The Sweetest Oblivion

by Danielle Lori

  “He’s a cop.”

  I couldn’t help the little nose wrinkle.

  Well, not ideal, but I guessed I could work with it. He didn’t look like a cop and I could usually tell. Even when they were crooked, they still didn’t fit. He was FBI, maybe. No way he was a street cop. They never came to the house, and the fact that Christian had must mean he was high-profile and didn’t fear getting spotted by any surveillance. Only the dark side of the world knew how corrupt the government was. Maybe it was why I was so interested in politics—my life was immersed in it already.

  After a moment, I lifted a shoulder. “Okay.”

  His gaze sparked. “Stay away from him.”

  I paused, not understanding his sudden temper. Maybe this was about last night. Was he that mad about the phone incident?

  “I didn’t tell Tony about the photo, Nicolas.”

  “I know,” he said with heat. “I did.”

  My eyes narrowed. “Why would you do that?”

  “I wanted to beat the shit out of your brother.”

  I blinked, not expecting such a candid response, and then let out a half laugh. “Well, was it as satisfying as you had hoped?”

  “No.” The word was dark, full of meaning and underlined with something magnetic that tingled in my breasts. He glanced at my hand by my side and then back at me. “Not very faithful, are you?”

  I was taken aback, even though I didn’t understand. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Instead of answering me, he pushed off the column and ran a hand down his tie. “He’s not fucking Italian. There’s no chance for you and him.”

  Back on the Christian kick, were we?

  Nicolas took a step toward the open front door, apparently done with this conversation.

  My papà hadn’t seemed to have an issue with what I’d said to Christian. Why was Nicolas making such a big deal of it? Frustration swelled in my chest and the words slipped from my lips before I could stop them.

  “Who said I’m thinking about marriage?”

  He halted, his dark gaze practically assaulting me.

  Wrong thing to say.

  “I swear to God, Elena, if I find out you’ve let some man touch you, I will deliver his hands to you in a box.”

  I swallowed.

  “And I do not. Fucking. Bluff.”

  He slammed the door behind him.

  “I can resist anything except temptation.”

  —Oscar Wilde

  THERE COMES A POINT IN life when you know that what you want to do is wrong, and you have to decide whether to avoid the temptation or do it anyway.

  I was doing it anyway.

  Nicolas’s words should have left a puddle of dread in my stomach. However, they had the opposite effect—sinking into my skin and sending a breathless shiver all the way to my toes.

  The man was rude, arrogant, and slightly psychotic.

  The logical part of me didn’t like him. But the carnal part—God, did it want to give him anything he wanted.

  Which was a serious problem.

  Only made all the more serious by the fact that his statement had sounded suspiciously like jealousy. The idea had left a thrill behind even as he slammed the door in my face.

  It left a dangerous, dangerous desire to know for sure.

  What I was doing was manipulative and slightly juvenile, but I didn’t have time to spare. I wanted this new man’s interest and I wanted it fast. Although, I might have been challenging the possibility of Nicolas’s jealousy more than anything.

  I had to know if this wasn’t embarrassingly one-sided.

  I didn’t know what I would do with the results, but I wasn’t thinking that far ahead. All I knew was that I needed to know.

  So I was testing it.

  Teasing it.

  Taunting it.

  It included a bathing suit, a scene inspired by Fast Times at Ridgemont High, minus the nudity unfortunately, and a certain male’s attention.

  Water dripped down my body as I pulled myself out of the pool, wrung my hair out, and sat on a lounge chair.

  A light breeze blew through the yard, and the radio played seventies rock quietly. As I leaned back on my hands and let the sun warm my skin, I realized I was as weak as my face was symmetrical. What I was doing could have been innocent enough, but why I was doing it was for all the wrong reasons.

  I’d wanted to swim before Christian, Nicolas, and Papà came out to sit at the patio table with paperwork before them, but it became a priority after I’d noticed they had.

  I wore a light pink one-piece. Papà would kill me if I strutted around in a bikini while he had guests over. But I liked to push it, especially because it was the only thing I could get away with. It was the most risqué one-piece I owned, with only two strings crisscrossing my back, and it was slightly too small, the fabric often riding up my ass.

  Papà sat with his back to me, Christian at the end of the table, and Nicolas facing me. The latter’s gaze was warm and thrilling each time it touched my skin. He leaned back in his chair and tapped his pen on his papers, his eyes coasting to me every once in a while.

  I didn’t know what I was doing. I’d never tried my seductive wiles before now. Before I met Nicolas, I only wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible.

  Truly, I wasn’t acting on rational thought.

  I was running on some kind of innate feeling that pulsated in my chest and manipulated my actions.

  Occasionally, Christian would glance my way, though it was more detached, as if he appreciated a woman’s form but that was all. I guessed I would have to win him over with my personality, then. Cop or not, he was intriguing enough to get to know. With Christian, the darkness lingered under the cold, whereas Nicolas wore his on his sleeve. I wasn’t sure which was worse.

  They knew one another. I could tell by the way they sat near each other, how easily they communicated. They were friends. I couldn’t envision anyone volunteering to be Nicolas Russo’s friend, but Christian did look the part if I had to imagine one.

  As I stood and pulled my hair out of my ponytail, the heat of two gazes settled on my back. It was most likely due to the fact I had a wedgie baring half my ass. A shiver coasted down my spine.

  This probably wasn’t doing anything for the women’s movement, but there really wasn’t one of those in the Cosa Nostra.

  With the warmth of their eyes still touching me, Papà’s voice trailed off as if he’d noticed. He was going to yell at me any minute. I could feel it in the air.

  I sighed, grabbed my towel, and started for the door, neglecting to fix my wedgie. Glancing at Nicolas before I headed inside, I swallowed. His pen rested against his lips, and his gaze followed me, simmering with anger.

  I wasn’t sure what that reaction meant. He could be annoyed I was splashing around while he was trying to work. God, what was I even doing? Once I was in the safety of the house, away from my distracting future brother-in-law, my actions felt ridiculous.

  The house was quiet. Adriana was at her last class of summer theater, Mamma was probably in her room bingeing on soap operas, Nonna on Jerry Springer, and the boys were in the basement, their laughter filtering up the stairs and into the kitchen.

  Tony was always involved with Papà’s work, but my father was probably giving him the day off, considering the good beating he’d taken last night and the fact that Nico had been the one to give it to him.

  I paused. Nico?

  Merda.

  I padded barefoot to the counter to grab a glass. Swimming always made me feel like I was dying of dehydration.

  Opening the cabinet, I stared at the empty bottom shelf. It was getting to the point I was about to put a lock on the entire cupboard, of which only the women in the house knew the code.

  Sighing, I stood on my tiptoes and struggled to reach the glass far back on the top shelf. As I was about to give up and climb the counter, I felt it.

  The hair on the back of my neck rose.

  Nico’s b
ody heat brushed my back as an inked forearm reached above me, grabbed a glass, and then set it on the counter next to me.

  I tensed, my gaze focused on busted knuckles and an ace of spades tattooed on tanned skin.

  Anger rolled off him, and in the dark kitchen it sent a cool mixture of fear and anticipation buzzing through me. Dropping to my heels and grasping the cup, I breathed, “Thanks.” I tried to move away from him, but I was forced to step back when his hands gripped the counter on either side of me, trapping me.

  My heart drummed so fast it stole my breath.

  “You know what happens when you dance around men looking like this?”

  I swallowed and shook my head.

  “They don’t respect you.” His voice was rough and so close to my ear it sent a shiver down my neck.

  “Who said I want their respect?”

  His grip tightened on the counter. “You want him to fuck you?”

  I blinked. “What?”

  “Christian,” he growled.

  “And if I do?” I asked quietly.

  “My earlier statement is withstanding.”

  I inhaled slowly, trying to think clearly in his presence.

  “Do you respect me?” I had no idea where it came from, but it was there now, lingering in the air with a heavy insinuation.

  He didn’t answer.

  A wave of shock rolled through me when the pad of his finger traced the hem of my swimsuit bottoms that still bared too much of my ass. My breath stopped when his other hand slid up my side and gripped my waist, beneath my breast. My nipples tightened, tingling in expectation. Heat pulsated between my legs, and I fought the desire to grab his hand and slide it up until he palmed my breast. I swayed, fighting the need to lean back against him, to feel his body against mine.

  His finger slid under my bottoms, gliding over the curve of my ass where it almost met thigh. All the blood in my body sizzled when he came too close to a taboo part of me. Though, it was probably only taboo to me since no one had ever touched me there before.

  Wetness pooled between my thighs. The desire for him to touch me, to slip his fingers inside me right here in the kitchen, was so strong I inched up on my tiptoes and arched my back, urging his hand lower.

  He cursed roughly and pulled the fabric out from between my cheeks. His hand slid around my hip, grasping my waist to match the other one. They were so close to my breasts I was losing my mind. I fell back until I was leaning against him, and my entire body sang like it never had before.

  My nerve endings buzzed and sparked like rain on a live wire. He was so warm and hard. His erection pressed against my lower back. Nicolas Russo was turned on, and I’d never experienced a single thing more thrilling.

  My head rested on his chest, and the buttons on his dress shirt tickled my bare spine. I brought my hand to my waist and slipped my fingers between his. Our breathing filled the kitchen.

  When I heard my brother’s laughter from downstairs, I realized how dangerous this was. Anyone could come in.

  “You want me to respect you?”

  It was a loaded question, but I only knew one answer. Only wanted one thing from this man, and only needed it once so I could know what it was like.

  I shook my head.

  I wanted him to disrespect me. Every inch of me.

  His hands tightened on my waist almost painfully, as if he struggled to keep them there. He nuzzled the back of my head, but his voice was suddenly as cold as ice. “You like it when men disrespect you?”

  A chill passed through me.

  My hand still rested on his, and he gently spun my ring with a finger until the jewel faced downward. His teeth scraped my ear. “Or maybe you just like to get them all worked up, panting after you.”

  His lips brushed my neck and goose bumps broke out along my body.

  “So, which one is it?”

  I was a slut or a tease.

  Those were the options he’d given me—what he thought of me. Frustration expanded in my chest.

  “Both.”

  He stilled, before making an angry sound in his throat and shoving me away from him.

  I grasped the counter, catching myself, and then spun around.

  His gaze flared. “Looks like you’re as big of a cheat as I am, Elena.”

  What was that supposed to mean? That was the second time he’d insinuated I was somehow disloyal.

  Ice trickled into my veins when someone appeared at the top of the basement stairs. Gabriella. She looked between us, back and forth, then smiled awkwardly and hurried from the kitchen.

  I wasn’t in a position to analyze why she had been down there with three of the men in my family, and even if I were, I didn’t care to dwell on it. The relief was palpable that she hadn’t entered a moment sooner.

  “Go upstairs and change, Elena.” Nico’s voice was hard and uncompromising.

  Did he honestly believe I would do what he said? God, he was so full of himself.

  My eyes narrowed. “No.”

  He ran his tongue across his teeth, and before I understood his intention, he had an arm around the backs of my thighs and my feet left the floor. A breath whooshed out of me as he tossed me over his shoulder.

  “Guess I’ll have to do it for you then,” he bit out as he carried me to the door.

  “Okay! Okay, I’ll do it.”

  When he didn’t put me down, I struggled and tried to wiggle out of his grip. His arm tightened around my thighs like a vise and I couldn’t move an inch. He pushed open the swinging door and panic flooded me.

  “Stop!” I hissed, hanging upside down. “I said, I’ll do it.”

  “Ask me nicely.”

  My teeth clenched. “Please, put me down.”

  He dropped me to my feet in the foyer. His eyes flicked to the staircase, in that commanding way of telling me to get there.

  “There’s something seriously wrong with you,” I told him as I walked away, my heart beating so hard against my ribcage it hurt.

  He released a sardonic breath. “You haven’t seen anything, Elena.”

  Truthfully, that’s what I was worried about.

  “That was the beginning of the end of our thing.”

  —Anthony Casso

  “COME IN!”

  The door of the penthouse on the twenty-second floor swung open, and Gianna stood on the other side. I didn’t believe that even someone who knew Gianna would be able to guess what she would wear next.

  Tonight, it was a small black dress with a hem cutting diagonally from one hip to the opposite knee. Tall red pumps. Fishnet stockings. Wavy hair that was half-up, tied in two knots on the top of her head, and no makeup. Really, she didn’t need it.

  “You’re early!” she exclaimed. Her eyes shone a little too bright, her pupils too large. She was high. Cocaine, most likely.

  “I’ve brought some bruschetta and seafood salad,” Mamma said, moving into the kitchen with a tiny bowl of tomatoes while Benito struggled with everything else.

  Adriana and I stayed in the hallway, hesitating.

  Why was Gianna answering Nicolas’s door?

  A sliver of something unpleasant curled in my chest, and for a split second, I didn’t like Gianna. The feeling was so strong and sudden I had to inhale a breath to push it away.

  It was an unreasonably jealous reaction I shouldn’t have had, especially after yesterday. The problem was, I could still feel his hands on me, like I’d been branded for life. The only other man who’d gotten as close as Nicolas had a warm, gentle touch which faded to memory only seconds later. What I would give to reverse the two.

  Adriana stepped into the apartment, her eyes taking it all in. “So, this is going to be my prison cell.”

  Mamma gasped and spun around to shoot her a look. “Adriana!”

  My sister walked further into the room with me following behind.

  Gianna laughed. “Thankfully, this prison comes with great amenities. I’ll give you a tour!”

  Apparently, Nicola
s owned a few properties in New York and he’d chosen this one for Adriana. It wasn’t as quaint or as homey as his red-brick house, but it was upscale in every meaning of the word.

  It was modernly decorated, with white and silver marble floors, lots of glass tables and chrome finishes. The lighting was dim and romantic, twinkling off the wall of glass that showcased the city. It was breathtaking, but I knew my sister would hate it.

  “I hate it,” she said sourly, examining the view.

  “Oh, come on,” Benito responded, throwing an arm around her shoulder. “It ain’t so bad. Look, it’s even got a pool.”

  It did. The blue water lay still, the railing nothing but glass before a two-hundred-foot drop.

  “If you like it so much, then you live here,” Adriana said.

  “Don’t think Nico likes me like that.”

  A hint of a smile tugged at my sister’s lips.

  Gianna and Mamma took the tour by themselves, my mother’s “oohs” and “ahhs” drifting down the hallway.

  Nobody else had arrived yet, not even the groom.

  He was probably planning to leave Adriana here and to only show up when conjugal visits were necessary. My cousin Cici, who lived in Chicago, got the same fate. Though, she didn’t despise it so much because she hated her husband.

  With the thought of “conjugal visits” sticking around like a bad aftertaste, I decided I needed some alcohol. So I went in search of some.

  My head was in the fridge when I heard him behind me.

  “Look at you, snooping through my shit. You’d think I was marrying you instead.”

  His voice sent a shiver down my back, but I ignored it and grabbed a wine cooler off the shelf.

  Closing the fridge, I turned around.

  Nicolas stood on the other side of the island, his gaze on me as he dropped a folder next to Mamma’s appetizers. He must have come straight from work, because he only wore a black button-up shirt and pants. Not dressed for a party. His hair was messy, like he’d been running his hands through it, and I had the sudden desire to do it myself.

  I leaned against the fridge. “Thank the good Lord for small miracles, huh?”

  His gaze was averted as he took off his watch and set it on the island, but a small smile pulled on his lips.