The Maddest Obsession
Copyright 2019 Danielle Lori
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written consent of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously and are a product of the author’s imagination.
Cover Designer: Okay Creations
Interior Formatting: Champagne Book Design
Editor: Bryony Leah
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Playlist
Author’s Note
PART I
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
PART II
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Connect With Me
Books by Danielle Lori
For my brother Corey.
You always wanted to do something extraordinary, and you did.
You beat us all to Heaven.
I’ll love you forever.
Jealous—Labrinth
when the party’s over—Billie Eilish
White Rabbit—Jefferson Airplane
Piano Man—Billy Joel
Iris—The Goo Goo Dolls
To Build a Home—The Cinematic Orchestra
The Good Side—Troye Sivan
Nevermind—Dennis Lloyd
What It’s Like—Everlast
Hi-Lo (Hollow)—Bishop Briggs
bury a friend—Billie Eilish
Sorry—Halsey
Author’s Note
The Maddest Obsession spans seven years, from the time Gianna is twenty-one to twenty-eight. Because of this, I’ve split the book into two parts: the past and the present. Each chapter of Part One will take you to another year of Gianna’s life, while Christian’s POV is kept within only a few days.
Part Two takes you to the present. It happens to coincide with The Sweetest Oblivion’s (MADE #1) storyline. Therefore, if you haven’t read The Sweetest Oblivion and plan to, I highly recommend you do so first.
Danielle xo
New York City
September 2015
“TELL ME ONE FACT ABOUT yourself.”
The clock’s ticks and tocks filled the space between us. With warm colors and a variety of seating, the room was supposed to be comfortable. Too bad the atmosphere hadn’t gotten the memo; the air was thick and cloying, as though every lie told here had been trapped for eternity.
My eyes narrowed as Kyle Sheets’ wink from yesterday replayed in my mind. He’d been through the same process—though, different accusation—and had somehow bullshitted his way out of having hentai on his work computer. I was a living, breathing lie, but the idea of being lumped into the same category as that bastard rubbed me the wrong way. He wore sneakers with his suits, for fuck’s sake.
Running a thoughtful hand across my jaw, I admitted the truth.
“I have an addictive personality.”
Sasha Taylor Ph.D. couldn’t stop a spark of surprise from lighting in her eyes, and to hide the human reaction, she dropped her attention to my file resting on her lap. The blonde’s pantsuit didn’t hold a wrinkle. She’d gone to Yale and was from old money. The thirty-one-year-old was everything I looked for in a woman: intelligent, beautiful, classy.
“Alcohol?” she asked.
I gave my head a shake.
“Drugs?”
Might’ve been easier.
“Women?”
Woman.
Another shake, but, this time, I smiled.
Her eyes fell to my lips, and she swallowed and glanced away. “We’ll come back to this in a moment.” She paused. “You do understand why you’re here?”
I gave her a blank look.
Her gaze wavered. “Yes, of course you do. Does . . . the incident have to do with your . . . addictive personality?”
I focused my stare on her fire-engine red heels and suddenly hated myself for not having a lesser addiction, like hentai. I’d take that over the other mess any day of the week.
It was public, Allister. Go through the motions, that’s all I can do.
The words that had fucked me over.
I wasn’t a good man, and I worked for even worse. However, I’d learned at too young of an age that the world wasn’t made up of black and white. Sometimes, one became so tainted they couldn’t get back to the light, and other times, the dark just felt right. Even if the latter didn’t apply to me, I would never jeopardize what I had built. I’d worked too hard to get here to ever give it up for a woman. Especially one who dressed like Britney Spears’ and Kurt Cobain’s love child.
“No,” I lied.
If I was completely honest, I’d be committed within the hour, or rather, the Bureau would make Sasha Taylor disappear, never to be heard from again.
“Some believe it was over a woman,” she supplied tentatively.
I raised a brow. “Are you some, Sasha?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You seem too . . . levelheaded to behave in such a way over a woman.”
Cold. She meant cold.
She was right—in the usual case, anyway—but there was nothing usual about the irritating situation that had put me here. I had a close relationship with the cold, in the most literal sense; now, however, I felt the furthest from it. A fire burned in my chest, licking at the edges of what soul I had left.
Sasha shifted in her seat, crossing one leg over the other. “Back to this addictive personality . . . do you often give in to whatever it is that you want?”
Just the idea that I could tasted sweet, doubled the pace of my heart, made me feel hot and edgy. I hated the woman for making my life hell for years, but damn, if I didn’t want to touch her, to fuck the memory of every other man out of her mind until she was half as obsessed as I was, until she’d never forget my name again for the rest of her life.
I ran my tongue across my teeth and pushed the feeling down, though the tension in my body didn’t release. “Never.”
“Why not?”
My gaze held hers. “Because then it will win.”
“And you don’t like to lose?” Her words ended on a breathless note.
I could almost hear the pitter-patter of her heart as we stared at each other in thick silence.
She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and looked at her papers, muttering, “No, you don’t.”
Like the quiet ticks of a bomb soon to detonate, the clock mad
e its presence known. Sasha glanced toward it, and said, “One more question, before our time is up this session. How do you cope with this ‘addictive personality’?”
Easy.
“Order.”
“You prefer order?” she questioned. “In what circumstances?”
“All of them.”
A subtle blush ran up her neck, and she cleared her throat. “And when disorder comes into your life?”
A vision of thick hair—sometimes dark, sometimes blond—smooth olive skin, bare feet, and everything forbidden flashed before my eyes.
The fire in my chest burned hotter, stealing my goddamn breath. Where pain usually hit me like the high of a drug, whenever Gianna Russo—or, sorry, now Marino—was involved, it felt like the comedown. Nauseating. It felt fucking bitter.
My response held the slightest clench of my teeth. “I fix it.” Standing, I buttoned my jacket and headed to the door.
“But what if it’s not fixable?” she pushed, jumping to her feet, my file in a loose grip by her side.
I paused with one hand on the doorknob and glanced at my wrist, at the elastic tie hidden beneath my cuff.
A sardonic feeling pulled in my chest.
“That, Sasha, is when I obsess.”
21 years old
December 2012
I’D FOUND BLISS IN A rolled-up dollar bill and white powder.
Sometimes, it was euphoric—blood-pumping, heart-racing, top-of-the-world euphoria. Like sex, without the emptiness.
Sometimes, it was a means to an end. One line, and every insecurity, every bruise, faded to memory. One line, and I’d be free.
Other times, it was a cold draft of air and the squeak of a steel door as it slammed shut before me.
The echo resounded off the cell walls and into my ears like pinballs. I swallowed as the deadlock bolted into place.
Stepping forward, I gripped the bars. “Surely I get a phone call?”
The twentysomething Latina officer rested her hands on her gun belt, and, with dark brows lowered, looked me over from my head to my toes. “You’re out of luck, princess. If I have to look at that monstrosity of a dress”—she nodded toward my red and gorgeously lacy McQueen—“for another minute, I’ll have a headache for the rest of my shift.”
I tried to bite my tongue but failed. “Blame it on my dress all you like—we both know the ache will be from that spinster bun on the back of your head, cogliona.”
Gaze narrowed, she took a step toward me. “What did you just call me?”
“Woah,” interrupted another female officer, putting a hand on her partner’s shoulder. “Let’s go, Martinez.”
Twentysomething’s glare intensified before she stalked off, her partner following behind.
I turned around to pace but stopped short when I saw I wasn’t alone. A redheaded prostitute past her prime sat in the corner, watching me through mascara-caked eyelashes. Her foundation was a few shades darker than her pale skin tone, and her fishnet tights were covered in holes.
“They didn’t take your shoes.”
I glanced at my red Jimmy Choos.
“They’re real nice,” she said, picking at her nail polish.
My gaze fell to her bare feet, and I sighed, dropping to sit on the bench adjacent from her.
They hadn’t taken my shoes because I wouldn’t remain here for long. I was sure I had only minutes until a head honcho in an ill-fitting suit escorted me to somewhere with a couch and coffee—somewhere comfortable, so I would feel more open to gush all the Cosa Nostra’s secrets.
Disgrace.
Worthless.
Unlovable.
I sawed my bottom lip between my teeth as anxiety brewed in my chest.
“How much did they cost?” my cellmate asked, at the same time a door down the corridor opened and shut. The echo raised the hair on my arms.
I heard him before I saw him.
And instantly knew he was the fed they’d sent for me.
His voice was professional and disinterested, though an elusive timbre intertwined each word: an abrasive edge, like a deep, dark sin one kept locked in the pits of their soul.
His next word—Gianna—touched the back of my neck, a brush of steel wings against sensitive skin. I wiped the feeling away with a hand, pulling my hair over one shoulder.
“Probably too much,” I finally responded, oddly breathless.
The prostitute nodded like she completely understood.
She was beautiful—behind the makeup, the drug abuse dulling the sheen in her eyes, and the years of servicing New York’s finest men, I was sure.
A kindred soul if I ever saw one.
The fed’s voice drifted to my ears once more, this time closer as he spoke to Martinez. I couldn’t hear what was being said over the commotion in the other cells, but I could tell her voice had softened and her Hispanic roots were coming to the front, her words rolling in a sensual way.
I rolled my eyes. A workplace romance.
Cute.
However, I didn’t believe he was taking the bait. I could feel his disinterest against my skin, hear the cold tenor in his voice.
A shiver ghosted through me.
For the love of God, he was only a fed. I’d dealt with Made Men since birth.
I leaned back with an indifference I didn’t feel and twirled a long strand of dark hair around my finger.
The room grew smaller, the walls closing in like they had too many times before.
I inhaled slowly. Released it.
Turning my head, I looked out of the cell.
Martinez stood in the hall, staring at the fed’s back as he came in my direction, a look of pure unrequited adoration in her gaze.
I guessed there was something kindred in us all.
Steel bars trailed his image as he passed each cell, his eyes averted. His stride was effortless. The set of his shoulders, the relaxed carriage of his arms at his sides—the stance oozed confidence and devastation, as though brick and mortar and female hearts could turn to ash at his single command.
His gaze flicked up and caught mine, heavy and emotionless, as if he was looking straight through me.
My heart turned cold in my chest.
Our exchange lasted only a second, but the glance stretched into slow-motion, stealing a breath of air from my lungs. I crossed one leg over the other, baring a generous amount of thigh. Like a warm blanket, a sense of security wrapped around me. As long as they were looking at my body, they’d never see what was behind my eyes.
Nevertheless, the first place he looked as he reached my cell was straight into my eyes. Heartless. Invasive. Blue. His gaze burned, as if I was standing in front of an open freezer on a summer day, hot and cold air meeting like tendrils of vapor around me.
As he stood in front of the barred door, with a dangerous presence that touched my skin from several feet away, I was sure he was the one locked up. It simply didn’t make sense the other way around.
A dim light in the hall flickered above his head.
His dark hair was shaved short on the sides, faded with an expert hand. Broad shoulders and crisp black lines, his suit molded his toned body. Control. Precision. He exuded it, like the colorful stripes on a venomous snake.
But his face was what grabbed one’s attention first. Symmetrical, and flawlessly proportioned, not even his cold expression cut from stone could mar it. The second look showed the type of body women groaned over, and the third revealed intellect in every move he made, as though everyone else was a chess piece, and he was musing over how to play each one of us.
My heart leapt as the cell lock unbolted, and I pulled my attention from him to the concrete wall in front of me.
“Russo.”
Nope.
No way.
If I went with him, I’d end up sold into a human trafficking ring and never be heard from again. Fed or not, with those eyes and presence, this man had seen and done things a normal Made Man hadn’t envisioned.
I rema
ined silent.
I was going to sit here and wait for the fed in the ill-fitting suit.
His gaze flicked to the prostitute.
“Name’s Cherry,” she supplied with a smile. “But you can call me anything you’d like.”
Some women didn’t know what was good for them.
He ran his thumb around his watch, once, twice, three times. “I’ll keep that in mind,” was his dry response.
My skin flared as I received the full weight of his stare. His eyes coasted down my body, leaving a trail of ice and fire in their wake before they narrowed with disapproval. And just like that, the apprehension from the way he’d looked into my eyes like I was a human being, not a body, drifted away, and he was now only a man.
One who judged me, wanted something from me—
“Stand up.”
—told me what to do.
Frustration flickered, lazy and hesitant, in my chest.
I wanted to wait a full three seconds before I complied, but after the first two, I had the sudden and distinct feeling I wouldn’t make it to three.
Complying, I got to my feet and stopped in front of the unlocked door. I stood in his shadow, and even that felt cold to the touch.
I hated tall men, how they were always looking down on me, always looming over me like a cloud blocking out the sun. Large men had ruled since the beginning of time, and at that moment, as I grasped steel bars and looked up into blue eyes, I’d never felt a stronger truth.
Impatience stared back at me. “Don’t know your name, or just forget it?” His refined and slightly rough voice blazed a path down my spine.
I lifted a shoulder and, as if it made any sense, said, “You’re not wearing an ill-fitting suit.”
“Can’t say the same for you,” he drawled.
Oh, he did not.
My eyes narrowed. “This dress is McQueen, and it fits perfectly.”
His expression told me he couldn’t be paid enough to care as he opened the door, sending a cold draft of air to my bare skin.
“Walk,” he ordered.
The one-word demand grated on my nerves, but I’d made my bed and now I had to sit on it. My heart drummed in my ears as I stepped out of the cell, beneath his hold on the door, and headed down the corridor.
The Maddest Obsession (Made Book 2) Page 1