or better yet, never leave Gianna naked in my bed to go save his ass from the Chechens who’d managed to keep him hostage for the last month. But I knew I could never turn my back on Ronan. He was the only one who understood what made me. He should—he had the same bitch of a mother.

  Sasha watched me and cocked her head. “The men you spoke of during our last session, are they still a part of your life?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Because I killed them.

  “Your grandparents still in your life, Sasha?”

  “No, they’re dead.”

  I let her words fill the silence.

  She swallowed. “I hear you’ve put a request in to transfer to Seattle. That’s quite the move.”

  I could only hope an entire country would be enough.

  “In fact, I received an email this morning from our director, who has already approved the transfer on the understanding that I’ve cleared you, of course.”

  How passive aggressive.

  The Bureau needed me more than I’d ever needed it. Not many could stomach their kill lists and preferred forms of interrogating—not to mention, cleaning up after some sadistic politicians. I could have any job in any outfit I wanted, but the FBI had the structure and front I’d always needed. And to think I could have lost it because of a fucking woman . . .

  “I think we both know you are cleared for work. To be honest, I’m not sure why they made you go through this charade.”

  “Are you disappointed?”

  She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, something light and breathless in her eyes. “No. I’ve wanted to get into your head for a long time.”

  My laugh held a dark note. “You’re lucky I let you out.”

  Getting to my feet, I straightened my cuffs and began to leave.

  “They have a word for what you’ve described, Christian.”

  I paused, my hand on the doorknob.

  “Obsession.”

  A corner of my lips lifted as I stepped out of the room and shut the door behind me.

  Present Day

  “I JUST—WELL, WHAT I’M trying to say is, will you marry me?”

  I blinked at the man on one knee beside me. Board shorts, no shirt. Holding a massive diamond ring in a black velvet box. If I put it on and fell overboard, I would sink straight to the ocean floor.

  Lying on a lounge chair, the yacht gently rocking in the waves, I shielded my eyes from the sun. “Vincent, I thought it was illegal to be married to two men at once? Are you telling me I’ve been living a lie all this time?”

  Vincent sighed. “Everyone knows your marriage is a sham. There’s no relationship between you and Richard. You don’t even wear a ring.”

  The diamond he held sparkled in the sun, blinding me. I sat up and wondered why things like this always happened to me. “Even if I could marry you, Vincent . . . I wouldn’t because I’d drive you crazy within a week.”

  “Crazy,” Valentina agreed from the chaise beside me, and sipped her mojito through a straw.

  “I’m terribly messy,” I continued. “Even my housekeeper is messy. That’s how messy my life is.”

  “Gianna, I don’t care about any of that. It’s just . . . I’m in love with you.”

  Valentina choked. Then coughed and smacked her chest.

  Ironic, how, in our life, a man proposing marriage was less bizarre than an admission of love.

  I fingered the gold body chain crisscrossing my bare midsection as my gaze swept the yacht. Everyone’s eyes were glued to us. Sympathy filled my chest. Love sucked. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Well, except Hitler. And definitely Lord Voldemort.

  I stood. “Come get a drink with me, will you, Vincent?”

  He sighed, lifted his head to the sky. He knew I was going to turn him down gently, but eventually, he closed the ring box with a sad little click and got to his sandaled feet. I padded below deck and headed toward the small bar with every intention of making a really strong drink.

  “Why do you love me?” I asked, pouring Patrón into a glass.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re . . . so . . . gorgeous, Gianna. Whenever I see another woman, I can’t stop myself from comparing her to you.”

  Was that all it took to love someone?

  I reached for the orange juice, but at the last minute, changed course and instead added more tequila to the glass.

  “I want to take care of you, Gianna . . . to get to know you better than anyone else.”

  Now, that was kind of sweet.

  Nevertheless, this man would run for the hills the moment he became aware of my daddy issues. Vincent loved the me he saw: the bubbly, fresh, and social me. He wouldn’t know what to do with the mess underneath, the one I tried to hide one panic attack at a time.

  “Vincent, you know I can’t marry you.” I turned around, and that’s when he kissed me. My full glass of tequila sloshed over the rim and onto my hand. He grabbed my face between his warm, soft hands and pressed his lips against mine. Gently. Passively. Like if he wasn’t careful, I’d break.

  Bite me. Pull my hair. Push my back against the wall.

  Still, the press of his lips was soft and sweet and uninspiring. A sigh of disappointment played in my mind. He pulled back, breaths heavy, like he’d had an entirely different experience than me.

  That was the first kiss I’d had since an unmentionable dirty fed. And while a part of me was dying for more, from anyone who could sate the need inside me, the other couldn’t be more impassioned.

  “That was . . . wow,” he breathed.

  I tossed back the rest of the liquor. It burned away the taste of his cherry ChapStick.

  “Wow, right?” he questioned.

  “What?” I mumbled. “Oh, yes . . . wow.”

  He grabbed my sticky, tequila-doused hand. “Give us a chance, Gianna. I’ll take you places—show you the world. There is nothing I wouldn’t give you.”

  I could imagine most women would be over the moon to be in my position right now. But me? It only made me angry. Heat pricked beneath my skin.

  “You don’t get it, Vincent, do you? I can’t just divorce my husband and run away with you.” I ripped my hand away and realized I had said that in rapid-fire Italian. Heaviness settled on my shoulders. I took a deep breath and tried again in English. “A divorce isn’t possible for me, Vincent.”

  He swallowed, rubbed his brow in thought. “Okay. We don’t need the title then. Just . . . be with me.”

  God, I wished I was less of a Tin Man. I wished all the possible love I could give hadn’t been stolen from me the first twenty-odd years of my life. I wished I was normal. Because here stood this perfect man professing his love for me, and my heart didn’t even twitch.

  “My life isn’t as liberating as you must imagine, Vincent. I can’t cuckold my husband. I couldn’t promise your safety if it was found out.” I sighed sadly. “Mine either, honestly.” I was pretty sure Ace was on his final straw with me.

  Vincent looked disgusted. “Your own family would hurt you?”

  A light laugh escaped me, and I was surprised it wasn’t bitter. I guessed I had a better grasp on my demons than I thought. “Maybe not physically, but they could make things very unpleasant for me.” Like sending me home to Chicago . . .

  He ran a hand into my hair, lightly grasping the back of my head. The physical contact had become so foreign over the years goosebumps rose on my skin.

  “We can keep us a secret.”

  “This isn’t Romeo and Juliet,” I said quietly, pulling his hand from my hair. “But if you push this, Vincent, we might e
nd up like them.”

  I stepped around him and headed back to the deck.

  My mamma’s words filled my head with a sense of melancholy and the smell of her floral perfume.

  One day, you’re going to be a little heartbreaker.

  What a terrible fate.

  I wrestled my apartment door open, dropping my purse in the process, and then flicked on the light. The bulb in the living room popped and then faded, bathing the room in darkness.

  “Oh, no, no, no,” I muttered, as my eyes drifted to the light switch in the kitchen. It sat only ten feet away, yet the distance began to stretch until it felt like a mile. My heart tripped over every beat, and I wiped my clammy hands on my swimsuit cover. You can do it, I assured myself. The dark is only an absence of light. It can’t hurt you.

  I stepped forward and then froze in cold fear as the darkness morphed into a house of mirrors, reflecting every nightmare I’d ever lived through. My lungs tightened, and I took a step back.

  I slid down the wall beside the door in the hall and tried to stop the shake in my hands. Pulling my phone from my purse, I called Lorenzo. It went straight to voicemail. I cursed, choosing the next contact on the list.

  “What?” Luca answered.

  I swallowed. “My light bulb burnt out.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “I thought you were over that shit.”

  “No, I was just high.”

  “So save me the trouble and do a line.”

  “My therapist says drugs don’t fix problems, they only prolong them.” Now, I only used blow when the loneliness seemed darker than the guilt of a high.

  “He did, did he? Just how much are you sharing with him, Gianna?”

  “Just all the sordid details of your life.”

  He grunted. “Must keep him entertained.”

  “Or nauseous,” I retorted.

  He made a noise of amusement and then hung up.

  I pulled my legs to my chest, rested my head against the wall, and once again waited for a man to save me from a problem another created.

  Luca stepped off the elevator twenty minutes later, large form, crisp gray suit, and all. I didn’t look at him as I stated matter-of-factly, “There are two-thousand-twenty-two bricks in that wall.”