The Sweetest Oblivion

by Danielle Lori

“Not sure what you’re talking about,” Tony drawled. “I didn’t miss—what was his name? Ah, yes, Piero . . .?” My brother’s eyes flickered with dark enjoyment. “Hit the bullseye on that one.”

  Tony’s amusement faded into a deathly quiet that even the family and guests at the head of the table noticed. Everything went static, like a still-shot in a magazine.

  I never saw it coming.

  My pulse leapt into my throat as an arm clamped around my waist, pulling me to my feet. My head was forced to the side as a cold barrel pressed against my temple.

  Shouting rang out in Italian. Chairs fell backward to the patio as everyone jumped to their feet. Guns rose in every direction.

  I heard my papà ordering commands, but my heart drowned out his voice. Bu-bum. Bu-bum. Bu-bum. The beat resounded beneath a cold sheen of fear.

  I hadn’t lived a picturesque life, no matter what my red front door and golden knocker conveyed. I’d seen my papà cut off a man’s finger when I was seven. I’d watched my uncle shoot a man in the head, his face sideways on the bloodstained carpet, eyes open. I’d seen knife wounds, bullet wounds, so much red. But through all that, I’d never had a gun pressed to my head. Never felt cold metal against my temple. Never felt as if my life could be gone, just like that.

  The cold in my veins froze to ice.

  Nicolas’s voice cut through the drumming of blood in my ears. It was low and smooth, and I grabbed onto it like a life raft. “Put it down, Stefan.”

  “He was the one who killed Piero!” The barrel shook against my head, and my lungs constricted, but I didn’t move a muscle as I stared at the hedges lining the iron fence.

  “Tony!” my papà snapped. “Don’t.”

  I glanced at my brother, only to stare at the end of a barrel. He was going to shoot the Russo behind me, but with my heels on the man didn’t have much height on me.

  “You’re a poor fucking shot, Tony. We all know you’ll hit the favored little Abelli!” Stefan’s heated voice vibrated against my back.

  “Put. It. Down.” Nicolas’s words carried a calmness with a hint of animosity, like the ocean before a storm.

  One second, two seconds. Stefan was hesitating—

  Bang.

  Something warm and wet hit my face. My ears rang as the voices around me sank underwater. The man’s arm fell from me, and a dull thunk sounded as he hit the ground.

  The newscaster’s voice replayed in my mind, murder spilling from red lips, again, and again. Numbness flooded me. Sounds rushed in, pulled out of water with heavy chains, dripping wet.

  “Sit the fuck down! Now!” my father’s voice rang out. “We’re going to finish this lunch, goddammit!”

  It took a moment for his words to process and to realize that everyone sat stiffly in their chairs but him and Nicolas. My future brother-in-law’s heavy, unreadable gaze touched my skin as I stared at the gun in one of his hands.

  “Elena! Sit!” Papà snapped.

  I dropped into my chair.

  The warmth of blood dripped down my cheek. Red had splattered across my chair and part of the white tablecloth. A dead Russo’s feet touched my own.

  I sat there, pulling my gaze from a staring Gianna to Tony, who ate his dessert with relish.

  “Elena.” The small warning came from my papà, and because I was told to, I put a forkful of tiramisu in my mouth and chewed.

  Placing my hand on the back of my hat, I glanced up at the clear blue sky.

  Circumstances aside, it really was a beautiful day.

  “This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine.”

  —William Shakespeare

  THE GUNSHOT ECHOED IN THE air, and the tension was louder than silverware against porcelain plates. The Abellis cast me cautious glances, while my family kept their eyes downcast on their desserts, stiffer than the chairs they sat on.

  Leaning back, I rested a forearm on the table and focused my gaze on the cigarette I rolled between my fingers. The anger was strong enough I had to choke it down. It burned in my throat, in my chest, and marred my vision with a red mist.

  My eyes skimmed up an inch to find Luca, my underboss and only reliable cousin, wiping a hand across his mouth in a poor attempt to hide his amusement. My gaze darkened, conveying I might just go for shooting two cousins today. He sat back in his chair, his humor fading.

  He’d just won a bet that we couldn’t get away without any altercations today. And won double because anything involving the Sweet Abelli had been a bonus. My family gambled on everything—everything. Any possible chance to gain a buck, they exploited it.

  I owed him five fucking grand. And I was putting the blame on a little black-haired prima donna, because if I thought about her brother right now I’d end up putting a bullet in his goddamn head.

  There are some relatives you don’t like—ones you might shoot on your own terms if given the chance. But being forced into it . . . that rubbed me the wrong way, like the lash of a horsewhip. My jaw tightened as venom crawled through my veins.

  My papà had a fondness for kicking me in the ribs when I acted without thinking.

  My mamma used to smoke at the kitchen table in her nightgown after she and my father would scream the house down.

  With my ribs burning and the cigarette in my hand, it wasn’t lost on me that the apple really doesn’t fall that fucking far from the tree. And I’d guess that those who’d known Antonio Russo—even my own family—would be hesitant to think of that as anything but unfortunate.

  I was a mold my father and the Cosa Nostra created. As bad a combo as a barrel of gunpowder and a little flame. Where my papà had lacked in my rearing, my mamma tried to fill in the cracks. She tried, through dilated pupils and frequent bloody noses. The late Caterina Russo did her best to teach her only child to respect women. Truthfully, it had never really stuck. It was hard to respect a mamma you had to pick up off the floor some nights. Not to mention, I’d had most things I’d wanted handed to me since I was old enough to ask for them. I didn’t need charm and respect to get women—my impending wealth and position had done that for me since I was thirteen years old.

  Luca’s mamma was the first to man up and shoot me the tiniest scowl. My family could be as pissed as they wanted, but I’d appreciate at least one fucking thank-you for stopping a bloodbath from ruining a perfectly good Sunday.

  Jesus. It was just Stefan anyway.

  Nobody liked Stefan.

  The truth was, not every man could handle being a Russo. My nonna used to say our blood ran hotter than most. Though maybe that had just been an excuse to justify why all of her male offspring were entitled, greedy, and possessive of things that weren’t theirs. A Russo wanted what he wanted, and once he did it was practically his. Most likely through a variety of illegal ventures. But maybe she was onto something, because it fucking felt hotter than it should.

  I’ll Be Seeing You by Billie Holiday filled the spacious backyard, the soft piano notes invading a tense atmosphere full of clearing throats and shifting gazes. I rolled the cigarette between my fingers, trying to quell the itch. I only smoked when I was too pissed off to see straight, or the rare occasion—unsettled.

  Salvatore left the table to send the servants home. They all knew who employed them and were connected to the Cosa Nostra in some way—but it was a sure bet the dead man lying on the patio, his blood running through the divots in the bricks, was too much for some of them.

  I’d only caught part of the conversation that set this in motion, but it was clear Tony had been gloating over killing Piero, another idiotic cousin of mine. I hadn’t known Tony was the one to do it, but I was hardly surprised. Hardly moved either. I’d addressed Piero’s death like I would a Zanetti’s: with two fingers of whiskey. You do stupid shit, you get killed. That’s how the world works, and my cousin had done more than enough.

  In all honesty, I thought Stefan was going to put the gun down. But at that point I hadn’t cared. A flash of anger had pulsed in my chest from my cousin’s disrespec
t, and, oddly enough, burned even hotter at the fact he was threatening the Sweet Abelli. The annoying feeling rushed over me that only I could threaten her—so I fucking shot him and watched the blood splatter against Elena’s white dress.

  Tony had had a hard-on for seeing me dead ever since his friend Joe Zanetti saw the end of my .45 enough years ago I thought it was irrelevant now. I’d assumed Tony and I would have some issues, but I’d underestimated what a fucking idiot he was and that he’d bring them to lunch. I guessed the idea that I’d be fucking his sister was chafing him a bit more than my usual presence would.

  I tapped my cigarette on the table, and before I could stop myself I glanced to where the Sweet Abelli sat. My eyes narrowed. I’d only owe Luca twenty-five if it weren’t for her.

  Blood dripped down her olive skin, yet she ate her dessert because her papà had told her to. I wasn’t usually a sadist, but Jesus, it was kind of hot. A reluctant rush of heat ran to my groin.

  Talking about sadists, my gaze found my cousin Lorenzo a couple seats down. He was staring at the girl like it was his job. And not any job I’d given him—because he was good at turning those to shit—but like a vocation or something. You’d never know looking at the man nor talking to him, but the bastard had an inclination for S&M. Knowing that and watching him stare at Elena Abelli, a sliver of irritation ran through me.

  She probably liked it sweet and vanilla.

  Probably preferred the man to get on his knees and beg a bit.

  Lorenzo would.

  I’d rather shut my dick in a car door.

  She’d glared at me at church today, and I’d wondered what the Sweet Abelli could have against me. I’d known the nickname before I even met the girl. It was an innocent pet name that became well-known—well, among men—because not only was she sweet, she had the sweetest body around.

  I’d heard more about this girl’s ass in the past couple years than I ever needed to. And truthfully, I’d grown sick of it. When something was overhyped, it was always a letdown. I guessed the joke was on me because this was not one of those times.

  I had always tuned out of conversation when she came up. I’d never seen her, but when my idiot cousins would waste time talking about the same pussy like it was what I paid them to do, it was an annoyance. Her name had become an irritation, like some kind of Pavlovian conditioning. So, when her papà had told me she was unfit for marriage, I hadn’t even asked why. I’d signed the contract for the other one.

  Then I saw her at church.

  Son of a bitch.

  My cousins would check out any woman under fifty. Any woman if she had just one decent attribute, so of course I had never believed the hype.

  Talk about a man’s wet dream.

  Her body . . . fucking centerfold-worthy. Her hair was a weakness of mine: black, silky, and long enough I could wrap it around my fist twice. The thought had flitted through my mind unwillingly. And at church. Jesus.

  It was the soft, innocent expression of hers, though, that seemed to burn through my skin and straight to my dick. It was so damn sweet, and I knew that’s where her little nickname had come from. Couldn’t be from Little Miss Glare’s personality.

  I’d observed her from the back of the church for far longer than I should have. I’d watched as she gave the same smile to every man in the congregation who came up to her, like it was a queue to see Her Majesty.

  I was six-foot-three—hardly inconspicuous—but she wouldn’t notice me for another thirty minutes, at which time she would glare at me.

  The Sweet Abelli was sweet to everyone but me. I could have laughed, if for reasons unknown to me, it didn’t piss me off. It was the first time since I’d become Boss that anyone had blatantly disrespected me. Maybe it was juvenile, but I wanted Elena Abelli to know I didn’t care for her much either.

  No woman with that much male attention could ever be anything but stuck-up and shallow. By her pink designer heels, I could see she liked to spend her papà’s money. Her sister was wearing flip-flops. I’d probably save millions of dollars by marrying her instead.

  Adriana was a little strange, but attractive. If you took her away from her sister, she was stunning; if she stood next to Elena, she’d blend into the wallpaper. This scenario worked for me just fine. I’d rather not have a wife all my cousins were jerking off to.

  It wasn’t like I cared much about who I married. It was time to take a wife, and in my world that meant profits. Salvatore had a little dispute with some Mexicans that was starting to grow into a problem. He’d grown soft in his old age. After the wedding, I’d help him find the root of the issue and deal with it the way I’d been taught: with a bullet through the head. This alliance was making me millions richer, not to mention would allow me control of most of the city.

  A wave of awareness ran down my spine when Elena’s gaze settled on me from across the table. It was a warm and annoying consciousness on the side of my face. I was going to ignore it, but I found myself glancing at her anyway. The back of my neck itched, but I held her stare until she looked away.

  After her glare at church, I’d taken it upon myself to find out why she was unfit for marriage. Turns out the Sweet Abelli ran away, got sweet with some man.

  I knew her lack of virginity wasn’t the reason Salvatore hadn’t offered her to me. It was only an excuse. Salvatore didn’t want me to have her, though I could hardly blame him. If I were him, I wouldn’t give my daughter to me either. It was easy to understand why Salvatore had little trouble offering his other one.

  Adriana sat beside me in a black dress, one leg crossed over the other. Her brown shoulder-length hair covered her face as she leaned forward and doodled something on her palm with a pen.

  I hadn’t said a word to her since she’d shown up to the table late. To be honest, I’d almost forgotten she was sitting here. I guessed it was time to get to know my future wife.

  “What are you drawing?”

  Adriana hesitated, but then turned her little palm around and showed me.

  “A rabbit.” It wasn’t a question because that’s what it fucking was.

  She pursed her lips and pulled her hand away to continue. “Mr. Rabbit,” she corrected in a tone that would have normally pissed me off. But I was already at my limit, so I shrugged it off and planned exactly what I was going to do to her brother.

  “Right or left?”

  Tony’s jaw ticked but he didn’t say a word, just sat in the chair across from his papà’s desk like he was at a board meeting. Blood dripped from his lip onto his white dress shirt, though he still wore a darkly entertained expression.

  So I hit him. Again.

  A burn traveled through my cracked knuckles.

  His teeth clenched, but he took it without a sound. Tony was one of those men who were so high on their own shit they couldn’t feel pain. He’d fucking feel something before I left this room.

  Rays of sun shone through the blinds into Salvatore’s office, lighting dust particles in the air. All the guests had filed out, and it was safe to say this lunch was a failure. Which only meant more lunches and parties I’d have to attend. None of the families wanted to risk acquainting everyone at such a large event, because shit like today could happen, before escalating into a bloodbath with women and children present.

  Luca stood in front of the door, his cold eyes focused on the back of Tony’s head. Benito and another of his younger cousins, who was close to Adriana’s age, leaned against the wall with their arms crossed, while Salvatore sat behind his desk with a contrite expression.

  I could start a war for Piero’s death if I wanted, which was probably why Salvatore was going along with this. That, and the fact that his daughter’s life had been threatened due to his son’s stupidity.

  “You fucked up, son,” Salvatore said, clasping his hands on the wooden desk. “I warned you and you went and caused trouble anyway. If something would’ve happened to Elena, you’d be floating in the Hudson. You should feel lucky.”

 
; “Lucky,” Tony mocked. He ran a hand across his jaw before saying, “Left.”

  Satisfaction filled my chest.

  Right, it is.

  “There are three sides to every story. Mine, yours and the truth.”

  —Joe Massino

  I PADDED DOWN THE CARPETED hall to the distant beat of the Misfits leaking from under my sister’s door. As soon as I entered my room, I left a trail of clothes to the bathroom. Bypassing the mirror, I turned the shower on hot and climbed in.

  It burned.

  Something had to wash this memory away. Today took me back to six months ago. It was the last day I’d had someone else’s blood splattered against my face.

  The hot water spilled from the faucet, matting my hair to my face and shoulders. I imagined it was paint—the red running down my body and swirling into the drain. If only guilt was so easy to get rid of.

  I closed my eyes.

  Shouting. Cold barrel against my temple. One second, two seconds. Hesitation—

  Bang.

  My eyes flew open.

  That gunshot hadn’t been in my mind.

  The back of my neck prickled. Hopefully it was only Tony shooting another one of Nonna’s vases. But until now, I hadn’t thought of the consequences Tony might face after the trouble he caused . . .

  I hopped out of the shower and dried off as fast as I could. Leaving my hair wet and uncombed, I threw on a t-shirt and shorts before running down the stairs. The marble floor was cold against my feet as I took the turn toward my papà’s office, and once again, I collided with something solid.

  A lungful of air escaped me. I’d been going so fast I would have fallen to my butt on the floor, but an arm wrapped around my waist as I teetered backward and steadied me. It was an incredibly warm and heavy arm.

  “Jesus,” Nicolas muttered with annoyance.

  My stomach tightened as it pressed against his. The contact made me tingle everywhere, but I didn’t have time to analyze the feeling more. I was spun out of his way and left to watch Nicolas’s back as he continued down the hall.