The Maddest Obsession (Made Book 2)

by Danielle Lori

  She looked bored. “Say something in Russian.”

  This was a moment I would love to fill her mouth with something more productive.

  I let her go rougher than I should have, and then hated myself for feeling a twinge of regret. Couldn’t kill her. Couldn’t even hurt her. What the hell would I even do with her? My dick immediately took over, flashing images through my mind of her naked on my bed, ass up, head-down, as she clutched the sheets and begged me for more.

  Obviously, I had some ideas.

  But something deeper was involved—some foreign, visceral need I couldn’t explain and didn’t even understand. A hunger that roared in my chest and bled into my veins. If I went there with her, finally had her in the ways I’d dreamed of for years, nothing would be the same. My plans of a normal, comfortable life would be shot to hell. The idea of giving it all up was a physical abhorrence.

  “Is that where you went to . . . that night? Russia?” she asked me as I reached the door.

  That night. She said it like she was disturbed by just the memory, while, even though I hated it, that night had fueled my obsession for her for years. I’d dreamed of it, fantasized of her, and fought a physical battle with myself not to go back to New York just to see her in the flesh.

  Contempt spread like frostbite in my chest. I turned to look at her, ignored the soft curves of her body as she leaned against the wall where I’d put her. “Fortunately for Russia, their women seem to have a little more self-respect than to drop their clothes for a man they hate. Guess I needed a change of scenery.”

  Anger flashed in her eyes.

  As soon as I stepped into the hall, a thunk hit the door before I could pull it closed.

  I gritted my teeth.

  She’d thrown her goddamn shoe at me.

  “If I didn’t already know you’re a fucked-up bastard and like pain, I’d be making your face a lot less pretty right now.”

  Funny that we were both thinking about each other’s faces. Just the sight of his pissed me off.

  I pulled the door open to let Nico enter.

  He walked in, sizing up my new apartment. I’d sold the last just so I wouldn’t have any excuse to come back to New York. Fuck how well that worked out.

  “You know what?” Ace lifted a shoulder and turned to me. “What the hell.”

  His fist collided with my jaw.

  It felt like a fucking sledgehammer, and finally cleared my head of a certain dark-haired woman since she’d thrown her shoe at me earlier. A welcome reprieve.

  I walked toward the kitchen to get a drink.

  “What? Not going to hit me back? Too grandiose, or something?”

  I let out a sardonic breath. “Or something.”

  I’d had enough fighting to last a cage-fighter two lifetimes. Fought to eat. Fought not to be touched. Fought to stay alive. The streets of Moscow hadn’t been a school trip, and I’d only ended up there because my mother’s house had been anyone’s worst nightmare.

  “You want to tell me what your problem is with me?”

  I laughed. “I don’t give a single fuck about you.”

  “Cut the shit. You’ve had a hard-on for pissing me off from day one.”

  “Sometimes an opportunity presents itself and I take it. It has nothing to do with you or my cock.” Unless it involves Gianna Marino, anyway.

  I’d always convinced myself I disliked Nico because he was impulsive and reckless. But I knew that was just an excuse for the real reason: he’d fucked her. If I couldn’t fuck her, nobody could fuck her. It was that simple. The idea of anyone touching her was a nauseating pill I refused to swallow.

  I’d never seen Ace interested in any particular woman besides Elena Abelli. The opportunity for my small vendetta practically landed in my lap earlier. Maybe it was a little immature, considering he’d slept with Gianna only once years ago. But . . . I held grudges. Fucking sue me.

  “Elena is mine, Allister.”

  I raised a brow. “Does she know?”

  “She will tomorrow.”

  “Ah.” I leaned against the counter, sipped my drink. “So, that’s why you’re here.”

  He rubbed his jaw. “We’re having lunch at Francesco’s tomorrow to go over wedding plans.”

  “And what?” I said, amused. “Gonna see if they can do a quick switcharoo for the other sister . . . or something?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Or something.”

  “What do you need?” I got straight to business.

  “An intermediary.”

  “Don’t think you can handle the Abellis yourself?”

  “I know I can. But I would rather not start a war with my future wife’s family.”

  I nodded. “I imagine that would kill the honeymoon. Fine, I’ll send someone—”

  “I don’t want someone, I want you to do it. If her fuck-up brother or cousin gets hurt in the process—”

  Jesus, he was hard-up for this girl. I wished I couldn’t relate.

  “The women should be at this luncheon tomorrow,” I told him. A woman’s presence always seemed to dull a man’s bloodlust.

  “They’ll be there.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Noon.”

  “I can be there at twelve-thirty. I have a prior engagement.”

  “Fine. I’ll stall them.” He checked his phone. “Are you staying in New York?”

  “No. I’m on sabbatical.” I’d missed the sight and smells of home. Fuck, who was I kidding? I knew why I was here, and it had everything to do with a grown woman with sparkly-painted toenails.

  “Well, if you get a chance, I want you to keep an eye on Gianna and a Vincent Monroe.”

  Tension rolled through me at just the sound of their names together.

  Ace watched me. “Have you heard of him?”

  Dry amusement filled me. I knew Monroe’s address, social security number, and that he preferred his bowl of cereal in the morning with a side of softcore on HBO.

  I nodded. “Some multi-million-dollar hotelier.”

  “There’ve been some rumors they’re involved, and I owe it to my oldest capo to keep it under control.”

  “You think I have time to surveil the women in your family?”

  If he only knew. I’d only made it one month after the move to Seattle until the pressure in my chest became too much and I couldn’t take it any longer. I needed to see her—it wasn’t even an option anymore. So, I looked her up just to see if she was still alive. She was a walking hazard to herself and others; I had to make sure. Things might have gotten slightly out of control—checking on her becoming my daily routine—but I wouldn’t apologize for it. The sight of her calmed the rush in my ears, the beat of my heart, and I’d finally been able to focus on my work again.

  He moved toward the door. “You have more men at your disposal than I do. Get someone to do it.”

  Over my dead body would I assign some limp-dicked analyst to watch Gianna twenty-four-seven.

  “And if she is getting serious with him?” I’ll kill him.

  His eyes narrowed. “If she keeps fucking everything up, she’ll make this family look weak. She knows the consequences. If they’re involved, he’s dead and she’ll be dealt with.”

  “You won’t fucking touch her.” The threat escaped me, so calm and deadly it stilled the air. Two goddamn slipups in one day. I could have laughed, but I didn’t find it even slightly amusing that Ace now knew I had a weakness—he now had something to hold over my head. My entire reputation rode on me being untouchable, and this was going to fuck it all up.

  He watched my face, let out an amused breath. “Well, fuck me running.” And then walked out the door.

  A TEAR RAN DOWN MY cheek. “It’s so beautiful.”

  Valentina chuckled and handed me a tissue. “You only think so because you’ve won the bet.”

  “Shh.” Nadia Abelli, the bride’s grandmother, glared at us from the other side of the aisle.

  Val rolled her eyes. “Someone’s t
he party police.”

  Elena looked so beautiful in her wedding dress it hurt my eyes. And Ace was as sharp as ever, pink tie and all.

  I had won the bet.

  But I was only so happy because the bride and groom seemed so happy.

  They looked at each other like they were . . . in love. My chest hurt, and my smile fell. I wished love was visible, like the sparkles on Elena’s gown. Or the shimmer of the sun on skin. Then it couldn’t be hidden or faked.

  I wondered what love felt like.

  I wondered if it even existed.

  Another tear dripped down my cheek, and I wiped it away.

  As the usher directed each pew to leave, my gaze landed on Elena’s cousin Dominic walking down the aisle. “Oh, excuse me, Val. I have some business to attend to.”

  “A little young for you, you think?”

  “Shut up, he’s twenty. Plenty legal.” I winked at her.

  She laughed and pulled her long legs to the side and out of the way.

  I caught up to the handsome young man and grasped his arm. His gaze slid my way as we continued walking down the aisle.

  “I’m here to apologize that you had to take care of me the other night at Elena’s little party.” My papà’s phone call had been haunting me day and night, and I might have gone slightly overboard with the alcohol at her bachelorette. “So, I have a proposal—whenever you go on a bender, I’ll be your DD, take you home, take off your shoes, cover you up, and leave a glass of water and a couple painkillers beside your bed.”

  A corner of his lips lifted. “As much as I would love to accept that very specific and generous offer, I didn’t take you home.”

  I faltered, pausing in the middle of the entrance hall. “But . . . who did?”

  He only gave me a reassuring smile and walked away.

  The last memory I had of that party was Dominic escorting me to his car. Tequila and self-loathing had churned in my stomach, and I longed to be home before unconsciousness swallowed me whole. I hadn’t made it, the night slotted into one of the many I’d never remember.

  I stared out the glass doors of the church, and suddenly, my heart slowed as something came back to me.

  There’d been strong arms, a warm chest.

  And two rough words in my ear.

  “I’ve never seen such a beautiful bride,” I exclaimed.

  Elena blushed, placing a hand on her cheek. “The compliments today are going to go straight to my head.”

  “Good. You’re too humble as it is. So”—I linked my arm through hers—“how has the married life been so far?” They’d eloped a short while ago. Apparently, Ace couldn’t even wait one more week.

  “It’s been . . .” Her eyes sparkled. “Wonderful. He’s been really good to me, Gianna.”

  “Of course, he has. His mamma raised him better than that, even if he’d like to deny it.”

  “I wish I could have met her,” she said softly.

  “She had her . . . issues.” An addiction to coke I couldn’t judge her for; she’d been in Antonio’s orbit, after all. “But she tried hard to be a good person and mother. She gave me a Willow Tree—you know, those porcelain angels—every year for my birthday.” My smile fell. “If she only knew I would eventually marry her husband . . .”

  Shame was a sinkhole I never knew when I’d fall in.

  “Oh, Gianna . . . it’s not like you had a choice. I’m sure she would have understood.”

  “No, I went into that marriage willingly”—anything to get far away from Chicago—“with an open mind and heart. Let’s just say, I realized it wouldn’t be what I had fantasized it to be the night of my wedding.” I laughed lightly. “Anyway, one of those Willow Trees is yours. Come get one whenever you like.”

  “Thank you, Gianna. I would love that.” Her gaze found Nico’s across the room. He was talking to his uncle Jimmy. If I stepped between that look, I was sure my dress would catch fire.

  If love were visible, it couldn’t be far from the soft heat in their eyes.

  “Gosh.” I fanned my face. “It’s getting so sweet in here I feel like I’m in the middle of a Hallmark moment.”

  She laughed, pulled her gaze away. “Sure, minus the tension and guns.”

  We both looked around the ballroom of the hotel hosting the reception. The Abellis stayed on one side of the room, while the Russos congregated on the other. The most enthusiastic pair was Luca, who leaned against the wall, chewing on a toothpick and staring at the other famiglia, while Nadia Abelli, the party police, flipped through a Vogue magazine. Even the kids watched each other like the others weren’t vaccinated.

  “Lively bunch, aren’t they?” I said.

  “Honestly, I’m just glad they’re being cordial. For a while, I was sure Papà and Nico would end up killing each other before the wedding.”

  “Ohmygod!” The shriek came from behind us.

  Elena closed her eyes before pasting on a smile and turning around to greet Jenny, her brother’s cheating girlfriend and one of Ace’s ex-flings.

  “Oh no, I’ve just remembered I’m parched,” I dead-panned.

  “Of course you have,” Elena muttered through her smile.

  I drifted toward the beverage table, not the bar. If I couldn’t even remember who had taken me home the other night, I needed to stay clear of alcohol. As for my growing suspicion that it had been a certain Russian, and considering the way he’d taken care of me . . . well, I didn’t even want to think about it. Especially since less than two weeks ago, he’d insinuated I was easy, a boring lay, and had low self-esteem in one hit.

  My gaze unwillingly searched him out for mere self-protection. Everyone knows where their enemy is in the room. He was either schmoozing some socialite in a dark corner or he wasn’t here.

  “Gianna! I thought that was you.”

  I turned to see Samantha Delacorte, AKA the Most Superficial Woman in New York City, beelining straight to me.

  I forced a smile. “Samantha, how nice to see you.”

  She air-hugged me, leaving a cloud of sensual perfume I could hardly see through when she pulled back.

  “I’m not wedding-crashing, I swear,” she said. “I saw you from the lobby and wanted to say hello. Honestly, Gianna, it’s been too long. Are you . . .” She looked me up and down, grimacing at my blue halter tutu dress. “All right?”

  I copied the sickly-sweet tone of her voice. “Honestly, I’ve been so busy—charities, weddings, tickets to the race tomorrow—I must have forgotten to keep in touch. I am so sorry.”

  “Oh no . . .” she started.

  I blinked.

  “I sure hope Vincent didn’t forget to invite you to our trip tomorrow. The end-of-the-summer Bahama trip on his yacht?” She put a hand on my arm, fake pity shining in her eyes. “I’m sure it was just a mistake. I’ll talk to him—”

  “No worries, Samantha,” I said blandly, sizing up the room. “I’ve found I’m allergic to the sea.”

  “Bummer.” She pouted.

  My gaze stopped on the bar, and I stared longingly.

  “Well, Vincent, a few others, and I are up in the penthouse suite watching the game. Go, Yanks! You should stop by after this . . . eventful little party. I’m sure Vincent wants to see you, no matter what he says.” The sympathy in her eyes barely concealed her satisfaction.

  To be honest, I was a little stung Vincent hadn’t reached out to me at all. But I knew it was for the best—there could never be anything between us like he wanted. I did miss his friendship, however.

  “I’m not going to be able to make it.” I pouted. “I made plans with my cat weeks ago.”

  “Shame. Well, don’t be afraid to stay in touch. We all go through periods of depression, you know.”

  She air-kissed me on the cheeks and then drifted away.

  I sighed.

  Took a sip of the punch only the kids were drinking.

  Tapped my heel on the floor.

  This no-alcohol-and-drugs vow was working out just fin
e—

  Val stopped nearby and shook a pack of cigarettes at me with a raised brow.

  “Oh, thank God.”

  I set my punch on a random table and followed her out the door.

  “You wanna know the gossip I just heard in the ladies’ room?” she asked as we sat on a bench outside the hotel doors and lit a cigarette.

  “No.”

  “It has to do with Christian.”

  I might hate him, but I still wanted to unravel him like a cat with a ball of yarn.

  “Continue.”

  She chuckled. “You know Jacie Newport—blonde, tall, disgustingly perfect—a member on the ACA charity board?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, I bumped into her in the bathroom—literally, mind you. She used to see Christian years ago, I remembered, and so I thought it would be the perfect opportunity to find out just how he operates.”

  I crossed my legs and leaned back. “Please, tell me you’re not still interested in him.”

  “A woman would have to be dead not to be interested, Gianna.”

  “Just call me Elvira,” I muttered.

  “Pretty sure she wasn’t undead, but I get your point.”

  I wanted to tell her Allister was Russian. Italians didn’t have a great affiliation with Russians here in New York. The Cosa Nostra and Bratva didn’t clash often, but when they did, it was a time us women sat around wondering if our husbands would come home. If I told her, maybe it would turn her off. Though, for some reason, I kept it to myself. I didn’t want her to know his secret. It was mine.

  “Anyway, turns out the fed doesn’t stick around with the same woman for long.”

  I scoffed. “That’s all the gossip you got? I could have told you that.”

  “Well, surely, you didn’t know he’s only with the same woman a very specific three times.”

  I frowned. “Like, three dates?”

  “More like, three times between the sheets.” She smirked. When I still looked confused, she added, “Three romps in the sack? Three rolls in the hay?” I blinked. “Playing hide the pickle? Doing the horizontal hustle—?”

  “Are you saying he only sleeps with the same woman three times?”