I waited and waited for the name Ryan to escape my sister’s lips.
It never did.
A clock ticked. Ice clinked in a tumbler glass. Cigar smoke hung in the air. And a certain distaste emanated from Salvatore sitting behind his desk.
I occupied a chair in front of it, leaning back with one elbow on the armrest. I was pretty sure he hated the way I sat like I was bored, so I’d continued to sit that way.
I wasn’t sure how long we’d been in his office, remaining silent, while Salvatore smoked his cigar, but something was building, and it wasn’t from me. Truthfully, I enjoyed the atmosphere. I could survive on tense, awkward silences alone.
“You can’t have her.” The words cut the quiet like a knife through the air.
My gaze found Salvatore’s through a haze of smoke. “I didn’t say I wanted her.”
He let out a sardonic breath, shaking his head. “Cut the shit, Ace. I know you want Elena, and she’s not on the table.”
My jaw ticked. I did not like being told what I couldn’t fucking have. “I don’t think you get to tell me what’s on the table, Salvatore. You fucked me over.”
Technically, his daughter fucked someone, but it was the same thing in our eyes. He’d breached the contract.
Salvatore puffed on his cigar one last time, before contemplatively putting it out. “Elena isn’t a possibility, even if I wanted to give her to you.” His gaze came to me, showing me that he didn’t. “She’s engaged.”
I stared at him with indifference, while my chest twisted with aversion before going cold enough to burn.
I’d thought a lot about this situation, what I could get out of Salvatore for breaking the contract, what I wanted the most. It started with an E and had long black hair. It was also my vice.
I wanted it, but I couldn’t let myself have it.
Nonetheless, now that I knew she belonged to another man, something violent spread through my veins like an internal case of frostbite.
My irrational side began speaking for me. “Contract signed?”
Salvatore nodded, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes.
I watched him closely. I bet after that little incident with the pool and me shoving Elena into it, he’d locked that man’s signature right down.
I had nothing against Salvatore, but there was something about sharing the same title with a man close to half his age he didn’t like. And I was fucking richer than him. He didn’t like how far my reputation stretched, and the details of said reputation. But after today, he knew he couldn’t afford to get on my bad side. We’d found the Mexicans involved with the drive-by, but there were still a few members that needed to be taken care of.
Frankly, I had more men on the streets than Salvatore. Even men on his, who I’d used to find the men responsible for today’s shooting. Salvatore hadn’t liked it when I’d used that card. I didn’t play by the rules, and the straight-laced don didn’t trust me. He needed me, though. I thought that was why he disliked me the most. He also just really didn’t want my Russo hands all over his favorite daughter.
“Who?” The question escaped me, and I fucking prayed he wouldn’t answer.
His gaze narrowed as he took a sip of whiskey. “Oscar Perez. Colombian.”
We stared at each other, and the cold bit into my chest.
“This problem with the Mexicans has fucked some of my connections with suppliers. Oscar has been an . . . acquaintance for a while. He has good product, but he wants Elena.”
Salvatore was trying to convince himself, it sounded like. Oscar was the kind of man the godly-rich with a twisted sense of ennui bred. Fitted with a malignant stain he’d try to rid with Elena.
I got up, buttoned my jacket, and turned to leave. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow. It’s late.”
“And Adriana?” he said as I opened the door.
I hadn’t shown much desire in getting revenge on the man who dared to fuck Nicolas Russo’s fiancée, but only because I’d been fighting the possibility of her sister.
“Her phone records. They’ve contacted each other,” I replied, before walking out.
I didn’t care so much about who Adriana had slept with while engaged to me.
It was just the fucking principle of it.
It was eight o’clock in the morning as I sat on the couch, in a pink oversized Yankees t-shirt and shorts. I ate a bowl of Cap’n Crunch while the blonde newscaster filled me in on current events.
I watched the news every morning and night. There wasn’t much in the world that was reported on that I didn’t know about, from the Korean child labor crisis to the botchy Botox injections being given in L.A.
When a familiar face appeared on the screen, my pulse stilled. And when the words “Oscar Perez” followed by “found shot execution style in front of his apartment,” passed the reporter’s ruby red lips, I choked on my cereal.
Not ten seconds had gone by, before “SON OF A BITCH!” came from my papà’s office.
My eyes widened.
As I was sinking into the couch with the relief of Oscar’s death, the noise of Nicolas entering the foyer with my brother filtered into the room. They were talking about Adriana’s phone records. My heart dropped. If the report showed all of my sister’s messages, it would take little effort to find Ryan.
Tony and Nicolas had found something in common now? Disgust twisted in my stomach.
They headed past the living room doors to my papà’s office, while I watched the news, narrow-eyed and simmering.
Papà’s anger drifted down the hall like fog, and I wondered if I was going to hear gunshots, but another five minutes passed before his shout filled my ears.
“Elena! My office, now!”
I hesitated, but then got to my feet and padded barefoot toward his office. Dread sank into my skin with each step.
I knocked on the doorframe before entering the room. Papà was behind his desk, Tony sat in the chair across from him, and Nico leaned against the wall near the window.
I stood in the middle of the office, my fingers playing with the hem of my shirt. The sun warmed my clammy skin.
“Congratulations,” Papà bit out, his eyes a dark storm. I swallowed, having never seen my father so angry. “You’re getting married.”
A cold sensation crawled down my throat and filled my lungs.
Slowly, I glanced at Nicolas to see he watched me with indifference. Keeping his gaze, I let out a shaky breath and asked, “To who?” but I already knew. I hadn’t imagined this outcome, and I wasn’t sure why.
“To Nico.”
My heart beat so fast I fought not to choke on it.
Silence filled the room—deep and loathing from my papà, thoughtful from my brother, and apathetic from my no longer future brother-in-law but fiancé.
The silence I felt was instinctive, like how prey quiets to avoid capture. A survival instinct kicked in, and I shook my head.
“No,” I whispered.
A spark flickered through Nico’s eyes.
My papà shuffled some papers on his desk. “It is done, Elena.”
That must be the contract in his hand.
Nicolas could sign for me, and “it was done?” Of course, this was how it always worked, but something tasted bitter about Nico doing it.
This news was like a slap to the face. How could I process him being my sister’s fiancé to mine in less than five minutes?
That wasn’t only it.
I had never wanted a husband like him. He was everything my body thought it needed and everything my brain knew it didn’t. I would lose myself in Nicolas Russo, and I wouldn’t know where to come up for air.
My heart would fall for him and he would crush it beneath his feet. I could live a loveless life. I couldn’t survive a broken one.
I gave my head another shake. “Papà—”
“Enough, Elena! It is done. Now, go pack a bag. You’re staying with him until the wedding.”
My eyes widened.
�
��What?” I breathed.
He directed a sarcastic gaze at me. “It’s not like you’re a virgin, Elena.”
“Papà,” Tony snapped.
His words pierced my chest. I knew he was pissed and was directing it at me, but it hurt all the same. “How could you allow this? Do you think that because my reputation is already stained you can just rip it to shreds?”
“You can blame your poor reputation on yourself and your fiancé. After this issue with your sister and your . . . past, I agreed to his terms.”
What he meant was that Nicolas didn’t trust me not to fool around with other men behind his back before the wedding. Papà apparently didn’t have much say on the matter, considering the contract was broken on his end.
I didn’t know what to say, but I wasn’t ready to accept this.
“I don’t know how to cook,” I blurted, before looking at Nicolas, who still leaned against the wall, his hands in his pockets.
“I have one,” was all he said in a deep, thoughtful voice. I had a feeling he didn’t entirely want this marriage either, so why had he agreed to it?
“I like to shop. I spend way too much money.” It was true, but I also donated to the local shelters just so I wouldn’t feel so bad about my spendthrift ways. So I guessed that meant I spent even more.
“I have it.”
Was he only going to speak to me in three words now that he owned me?
“Enough, Elena,” Papà cut in. “Go.”
A frustrated sound traveled up my throat, but I kept it locked in. “I don’t want this,” I told my papà, my voice quiet. I avoided Nicolas’s gaze, though it burned my cheek like a rash.
“It is done.” Papà copied my tone, but his words were final.
So I left his office, headed to my room, and, while packing a bag, I contemplated how I could ever survive Nicolas Russo.
“Lust will be the death of us.”
—Unknown
THERE WAS NOTHING BUT SILENCE. In fact, the quiet seemed to eat at me the entire drive. And the worst thing about it was his car smelled so damn good. The events of today hit me like whiplash, leaving a numbness behind that only his masculine scent seemed to penetrate. Instead of the prickling feeling of panic, his close proximity and the idea of his hands on me were driving me insane.
It was as though my body focused on the primal aspect I’d been craving so I wouldn’t be traumatized by the event. A protective mechanism.
I was equating marrying Nicolas to severe trauma.
Truly, it didn’t seem far apart.
There was a difference between lusting after a man and wanting him to be the father of your children. The idea pulled me in two resilient directions: thrill, and terror.
The feelings were so tenacious I remained only numb, leaving room for one thing. Warmth hummed between my legs, my skin a nesting ground for electricity and ice.
My mamma had watched me walk out the door with Nico carrying my bag, her eyes wide as if I were being sent to the slaughterhouse. Even my sister had rushed down the stairs, mouthing, “I’m sorry,” before the door shut behind me. Papà never came out of his office, and Tony and my cousins only watched Nico like he was stealing something.
I wanted to stay detached from this man, as indifferent as I possibly could, but as the city passed before my eyes in a blur of concrete and bright sun and we grew closer to his place, impassive was not a word I would even recognize.
When we pulled up to a familiar red-brick house, my throat grew tight. “Why not the penthouse?”
“Expecting something more lavish?”
My eyes narrowed. “What? No. I just expected the penthouse. That’s what you chose for Adriana.”
“It’s not what I choose for you.”
I tensed. He wasn’t letting me forget he owned me now, and it cut through the numb haze that caged me.
I didn’t know what to feel: nervous, terrified, determined to keep some autonomy, or aroused by the possibility of his hands on me. It became a mixture of all four, dancing along my skin as I got out of the car.
Nico grabbed my bag from the backseat, and I followed him into the house. It was larger than it looked from the outside. The back door entered into the kitchen, with steel appliances, gray granite countertops, and low lighting.
An office sat to the right of me, the cherry desk visible through the cracked door. Except for that and a small bathroom and laundry room to my left, the space was an open floor plan, with a staircase running upstairs. You could watch the flat-screen TV while standing at the island. It was simple, masculine, and comfortable.
I swallowed when he shut the back door with an unmistakable click. I was still in shock about this turn of events and didn’t know how to process it completely, or at all. I was going through the motions while my thoughts lagged behind.
He dropped my bag into an armchair and then his keys on the kitchen counter. This place might look the epitome of comfortable, but I had no idea how I would ever feel that way in his space.
I stood planted next to the door, while he poured himself a drink from the minibar near the front windows. A strong feeling consumed me that if I moved, something would attack me—maybe him. The curtains were closed, and only small shards of light got through, leaving the room dimly lit.
It was nine o’clock in the morning and he was drinking whiskey. I prayed he wasn’t an alcoholic. He might have stopped my uncle from hitting me last night, but knowing a few alcoholics, especially on my mamma’s side, nothing about them was predictable.
He wore all black, and the way he looked at me from across the room made me fully aware of his reputation. He was the most dangerous man in the city, and soon I would have to call him Husband.
He watched me as he leaned against the small bar, and the longer he did it my heart pumped faster, pushing nerves through my veins.
The thoughts I would have processed over a matter of time all rushed in at once. I wondered how many women he had been with, what he expected of me. I wasn’t a virgin, but I wasn’t far from one. I’d had sex with one man, and only enough to fill a weekend. I was inexperienced and worried he would chew me up and spit me out.
He pulled on his tie while walking into the kitchen. He set his tumbler on the island, then looked at me. “You gonna stand near that door all day?”
I swallowed and nodded.
With his hands braced on the counter, he gave his head a small shake. My stomach fluttered when he glanced at me, his eyes molten.
“Come here.”
I didn’t think it was possible for any woman to ignore that command from him. I had an awful, awful impulse to listen.
With an erratic heartbeat, I took the short steps toward him.
As soon as I reached him, he grabbed my nape, threaded his fingers into my hair, and then buried his face in my neck. He made a masculine noise of satisfaction that I could feel deep in my stomach, before it settled into a weight between my legs. I rocked back, not fighting him, but shaken with this lightning bolt exploding in my chest and fizzing through my veins.
My breasts pressed against his hard, warm abs and a shiver rolled through me. He ran his face up and down my neck, as though he was savoring my smell, or maybe languishing in the fact that he’d caught his next meal.
“Fuck. You feel good,” he groaned against my throat.
He wrapped an arm around my waist and lifted me, setting me close to eye-level on the island. The counter was cold against my thighs as he stepped between them, forcing them further apart.
My heartbeat drummed in my ears, and a cold sensation crept through me. Fear. He pressed his lips to my throat, kissing a slow line down it. Each one sent a sizzle between my legs, and I tilted my head to give him more access, a moan escaping my lips.
This man had changed roles from a tempting someone I couldn’t have, to owner, lover, and fiancé. The whiplash had given me no time to act but on instinct alone. I wanted him, but at the unknown, a cool breath of fear dripped into my subconscious.
I grasped the edge of the counter on both sides of me, trying to ground myself to earth somehow, while he worked my neck with slow kisses and scrapes of his teeth. As his presence consumed my own, my reservations dissolved into smoke.
His large hands ran down my sides, from underneath my breasts to low on my hips, his thumbs brushing bare skin beneath the band of my shorts. It was a maddening sensation, and I was dying for him to go a little further, up or down. To just freaking pick one.
His erection pressed against the inside of my thigh, and if he would only step forward a few inches, it would be right where I wanted it, needed it.
I swayed, my eyes heavy-lidded, when a solid grip came to the side of my neck to hold me still while he pressed hot, wet kisses to my throat. My head fell back on a moan, my hair skimming the countertop with the next nip of his teeth.
His hips lined up with mine, his hands grasping the top of my ass, and then his hard-on pressed against my clit in a slow roll that stole my breath. A quiet growl fanned against my neck, while an emptiness pulsed between my legs.
He only ground against me once, when I needed it over and over, before he pulled back. His hands left me and grasped the counter beside my own. I’d yet to even touch him while stuck in this dream-like state.
His gaze was more black than amber. “Take off your shirt.”
Each bossy, gravelly word was a slow hum in the empty ache between my legs. The cold sense of fear snuck its way back in, cutting through the haze. A part of me needed to comply, to do everything this man asked of me. To give him anything he wanted, but I couldn’t. Not yet.
With a shaky breath, I shook my head.
His gaze narrowed at the edges.
“Promise not to kill the father of Adriana’s baby and I will.”
His expression hardened even more. “I don’t like ultimatums.”
“It’s not an ultimatum. It’s an . . . incentive.”
He shook his head and started to pull away from me, but I grabbed him by the belt loop. “Please . . .” My voice was throaty, sounding different to my ears. It was coated in thick, deep lust, and he paused, his attention all mine. “For a wedding present.”
The Sweetest Oblivion (Made Book 1) Page 18