A Madness Most Discreet (Brothers Maledetti Book 4)

by Nichole Van

  Olivia was gorgeous inside and out. The luminous kindness in her striking light eyes. The radiance of her wide smile. How could anyone miss her unmistakable beauty?

  I had spent my life witnessing what was underneath pretty smiles and well-primped bodies. It wasn’t always glittering beauty, that’s for sure.

  “How long are you here?” The woman seated beside me at dinner murmured into my ear. “I’d love to catch a drink sometime.”

  Case in point.

  Never mind that I was clearly here with my ‘girlfriend’ seated on the other side of me. Never mind that this woman was obviously here with her husband.

  The woman was botoxed and spandexed and contoured into perfection: blond hair in a meticulously curled blow-out, blue eyes lined with lash extensions, body pushed and stuffed into a tight, glittery sheath.

  The acidity of her emotions washed over me. Her husband had hurt her somehow, but she didn’t care. She just wanted the boredom to end for a brief moment.

  Hence hitting on me.

  I smiled flatly. “I’m sorry. You’ve mistaken me for a different sort of man. Have you met my girlfriend, Olivia?” I sat back so the woman could see Olivia at my side and moved the conversation to something else.

  This had been my night. One man had the jittery emotions of a drug addict desperate for a hit. Another was lusting for his friend’s wife. Over and over, I was thrown into the worst of humanity.

  For about the thousandth time, I wished I could feel Olivia’s emotions, if only just for a moment. Would they be as soothing and full of light as I anticipated?

  As usual, the nothingness of her was a balm, draining enough pressure off me to allow me to cope. Focusing on her eased the morass of emotion back for me, helping me fight the obsessive thoughts of chains and falling. I stuck to Olivia’s side throughout dinner and the convention speeches afterward.

  Like with the kiss earlier—or, more likely, because of the kiss earlier—I was finding it nearly impossible to keep my hands off her. Touching her felt so normal, so natural. I wanted to haul her into my arms; I settled for holding her hand.

  As the speeches wound closer and closer to her mother’s announcement, Olivia became twitchier and more tense. Her hand was cold and clammy.

  I knew she was nervous about making a mistake, about saying something wrong or creating a scene. It was natural in a situation like this.

  She was nearly vibrating with nerves as we were escorted on stage, lining up behind her mother, Olivia between me and her father. Other supporters crowded around us—big donors, the governor, other senators, Michael—smiling and clapping.

  Olivia appeared frozen, her face an almost mask-like grin. Her knees were clearly locked. Would she faint? I pressed my hand into the small of her back, rubbing my thumb against her spine, willing her to relax.

  Not that it helped from what I could see.

  Senator Hawking started her speech, calling for change and the need for new leadership. Bright lights glared down on us, blinding me to the crowd. The constant blast of conflicting emotions swamped my other senses.

  If Olivia was relying on me, I was leaning back on her just as much.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I murmured in her ear, continuing to run my thumb in circles. My words were as much for me as for her. “Just focus on your breathing. In. Out.”

  She nodded, but her tension didn’t ebb.

  Senator Hawking built the crowd to a fevered pitch before making her big announcement.

  “With your support, I will be the next President of the United States!” She pumped her arms in the air.

  Pandemonium erupted. Balloons tumbled from the ceiling. Olivia and I clapped and smiled and waved. Some of the attendant media surged past security and came toward the stage. Cameramen skittered toward us, reporters with microphones right behind.

  It was that last fact that sent Olivia over the edge.

  She had been smiling and nodding up until that point. But an overeager reporter thrust a microphone into Olivia’s chin.

  “Are you excited for your mother, Olivia?” The woman had rabid-wolf smile. “Did you consult a psychic about tonight?”

  The reporter’s emotions made it clear she was deliberately trying to fluster Olivia into saying something problematic.

  Olivia froze, eyes wide. “I-I . . . uhmm . . .” Her gaze swung to mine, panic-stricken.

  Anger lasered through me, all mine.

  I pulled Olivia closer to my side, my arm a firm support around her waist, and smiled for the camera. “We’re all excited for the Senator, aren’t we, Olivia?”

  The reporter was not to be so easily deterred. “Our viewers want to hear from Olivia.”

  The woman pushed forward.

  Olivia flinched and took a step back, her body poised for flight.

  I did the only thing that came to me. I pulled Olivia flush against me, using my shoulders to partially block out the reporter. Olivia’s eyes met mine, wild and frantic.

  “It’s okay. I got you.” I leaned forward, whispering in her ear. “Just focus on me, cara.”

  I could hear security behind me, asking the pushy reporter to stand back and wait to ask questions.

  Olivia was swallowing convulsively, chest rising too fast. She was hyperventilating.

  “Shhhh, anima.” I ran my hands up and down her arms. “The reporters will leave soon enough. I’ll make sure you don’t have to talk to them.”

  I pulled back and smiled down her, cupping her cheek with my free hand. “Smile at me, beautiful,” I said. “Make it look like we’re having a moment.”

  I was certainly focused on her. The physical noise of the crowd was nothing compared to the tumultuous emotional noise. I was drowning in feeling. I moved both hands back to her waist, encouraging Olivia to wrap her arms around my shoulders.

  But she faltered. She tried to smile, but it came out more of a terrified grimace than anything else.

  Was anyone noticing Olivia’s panic? I turned my head to the side.

  Her parents were holding hands and waving at the crowd. Her father leaned in and kissed her mother.

  Olivia shifted in my arms.

  I turned my head back to her.

  Our lips met in the middle.

  Dimly, I realized that she must have been aiming to kiss my cheek when I unexpectedly turned my head back.

  But somehow that fact faded into the back of my consciousness.

  For the briefest fraction of a second, I forgot.

  Her lips touched mine and . . . the sensation felt so natural, so instinctual, I didn’t think.

  Of course Olivia would be in my arms. Of course I would kiss her.

  She responded with hungry enthusiasm, wrapping a hand around my neck and pulling herself up to meet me.

  A homecoming.

  Here. This. Now.

  This was where I was meant to be.

  But half a second into the kiss, panic flooded me.

  No!

  NO!

  What the hell was I doing?!

  I had ONE JOB!

  Don’t. Kiss. Olivia!

  I broke the kiss with violent force. Peeled her off my body. Pushed her away.

  Olivia staggered back, chest heaving, body weaving, arms windmilling for a second before righting herself.

  Her eyes met mine, gaze stricken, eyes wet, expression shattered.

  Her face said it all.

  I had broken her.

  I had broken my soul.

  “No!” I reached for her.

  I had to unbreak her. I had to tell her how much I adored her. Anything to wipe the pain from her face.

  But Olivia shook her head, backing away from me.

  One step. Two.

  And then whirled around in a swirl of blue satin, feet running away.

  “NO!” I took a step after her.

  That’s all I got. Just one damn step before . . .

  . . . the vision slammed into me.

  Later, I would watch video of
how it all went down.

  How I grabbed her shoulders and pushed Olivia away, repulsion on my face.

  Olivia’s horror-stricken expression before running off, pushing through the crowd.

  And me, frozen, an arm outstretched toward her, my head swiveling, eyes tracking things no one else could see.

  Just like my father had done in his last years.

  But, in that moment, I was lost in the vision.

  Wind whipped at me, tugging at my clothes. The sky was an immense sea of blue.

  I stood atop the tower of Villa Maledetti, both hands braced against the arched openings on either side of me.

  Open air and a hundred-foot fall were inches from my feet. One step and I would tumble, down, down, down . . .

  Jump, the fractured part of me whispered. It’s the only way. The fall will break the chain. You’ll be free.

  “No!” I hurled the words into the vast sky. Birds startled out of the eaves, fluttering away in a flurry of wings. “You lie! It’s a lie!”

  But the words wouldn’t be silenced, and my feet had stopped obeying my orders.

  Step back. Stand down, I pleaded with them.

  But all that came in reply was, Jump, jump, jump!

  The sun blinded me, harsh and stark against the expansive sky.

  I wanted to shade my eyes, but I was terrified to release my death grip on the tower arches. One slip and I’d be gone.

  “Tennyson! Where are you?!” Olivia’s voice called behind me.

  She had come. She was here. Joy flooded me.

  I tried to turn around, but my body was frozen in place.

  “Here!” I called. “Up the tower.”

  I managed to arch my head back. Olivia’s face appeared out of the shadows, a halo of curls swirling around her in the wind.

  “Tennyson! What are you doing?”

  “Help me!” I was shaking so badly, I didn’t know how I would get myself down without falling.

  She rushed to help, arms around my waist, easing me out of the archway and onto the pavement.

  She placed a hand on my cheek. Tears hung in her eyelashes.

  My own throat felt thick and tight. I had done this. Her tears were because of me. I had broken her and hurt her unforgivably. I detested myself.

  I loved this woman. She was the breath of my soul. How could I have caused her such sorrow?

  “Olivia. Why are you here?” My words choked me. “You shouldn’t be here. You have to go. Too dangerous.”

  “You almost jumped, you idiot. I had to save you.” She collapsed into my arms, burying her face against my shoulder, sobbing.

  Dimly, I realized this vision was a repeat. I didn’t often experience repeat visions, but when I did, they were usually significant. They sometimes changed and shifted—the scene, the dialogue—but the more similar the elements, the more likely they were to occur.

  Mentally, I shied away from where this vision was headed.

  But it continued on. Relentless.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered against her hair. “So sorry. I can’t control it. It’s destroying me. Forgive me?”

  “Forgive you?” Olivia pulled back and reached for my face, cupping my cheek. Emotion swam in her dark magnificent eyes.

  It was too much.

  My head bent, even though I screamed at myself to stop.

  She reached up and melted her mouth into mine, meeting me halfway.

  The jolting shock of the contact. The instant pounding of my pulse. The pillowy soft taste of her.

  Stop! Some part of my brain screamed. You will kill her. You need to stop this!

  I listened. Really, I did. I tried to pull back.

  But Olivia had a vice grip on my head and refused to let me budge.

  I adored her. I needed her happiness.

  I changed the angle of my head and lost myself in her.

  The kiss quickly became more frantic. My hand buried in her hair. Her hands pressed into the middle of my back.

  This. I needed this. I needed her. She was my lifeline. My sanity.

  Without her—

  CRACK!

  It happened.

  Just as I knew it would.

  Our touch splintered something.

  Olivia was torn from my arms. She screamed in terror.

  “Olivia! NO!!” I yelled her name, lunging for her.

  Abruptly, a slice in reality tore open in front of us, sucking her toward it.

  I desperately tried to reach her, but the vacuum tugging her away was too strong.

  She disappeared through the scar in reality.

  “OLIVIA!” I reached the gaping rift and froze. The scene played out exactly as it had over and over in my nightmares.

  Olivia and the looming black monster in a twilight landscape, robes swirling around her.

  Again, she was stabbed. Again, she collapsed in a pool of blood, the monster howling its victory.

  “NOOO!!” I screamed. The horror shattering my soul—

  The vision abruptly ended.

  I came back to myself, reeling on the stage, tears flooding my eyes.

  The screams of the crowd thundered over me. Balloons and bright lights and strobing flashes obscured my vision. Emotions clogged my senses. I could scarcely breathe, much less think.

  “Mr. D’Angelo, are you okay?” A voice asked at my elbow.

  “Yes, are you okay?” A microphone was shoved into my face. “Are you Olivia’s psychic?”

  I batted the microphone away.

  No.

  No, I was not okay.

  I needed Olivia. Where was she?!

  I whirled around, trying to spot her.

  I swatted away some of the balloons. “Olivia!”

  Something firm wrapped around my elbow. I flinched and tried to pull away.

  “Sorry about that, folks,” Michael said to the reporters behind me, at the same time keeping a hold on me. “Mr. D’Angelo served in Afghanistan and sometimes noise and lights get to him. Give us a moment.”

  He tightened his grip on my arm and dragged me toward the stairs and exit. His emotions surfaced from the masses. Anger. Frustration.

  I let him pull me. I needed the support. My body shook . . . hands, leg, stomach churning.

  “You’re a freakish mess, D’Angelo. Get it together,” he hissed.

  I didn’t care. I leaned into Michael.

  “Where’s Olivia?” I asked.

  “You’re not fit to breathe the same air as her,” was his reply.

  Tell me something I don’t already know.

  “Ditto. But that wasn’t what I asked.” I was drowning in panic. “Where is she? Is she okay?”

  A long pause.

  “I don’t know,” was his reply.

  TWENTY SEVEN

  Olivia

  I had run off the stage.

  Why? Because my life was officially over.

  To recap:

  My mother had announced her candidacy. I had a full-on media melt down. I then kissed my epic one-sided crush—accidentally, mind you, but a kiss nonetheless. He peeled me off of him like yesterday’s garbage, pushing me away and rejecting my advance in the most publicly humiliating way possible.

  All on stage. All caught on camera.

  Because if I was going to be a pathetic loser, I wanted to make sure the entire world knew it. I mean, loser status isn’t complete until you’ve been reduced to a sound bite, a GIF and a meme.

  That’s just Celebrity 101.

  So yeah. That’s how it all went down.

  I was so dead. If mortification and embarrassment over Tennyson didn’t kill me first, my mom would certainly finish me off.

  I had one job—

  Don’t make a scene.

  Whoops.

  Which also explained why I was hiding out in a small dressing room somewhere behind the stage.

  I had just run, pushing my way through assistants and donors and everyone. I shut the door and collapsed into a chair against the white-washed cinder
block wall, swiping at the tears on my cheeks.

  Tennyson hadn’t come after me.

  Why would he? Clearly, his boyfriend-pretending had some definite limits, accidental lip-kissing being clearly one of them.

  Damn him.

  I deserved better than this.

  I got that he had been playing nice for Michael and my mom and the cameras. And, yes, he had gone too far with his pretend boyfriend routine and hurt me—

  But . . .

  I deserved more than to be crying over a man who sent me confusing signals and then flipped out when I reacted to them.

  You hear that, Tennyson?!

  I just needed to pull myself up by my feminist bootstraps and get over myself already.

  I knew this. I told myself this.

  But I was struggling to believe it.

  I would just sit here and try to collect my shattered heart. Stay in this room until the morning cleaning crew kicked me out.

  And then I would leave and go . . . somewhere. Like maybe eastern Europe where there were no scars and no one watched CNN or cared about Tennyson D’Angelo.

  Of course, the thought of Tennyson made my throat close off and my eyes well up.

  Stupid hot man and all his hot . . . man-ness.

  Ugh! I was such an idiot.

  Why had I allowed him to carve up so much of my heart in such a short amount of time? How could I ever have thought for even a fraction of a second that a guy like Tennyson D’Angelo would actually like-like me?

  I was a masochist.

  Pull yourself together.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  “Olivia, I know you’re in there.”

  Michael. Lovely. Just the person I did not want to deal with right now. His smug smile could wait.

  “Go away.” Yeah. It was childish and whiny. But I had just been thoroughly humiliated on national television. And I was now facing years of snide jokes from Michael and knowing I-told-you-so looks from my mom.

  I deserved a bratty moment or two.

  “Olivia, open the door.”

  “Go to hell, Michael!”

  Hmmmm, maybe I should cuss at Michael more often. I did feel marginally better.

  Maybe it would help if I said the same thing to Tennyson?

  Silence. Shuffling noises and the murmur of voices.

  Another knock.

  “Olivia.” Tennyson this time.

  My stupid heart leaped into my throat.