“You look nice,” he told me as we pulled out of the drive.
Like an idiot, I flushed all the way to my hairline.
He laughed quietly and then turned up Last Resort by Papa Roach until it was all I could hear.
Throughout the day, You look nice was a deep, worn-out recording in the back of my mind. It was such a simple observation, and for that reason warmth filled my chest. I was used to compliments, and maybe that sounded shallow, as though I felt I was deserving of them. But I didn’t believe I was, nor did I want them. In my life, the beautiful girls ended up like Gianna: hiding the misery in their eyes with dilated pupils.
I was observant as a child. I wanted to analyze the world and decipher its meaning, but what I found was myself as a little girl standing in front of a mirror where a loveless, empty life stared back.
The truth was, I was a liar. I’d always been a romantic. So deep a romantic that the thought of not finding my own love story felt like I once again stood in that vacant parking lot with nothing but snow and the whistle of cold wind.
I wasn’t the smartest girl in the world to blush from his compliment right after I’d used his girlfriend’s—lover’s, whoever she was—iron to curl my hair and pull it into a ponytail. Nevertheless, with a violence I hadn’t felt before, I only hoped the other woman wasn’t Gianna. She was my opposite—carefree and uninhibited—while I was so . . . pale in comparison. And with a triviality I doubted we shared, I was concerned about having to wear the same heels two days in a row because they were the only ones that paired well with my summer dress.
During the hour-long drive, I decided on the flowers for my bouquet and arrangements for the tables, while Nico was either on the phone or had the radio too loud for conversation. It was hardly a romantic date, but there was something comfortable about it.
Cars sparkled beneath sunlight as people milled up and down the parking lot. The day heated up like an oven burner, like the sun was angry at the world. In my ignorance, I believed there would be entertainment of some kind. However, the only entertainment was the cars. It was at times like this I was glad my thoughts were private.
Maybe there weren’t any performances, but what I experienced was far from monotony. I oftentimes felt like one of the cars to be admired as Nico’s attention found me, burning my skin with a distinct gaze that brought one thing to mind. I wondered if he was as attentive with all his women, and then immediately hated myself for thinking it.
“Stay by my side,” he’d told me as soon as we got there.
A tenacious part of me wanted to know what he would do if I didn’t.
I always was a bit too curious.
As he was busy saying a few words to one of the cars’ owners, I slipped away and pretended to be admiring a convertible. It was only thirty seconds later that a large, intimidating presence brushed my back.
His voice was gravel, silk, and annoyed against my ear. “Do you honestly think I’m going to follow you around all day?”
I nodded, my heart fluttering like wings. “You have to.”
He didn’t touch me anywhere, though he stood so close the deep timbre of his words touched my neck. “I don’t have to do anything.”
The light summer breeze played on my skin as people walked around us, but I was only aware of one of them, one man.
You look nice.
Mine.
“Maybe you want to,” I breathed.
Two heartbeats passed. Three.
He could have said he didn’t. He could have said anything to deny it, but instead, he chose to let a silence full of unspoken words spread between us.
This tie we shared used to be equal parts thrill and terror. Today, the former was nudging the other away until it was as forgotten as a faded photograph tucked in the bottom of a drawer.
As I often pushed my luck and stepped away from him, growing tired of his car talk with the few people he chose to speak to, I felt his gaze follow my every move, even while he was immersed in conversation. And I realized one thing: I might not be the only woman in his life, but I would be the only one he called wife. The revelation was a vigorous thrum in my chest. So consuming a hum I couldn’t force myself to feel anything but a deep-seated contentment.
“Nicolas,” I said a few moments later, covering my eyes from the sun as I glanced across the lot. “It’s just like your Gran Torino.”
Nico stopped by my side but was busy sending a text. I’d yet to see this man drunk when I’d assumed he was an alcoholic. However, I was always seeing him work. I was beginning to think workaholic was a more likely diagnosis.
“How do you know what model my car is?” he asked without looking up.
“I have a superior knowledge in all things cars.” I smiled, because I didn’t even know how to freakin’ drive.
He glanced at me, amusement ghosting across whiskey-colored eyes. “I’m sure you do.” Slipping his phone into his back pocket, he looked across the lot. “That’s a ‘70. Mine’s a ‘72.”
I paused. That was awfully perceptive of him, having been too far away to read the paper in the windshield. “How do you know?”
“Wild guess,” he drawled.
Hmm . . .
“What year is that red one?” I pointed to the next Gran Torino in line.
He gave the car a glance. “‘71.” And then a smile pulled on a corner of his lips. “It was the movie, wasn’t it? How you know?”
I frowned.
That was the fourth time I heard him laugh. I didn’t know when I’d started counting, but now I wondered if I would ever stop.
I soon learned it wasn’t a “wild guess” as he’d said. In fact, with some more questioning, I realized he could tell me the make, model, and year of all these cars here with a simple look. He was like a car encyclopedia, though humble enough not to admit it.
I watched him, was fascinated in a way by the few words that he spoke, and I took a mental image when he glanced my way and the sunlight hit him just right. Pierced with that dark, acquisitive gaze of his, something warm started in my chest, and as the day went on it spread further through my being until it was so interwoven I’d never get it out.
“How do you know so much about cars?” I asked him as we walked side-by-side. The sun was a sweltering weight against my skin, and I pulled my ponytail off the back of my sticky neck.
“Kept me out of trouble,” was all he said.
I imagined he meant when he was a teenager. What kind of trouble did a young Nico get into?
Guilt felt heavy in my chest when I recalled what I’d insinuated about his mamma last night. My parents were far from the best, but I’d been safe, loved, and cared for as a child. I wondered who’d loved Nico. I bet his papà had shown him about as much affection as mine did Tony, which was worrisome. And I doubted an addict for a mamma could be very caring and supportive.
“Nico,” I said, then hesitated. I wanted to ask him so much. I wanted to know everything, but I knew he wouldn’t tell me. So, I settled with: “I’m thirsty.”
“Ah, so it’s Nico when you want something,” he drawled, amused. “Come on. Let’s get you something to drink.”
I’d never seen my papà leave the house in anything less than a two-piece suit. Yet here this man was in boots, jeans, and a white t-shirt. He still didn’t fit in with the crowd. It was like everyone knew he had a gun tucked somewhere under his shirt. Or maybe they could see the Cosa Nostra in his eyes.
We sat at a picnic table near the edge of the lot with a bottle of water. Nico finished his in two drinks and then rested his elbows on his knees and watched the crowd. After the driveby I’d experienced not even a week ago, maybe I should be worried about my wellbeing. But the truth was, I didn’t think there was another person in this world who could make me feel safer.
When his gaze settled on my face, I tried to pretend I didn’t notice. But after a moment with a sputtering pulse, I couldn’t take it any longer.
“Why are you staring at me?”
One heartbeat. Two.
His voice was rough and his gaze was steady when he said, “Maybe I want to.”
Something soft and warm wrapped around my heart and squeezed.
We stopped in front of the Gran Torinos, and mischief flamed to life in my chest. I strayed to the next car over, examining it like I knew what I was examining. And knowing he owned a ‘72, I announced, “I think I like the ‘70 the best.”
He didn’t look at me, but a sly smile tugged at his lips. “Come a little closer and say that.”
Butterflies took flight in my stomach, and I had to bite my cheek to hold in a smile.
It was eleven a.m. on a Sunday when I realized I wasn’t only attracted to my fiancé. I was, with a madness that ached, completely and utterly infatuated with him.
By the time we got back to the car, my feet were killing me and the sun had reddened the skin on my shoulders. It could also be said that I was nearing starvation. It was only two in the afternoon, but I was very particular about when I got fed, and now I had missed lunch and second breakfast.
As he drove, I rested my head against the window and watched the world fly by. After a moment, I sat up, my brows knitting in confusion.
“Nico, I thought the Capellos owned this part of the Bronx?”
When he licked his lips and didn’t say a thing, a disbelieving laugh escaped me. “Oh my god. You’re crazy. We can’t be here.”
He glanced at me, a sly glint in his eyes. “I thought we already established I was crazy.”
I glanced out the window and felt like I was a wanted criminal in a foreign land. I couldn’t believe I’d been walking so casually only moments ago on Capello streets, the family whom my papà had a neutral but sometimes tense relationship with.
“You’re going to get me killed,” I announced.
He shook his head before pinning me with a gaze that pooled with intensity. “Do you honestly think for a second I would let someone kill you?”
No. It was an immediate, visceral response in my head.
I warmed from his words, though was uncertain of how to feel. I’d always followed the rules, and the one time I didn’t it had cost an innocent man his life. I’d known Nico didn’t care much for the law of the land, nor even the rules and etiquette of the Cosa Nostra. And today only proved it. I didn’t want trouble; this man lived for it.
“It’s dangerous,” I said.
Silence filled the car. He ran a thumb across his bottom lip and glanced at me with one hand on the wheel. “Trust me?”
The fact that he’d told me not to last night was a loud awareness between us. I swallowed, because the way he’d said it, all soft and rough, burned through my chest and straight to a place I tried to close off from the world. This was him telling me I could. That I should.
I had to marry the man.
I didn’t have to trust him.
Though not everything is about what we have to do, but what we want to.
I glanced outside the glass, at this forbidden part of town he’d taken me to. My stomach tightened at the unfamiliarity of it all, but the warm presence beside me, the strong heartbeat I’d felt last night, the masculine scent, it was all beginning to feel familiar. Necessary.
I never was a very good liar, so I told him the truth.
“Yes,” I breathed.
And I’d never been more sure of anything.
“Black as the devil, hot as hell, pure as an angel, sweet as love.”
—Charles Maurice de Talleyrand
WE STOPPED AT HIS OFFICE, and when I saw there was pizza waiting for me on the coffee table, I groaned.
Nico let out a breath of amusement and headed past me to his desk, where he spent the next hour on the phone. It could have been longer, though I wouldn’t know, because with my stomach full and the toll the sun had taken, I fell asleep on the couch. It was a light sleep, where I could still hear his deep and newly comforting timbre in the background.
Three hours later, I awoke to an empty office.
Slightly disoriented, I blinked and then pulled my hair out of its ratty ponytail. I finger-combed it and slipped my heels back on before heading to the door and into the hallway. The card tables were still, the basement silent except for a few soft male voices.
I stepped into the main room and noticed Lorenzo, Lucky, and Luca at one of the far booths, each holding a hand of cards. I wondered how one went about playing poker with a cheater in each seat.
I didn’t see Nicolas anywhere, and suddenly grew an itch to check out the club upstairs. I was going to have a rule-breaker for a husband, so maybe I needed to go out of my comfort zone and learn how to get on his level. On the balls of my feet so my heels didn’t click, I walked to the staircase and slipped out the door.
The place was elegant yet comfortably decorated. A wide dance floor made of panels blinked from purple, blue to yellow. A long line of red plush chairs sat around lacquered, round wooden tables, with a mirror taking up the far wall. A staircase led upstairs to where I imagined the VIP rooms were. I hoped Nico didn’t allow shady things to go on in there, though that was wishful thinking.
After another moment, I decided to head back downstairs before they noticed I was gone. As I took a step to leave, I realized I wasn’t alone.
“So, you’re the lovely Elena.”
I froze.
The voice was unfamiliar, though I’d learned I was a top choice on any gossip list lately, so it wasn’t surprising he would know me.
I turned around and met an uncultured yet refined gaze, as though the two battled amongst themselves. Ruthlessness spilled out of his Armani suit, yet his easy looks, urbane wardrobe, and relaxed carriage belied it. I imagined he was a chameleon, effortlessly taking form of whatever façade he wished.
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”
His quiet laugh sounded like low musical notes left to die on the wind. “No, you wouldn’t. I’m only a second son.”
While the significance of his statement should have become extinct in the twentieth century, I understood what he meant. I was living proof of the Cosa Nostra’s old-fashioned ways—my wedding right around the corner.
As a second son, he wouldn’t inherit much, not the title nor the business, and he would always be expected to work for his papà and then older brother. He would be forever second best and overlooked.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
He scratched his jaw, amused, and then I thought he muttered, “No wonder he liked you.”
I didn’t know the man to question him, though the past tense of that statement—liked—piqued my interest. I shouldn’t be conversing alone with a man I didn’t know, but it wasn’t like Nico would let someone he didn’t trust into his club, would he?
With hesitant steps, I closed the distance between us. This stranger grasped my hand and pressed a light kiss to it. As he did, I said to him, “You seem to already know who I am, though I know nothing about you. You must have a name?”
“You can call me Sebastian.” A subtle glint passed through his eyes before he added, “Perez.”
Something cold shot through me, and my knee-jerk response was to yank my hand out of his grasp. It was then I noticed the thin accent to his words as Colombian.
He blew out a breath like my reaction was equal parts amusing and annoying. “Third time that’s happened. Starting to wonder how I’m going to get laid in this city.”
I wavered at the light tone of his voice and statement. However, as I watched him slip his hands in his pocket and turn to look at the place, I realized this man might be more manipulative than his brother. Though, what I wanted to know was how deviant.
I wondered if what he insinuated was true—if Oscar had a bad reputation with women. He seemed to have enough female attention that I’d seen, but it was only in our circle, and if he had certain . . . proclivities, I was certain he wouldn’t show them to anyone in the Cosa Nostra. Not until he locked one of their women down with marriage an
d stole them away to Colombia, anyway. A fate it felt like I’d missed by a hair.
“You know, he liked you,” he said. “He liked you a lot.”
An unpleasant taste filled my mouth. To be desired by Oscar Perez felt like contracting an STD.
“This is a nice place,” he observed, taking a few steps deeper into the club. “Interesting to find you here, though. Thought Ace was marrying your sister?”
I swallowed. “Change of plans.”
The simple huh that escaped him was coated with amusement.
“You know,” he said, “one time when my brother was drunk, he told me your voice was like a woman’s soft caress.”
“How very . . .” I held in the grimace. “Nice.”
He chuckled as though he loved the awkwardness his statement had brought into the room. “He spoke sonnets of you. Would you like to hear the others?”
“I . . . don’t think so.”
“Good choice. Some of them were . . .” He turned around with a slight frown. “Uncultured.”
“You’re no longer a second son,” I noted.
A flicker of pitch black passed through his eyes. “No.”
My stomach tightened. “Is that why you’re here?”
As soon as the last word left my lips, a wave of pure tension brushed my back. My body went still, but Sebastian stood where he was, his hands remaining in his pockets as he flicked a gaze to the man behind us.
“Elena. Downstairs.” The words were cold and distant. Words of a boss that carried an unmistakable timbre of control. A shiver worked its way beneath my skin. “Now.”
I turned around to comply.
I knew this breaking the rules thing wasn’t for me . . .
Nico didn’t give me a glance. He remained focused on the Colombian who stood in the middle of his club and who I was beginning to think hadn’t received an invitation.
This version of Nico was all hard lines and an intimidating presence that burned if one stepped too close. I couldn’t help but notice that the man I knew caressed me with the same hands the don used to maim.
The Sweetest Oblivion Page 24
