The Sweetest Oblivion

by Danielle Lori

  It felt like man, clean sweat and whiskey.

  Twinkling urban lights. High heels and short dresses. Too many drinks and meaningless sex hanging like an inevitable in the air. Nightlife was in full swing as we made our way into a side door of the club.

  I’d never been to a nightclub before. Had never been one of these girls who waited to get into my fiancé’s club. Who might’ve even had sex with him for all I knew. Some unease curled in my stomach. How could I ever please him when I was sure he’d been with much more experienced women? It was a hit to my womanhood imagining I would bore him in bed. He hadn’t even tried to get me there—had just given me an orgasm like it was an engagement present and left.

  I chewed the inside of my cheek in thought. The idea that he might not want to sleep with me only made me want it more. Just his hand on my arm and his presence by my side warmed me from the inside out.

  Nico guided me down a red-carpeted hall. The lighting was low, and the air carried a hint of fresh cigarette smoke. Wasn’t it illegal to allow smoking in one’s establishment in New York? A smile pulled on my lips. His most heinous crime, I bet.

  An electric beat pulsed through the walls as purple and blue strobe lights flickered into the hall like they’d escaped the dance floor. We went down a set of stairs and then stopped at a heavy metal door. Nico stood so close behind me his jacket touched my back. Over my head, he knocked five times in a heavy rap with a short pause in between each.

  A moment later, the door swung open and a dark-haired hostess in a tight black dress stood on the other side. “Signor Russo.” She smiled brightly at him, but then her smile fell as her eyes came down and regarded me. Her gaze narrowed, fake eyelashes and all. She did a great job with her makeup, I had to admit, but the way her lips curled in disgust like I was a cheap prostitute was blatantly rude.

  Ugh. My first day out with Nico and I was the most unpopular woman in the city.

  I would have brushed it off before, not having the guts to confront it in any way. Nonetheless, I was now marrying a don. I couldn’t let myself be run over by waitresses. It felt a little ridiculous, like I was playing immature games, but I reached back and slipped my fingers in between Nico’s.

  He stilled as if I surprised him, but after a second, his fingers tightened around my own. And then I felt a light smack on my ass to get me moving. The gesture made me warm everywhere, but thankfully it didn’t reach my face.

  I didn’t look at the waitress again, though I believed she got the picture. He could do whatever or whoever he wanted, but not in my presence. There was a certain amount of respect I was due, and I didn’t think even Nico would deny me that.

  I dropped his hand and stepped onto a short steel staircase. I blinked, taking it all in.

  A thick atmosphere hung in the air that I wouldn’t have expected in a place like this. For starters, it looked like there were maybe two women in the room, including the one at the door. The gross majority were men, from suits to board shorts and polos.

  Poker tables were distributed around the large area, with players occupying seats in front of them, all in different stages of betting their life savings away.

  I followed Nico down the stairs, observing the obvious illegal gaming hall. A card game ended, and as the players stood, all five lit a cigarette and headed to the corner of the room.

  “Are they not allowed to smoke at the tables?” I asked Nico.

  “They can. Most times it’s a tell so they wait until the game’s over.”

  Interesting.

  I liked to know weird stuff like this.

  I fired questions at him all the way to his office, from how much the House made in one night (roughly twenty grand) to why there were only two women (they were distracting).

  The gambling was serious enough that distractions weren’t wanted in any way. Nobody paid me an ounce of attention as we walked toward the back of the room. The men at the tables were statues of concentration, and the ones smoking were sweating from their losses or too busy texting about their winnings.

  His office was a perfect square with a blue, stylish couch, a mahogany desk with a couple chairs in front of it, a flat-screen TV, and a minibar. I set my clutch on the glass coffee table, while he pushed a button on his keyboard to get the computer started.

  The walls were concrete, but with the gold and blue oriental rug and nothing but one piece of artwork on the wall, the room was somehow warm and comfortable.

  I studied the painting that sat behind a shiny piece of glass. Pastel colors and bold yet refined sweeps of a brush. I wasn’t an artistic person like my sister, but I recognized the work. I’d watched a documentary about the downfall of modern art. That what we consider art today is a poor example of the talent and heart of art in the past.

  “I didn’t take you to have a soft spot for Monet,” I said, glancing at him.

  His attention was on his computer, but a small smile pulled on his lips. He stood with one hand braced on the desk while hitting keys with the other. Either he had this place under his command much like a mad scientist with their destructive red buttons, or he was a very unproductive typist.

  “My mamma was a fan.”

  My stomach warmed at the deep way mamma rolled off his lips. “She had good taste.”

  He laughed quietly. A bitter note showed through, and he wiped his amusement away with a palm like he’d just realized what he’d done. It felt like I was about to wade into deep waters, but I couldn’t stop myself from going deeper.

  I raised a brow. “You don’t like Monet?”

  “I have it in my office, don’t I?”

  “That’s not why you have it in here.”

  His shoulders tensed, and he pushed his keys a little harder. “You analyzing me?”

  I gazed at the soft, pastel strokes in the painting. “There’s a saying amongst us women: Don’t trust a man who isn’t good to his mamma.”

  His gaze burned into my cheek. “You think I was bad to my mother?”

  I wasn’t sure how I recognized I wouldn’t get to know him easily, that I might have to get him worked up to do so. He wasn’t someone to sit around and share his past with others, his fiancée included. I needed to know the man I would marry. There was a part of me that just wanted to know, so I lifted a shoulder. My heart danced at the unfamiliar game I was playing.

  “Am I supposed to think differently?”

  He let out an unamused breath, but he didn’t say another word. He didn’t try to defend himself, and my stomach tightened with the need to assure him that wasn’t what I thought. Was it?

  An itch began in my throat to apologize for what I’d insinuated as he walked across the office to leave, and I turned to see him open the door.

  “James will be right outside if you need something. Stay here. I shouldn’t be gone long.”

  “Nico, wait. I shouldn’t have said—”

  Nicolas called into the hallway for a Lucky. Glancing back at me, he said, “No, you’re right. You shouldn’t trust me. I’ve already lied to you since we’ve been in this room.”

  I swallowed. “About what?”

  He paused with a hand on the doorknob. “I always just say she was a fan. It’s much easier to say than to explain that she was always so high she couldn’t tell a Monet from a fucking caricature painted on the street.”

  “True love stories never have endings.”

  —Richard Bach

  THE DOOR SHUT BEHIND HIM, and I was convinced I was the worst person in the world at that moment. I had no idea about his mother. I’d assumed she’d died of cancer or some other illness, but now I wondered if it was an illness at all. I had imagined that in his family, the woman would be the only reliable and steady person to lean on. He didn’t even have that.

  This painting had been his mamma’s, and he’d kept it even though she was probably far from the best parent.

  He was good to his mamma.

  I needed a drink.

  As I took my time making a gin an
d tonic, a kid of fifteen or sixteen stepped in. Once he shut the door, he stood beside it with a stoic expression. I had a James in the hall and this must be Lucky. The nickname had conjured an image of a beefy man with a shamrock tattoo, not a boy. My fiancé must be initiating this kid, poor thing.

  I smiled. “Hello. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

  “Matteo, but everyone calls me Lucky,” he said, slipping his hands into his suit pants pockets.

  “Why do they call you Lucky?”

  “I suppose because I’m lucky, ma’am.”

  A bit of amusement rose in me. “Nice to meet you, Lucky. I’m Elena, but you probably already know who I am, considering you’re my babysitter and all.”

  He laughed a slightly uncomfortable laugh.

  I flicked the TV on and got settled on the couch. For twenty minutes, I watched the news and sipped my drink, with the intermittent commotion from outside and the electro beat pulsing through the ceiling. Nico better be confident his gaming hall wouldn’t be busted while I sat in his office. Though, it wasn’t exactly a real worry of mine. An FBI agent showed up to his parties; I was sure he had the rest of the force in his pocket.

  I sighed. Lucky had only been quietly standing by the door like the good Made Man in training he was. I grabbed a pack of cards off the coffee table and turned the box in my hands.

  “Lucky, would you like to play cards with me?”

  “Oh, well,”—he ran a hand across the back of his neck—“I’m no Ace.”

  My brows knitted, unsure of what he meant. “I just thought cards would be a good alternative to us both dying of boredom.”

  He chuckled. “Um . . .”

  “Or are you not allowed to?” How strict was my fiancé with his men?

  A corner of his lips lifted. “I’m only supposed to look in your direction when you speak to me.”

  I guess that answers that . . .

  With a sigh, he said, “One game.”

  He didn’t sound so sure, and I hesitated because I didn’t want to get him in trouble. But he was already walking to the couch, and the truth was, I didn’t want to sit in silence any longer.

  “Are you related to Nico?” I asked.

  “Cousin,” he said. “My papà was his papà’s brother.”

  Lucky was taller than me, but he was lean and wiry. Still a boy. I wondered what Nico was like at Lucky’s age. Probably still bossy and used to getting his way.

  Poker was the game of choice, and when I told Lucky we didn’t have to play for money, he looked at me like I was crazy. I laughed. What a little Russo in the making.

  So I played poker with this teen boy and bet money I didn’t have.

  I lost.

  I used to play often. Nonna had a taste for the game, and sometimes when my mamma got a hankering for “family night” we all got together and played.

  “Lucky,” I said, rearranging my cards, “how did your aunt die?”

  “Caterina?” He frowned. “Drug overdose, I think. I was a baby at the time.”

  I sighed. Yep, horrible person.

  “Where is Nico tonight?” I was 99 percent sure he wouldn’t tell me, but that still left a 1 percent possibility. When his shoulders tensed slightly, alarm ran through me.

  “I don’t know,” he said eventually.

  “Yes, you do,” I accused.

  He glanced at me with wide eyes. “Well, I do, but I’m not going to tell you.”

  “Why not?” I pretended to be taken aback.

  “Because Ace would have my ass if I talked business with you.”

  “How would he know?”

  He only shook his head.

  “Fine.” I set my cards on the coffee table and then stood.

  “Where are you going?” His tone wavered.

  “I think I’ll go dancing upstairs.”

  He shot to his feet. “No—wait.”

  I halted in front of the door with my back to him.

  “James is in the hall and you won’t get past him,” he said.

  “But it would look bad that I got past you, wouldn’t it?”

  Three seconds passed.

  “Fine.” It was a little boy growl.

  A smile pulled on my lips.

  “He’s dealing with the man that knocked up your sister.”

  I went still, took a deep breath, and then headed straight for the minibar.

  “You lost again.”

  One game had turned into three, and Lucky was either lucky or I was just bad.

  I sighed and tossed my cards on the coffee table, watching some scatter to the floor. I was on my third drink and my head felt the effects.

  Nico had been gone for almost two hours and the worry gnawed at me. He told me I shouldn’t trust him, so how could I trust the promise he’d made me about Ryan?

  “That’s two grand now,” Lucky said, smug.

  I groaned in my mind. Russo boys were just as bad as Russo men.

  “Two grand, huh?” The voice carried a dark edge.

  Lucky shot to his feet for the third time that night. “Boss—”

  “Enough.”

  The kid shut his mouth.

  Nico’s focus was on me as he walked into the room. Self-assurance seemed to brew under his skin, like he’d gone for a run and instead of perspiring, he sweat cool confidence. His mood was electric and affecting me like a contagion in the air.

  “Get the fuck out, Lucky.” Nico’s voice held a sharp note as he unbuttoned his suit jacket. His cousin headed toward the door. “Leave your post again and I swear you’ll be unable to leave your bed for a week.”

  Lucky said, “Yes, boss,” before shutting the door behind him.

  “Is there a reason my men don’t do what they’re told when you’re around?”

  “Maybe you need to ask nicely,” I said, biting my cheek to hide my amusement. “A please never killed anyone, you know.”

  “I suppose not.” His gaze sparked with dark amusement. “It seems to be your favorite word under certain circumstances.”

  I sucked in a breath as warmth rushed to my cheeks. The blush spread throughout my entire body, and to distract myself from it, I changed the subject.

  “I lost two thousand.” My tone was unapologetic, like I did this all the time.

  Nico tugged on his tie, a smile pulling on his lips. “You didn’t lose anything. He cheated you.”

  I paused. “How do you know that?”

  “Because I taught him how, that’s why.”

  Lucky, my ass.

  “He would’ve won without the cheating,” I admitted with a sigh. “I have a terrible poker face.”

  An intense gaze met mine, the pressure of it touching my skin. “Somehow, I doubt that.” He walked toward me with his hands in his pockets, and it felt as if I was forgetting how to breathe with each step.

  I had no idea how to respond to that, or why it felt like it meant something, so I only said, “I don’t know the first thing about how to recognize when someone’s cheating, either.” I had the feeling I would get eaten alive in the Russo family. Even a teen boy had shown me up.

  Nico dropped to his haunches before my spot on the couch and picked up a card from the floor. My heart pattered like rain against glass. He was close enough I could reach out and run my hand through his hair.

  “Well, we’ll have to fix that, won’t we?”

  In between his pointer and middle finger, he held the card out to me, but before I could reach for it, it disappeared into thin air.

  My eyes went wide. “How did you do that?”

  “Simple sleight of hand.”

  The cheating in the Russo family was so extreme that making cards disappear was “simple.”

  “Show me,” I insisted.

  His gaze sparked with amusement. “We’ll start with the basics first, so I can leave you alone for a couple hours without you losing all my money.”

  I frowned.

  He picked up the rest of the cards, and I noticed his freshly b
usted knuckles. I chewed my lip as he got to his feet, took off his jacket, and sat in the chair behind his desk.

  “You play often?” I asked.

  He leaned back, resting an elbow on the armrest. “Used to.”

  “Why not anymore?”

  “Got business to run.”

  “Lucky made it sound like you were good. But now I can’t decide if you were good at poker or good at cheating.”

  A dark smile pulled on his lips. “Sounds like you got him talking.”

  Eh. I knew that tone, and it wouldn’t be good for Lucky.

  “Well . . . no. I kind of threatened him and told him I would go dancing upstairs if he didn’t tell me what I wanted to know.”

  “And what did you want to know?”

  I swallowed. “Where you were tonight.”

  “I thought my business would be the last thing on earth to interest you,” he said in an amused drawl.

  “Some of your business has become personal.”

  His words were tinged with sarcasm, yet so quiet I barely heard them. “Don’t I know it.”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I didn’t wonder about it anymore when he said, “He’s alive, just like I told you he’d be. Your famiglia is taking him into the fold right now.”

  I cringed. “He’ll live?”

  “He’ll live.”

  I let out a deep breath of relief and let my head fall against the back of the couch.

  “Thank you,” I said softly.

  “I think we both know I hardly did it to be charitable.”

  My cheeks flushed as I remembered our bargain. He’d yet to cash in on that. It made me believe he didn’t want to. Or maybe he didn’t want me to know how charitable he could really be . . .

  Nico had some emails to reply to, so while waiting I used my phone to look at wedding table arrangements on my mamma’s party planner’s website. Out of the options in stock, I narrowed it down to a short round vase with studded pearls around the edges, and a simple one that would sit on a piece of glass.

  I sent the pictures to Mamma only to receive a text that said: They both look like something you’d find at one of those Goodwills.

  The vases were simple and classic and me.