The Sweetest Oblivion (Made Book 1)

“I am as bad as the worst, but, thank God, I am as good as the best.”

—Walt Whitman

THE TICKING OF THE CLOCK brought my gaze to it as I slipped off the island. I’d been engaged to Nico for only one hour, yet I already felt turned inside out, as if he’d stolen a few of my layers and I’d never get them back. I knew I made the right decision not to give him every piece of me. If I did, the inevitable would happen, and I’d be nothing but dust beneath his feet while he ruled New York’s underworld.

I traced the rim of his whiskey glass, the air-conditioning cool against my bare skin. I leaned on the counter and sipped the liquor, hoping it would numb the abrasive feeling of his scruff against my neck, hoping it would make his clean, male scent disappear from my nose. It didn’t.

When the sound of the garage door opening met my ears, I glanced toward the noise. I wondered if he would leave me here alone, but when I didn’t hear any engines starting, I imagined he was only working on his cars.

I tossed back the rest of the warm whiskey and set the glass on the counter, but before I could walk away, my eyes caught on some paperwork. Hesitation flooded me, but I took a step forward and grabbed the top paper between two fingers.

I stared at my fiancé’s private bank account information, my heart beating with confliction. Vacillation at the wrongness of my intentions. Yet, I felt the hope of absolution, no matter how small it might be.

This life I was born into might be dark, but it was transparent. The Cosa Nostra was only a candid version of the Outside’s politician smiles. I knew this world, knew its darkness, knew its light. And I knew that I was good, but sometimes even the good has its shadows.

Before I could think more about it, I pulled open cupboard drawer after drawer, searching for a pen and paper. When I found them, I copied the information down and slipped it into the bottom of my duffel bag.

You can only sink or swim.

You can’t swim in the underworld, but I’d always heard drowning was the best way to go.

After dressing, I took a tour of the home. I found three bedrooms upstairs and dropped my bag on the queen-sized bed of one that had to be a spare. Cream walls, white duvet and furniture. It was understated elegance, and I knew Nico hadn’t been the one to decorate it.

A bay window with a seat below took up the far wall and looked over the backyard and garage. My fingers touched the glass as my gaze found Nico whose head was beneath the hood of one of his cars in the drive. Only his side profile was visible, but my heart thumped to an uneven beat. He wore a white t-shirt, his button-up and tie lying in a pile on one of the lawn chairs.

I wondered who did his laundry. He said he had a cook, but it was close to lunchtime and no one had arrived yet. I really didn’t know how to cook. It was a travesty for an Italian woman, I knew, but I partly blamed it on my mamma for never teaching me. She was a perfectionist in the kitchen and would slap our hands if we took one misstep, so it had always been easier to stay out of her way.

Heading out of my new bedroom, I stopped in front of the master. With gray walls and mahogany furniture, it had a masculine touch. The large bed was unmade, and dress shirts and ties lay over the back of a chair, some fallen to the floor. It looked like a messy king lived in here. I had an impulse to clean it, but I quelled it and moved on. I didn’t know how he would feel about me going through his things and I didn’t want to. I might have to live with him, but this was an arrangement—not a real marriage.

However, when I thought of my other options, I couldn’t help but feel relief from Oscar Perez’s death. I could guarantee that if I were sent to his home for the day, I wouldn’t have been lying languid on his counter from an orgasm I didn’t have to reciprocate. My skin crawled at the thought of him touching me.

I would kiss whoever killed him.

When I opened the fridge, I was relieved to see some pre-made meals I only had to pop in the oven. There were handwritten notes on the top of each saying what they were in a feminine scrawl. So, he did have a cook. I was going to feel like less of a woman if I had to have some other woman make my meals now that I was getting married. I guessed I would have to put learning how to cook on my to-do list, though it wasn’t as if that was exactly full.

I put a casserole in the oven and then searched the house for a phone.

As I stood at the island and pulled my hair into a ponytail, my brows knitting from the unsuccessful search, the back door opened. My pulse slowed.

Nico stepped inside, his gaze running from the floor to me. God, that plain white t-shirt would be the death of me. Grease stained his arms and hands and he was sweaty to a hot degree. I finished tying my hair up, and then dropped my clammy hands to my sides.

He eyed me as he passed a couple feet away, like it was a natural thing for me to be in his home, but he wasn’t sure whether he liked it. I had the distinct feeling he didn’t and suddenly felt unwanted and out of place. It seemed as though his presence occupied the whole kitchen and there was no room for me.

I stood there, watching his back as he grabbed a glass from the cupboard and filled it from the faucet. His dark hair was mussed, brushing his collar, and I grew warm remembering I’d had my hands in it not an hour ago.

“I thought we talked about that staring thing.” His voice was deep, slithering down my spine with a rough caress. He emptied his glass in one drink without turning around.

“We didn’t talk about anything.” My response was quiet. “You talked and just assumed I was listening.”

“You were listening,” was all he said, bracing his hands on the edge of the sink.

A heaviness filled the air and my lungs. Uncertain. Suggestive. Each silent second was the tick of a bomb soon to detonate. This weight in my chest, this thrill beneath my skin that thrummed when he was near, wouldn’t be good for me. He didn’t even want me here. All my reservations about this engagement came to the surface.

I shifted. “Can we talk?”

“About what?” There was a tightness to his shoulders I couldn’t miss.

“About . . . us?”

“Is that a question, or do you have something to say?”

“I have something to say.”

He finally turned around, crossed his arms, and leaned against the counter.

“Go ahead, then.”

I swallowed. “I’m sure my papà would forget the marriage contract if you asked him to.”

His eyes sparked with dark amusement. “I’m sure he would.”

I paused, not expecting his response. I’d believed my papà had been the one to pressure Nico into this marriage—that his anger was for another reason entirely. I just hadn’t known how to start the conversation any other way.

“So . . . have him do it.”

“Now, why would I do that?” he drawled, though his voice was edged with something not-nice.

My brows pulled together. “Why wouldn’t you?”

His gaze turned to ice. “Good question.”

I knew I’d walked myself into that and sort of deserved it, but I still bristled from his insinuation. If this was how all of our conversations were going to go, I would go insane before we even got married.

I hesitated, not understanding any of this. “We won’t do well together,” was what came out, when I wanted to say: You’re the only man I’ve met who could do me permanent damage.

“You seemed agreeable enough to me earlier.” His expression had kitchen island and naked written all over it.

I couldn’t stop the heat from rushing to my cheeks at his crass reminder, but also because I was quickly losing control of this conversation and growing more flustered by the minute. “That’s different and you know it. If that’s what this is about . . . you don’t have to marry me for it.” It made me sound easy—especially with what he knew of my past—but I didn’t care. “We made a deal,” I said quietly, remembering my promise to take my clothes off whenever he asked. “And I’ll uphold it.”

The air filled with a bitter current that made me regret my words. He let out a tense breath before running his tongue across his teeth. “And why is it you’re so against marriage?”

“I’m not against marriage.”

I didn’t mean it to be so cutting an insult, but he read the insinuation that it was marriage to him I was against. I swallowed as his expression turned even stormier, a muscle moving in his jaw.

“So, what happens when your papà marries you off? Will you still fuck me when I tell you to?”

I chewed my bottom lip. If I said no, he wouldn’t protect Ryan anymore, and I couldn’t risk it. “We made a deal.”

As darkness pooled like liquid lead in his eyes, I realized how that sounded. Like I wouldn’t honor my vows, and as I was currently engaged to this man, it sounded really bad. The stressed silence made it hard to breathe.

When he took a sudden step toward me, my heart jerked. I took one back and bumped into the island.

He stopped. Bitter amusement crossed his face with a tiny shake of his head. “Jesus.”

It wasn’t like I feared him overly much, but my mind was spinning, my body reacting on instinct. And when a man like that stalks toward you, it’s only natural to retreat.

I held my breath as he took the remaining steps, until he was only an inch away. He smelled like man, clean sweat and whiskey. The scent sank its way into my skin, embedding itself deep.

He braced his palms on the counter on either side of me, stepping closer until his presence touched me everywhere. He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear. “Why are you afraid of me?”

“I’m not—”

I jumped when his hand came down on the counter beside me, the loud slap filling the kitchen. My heart pounded, and I was sure he could hear it.

“You’re not, huh?” he asked with a sardonic tone that should have frustrated me—but his closeness, this exchange, had my blood flowing. In a strange way, heat pooled between my legs.

He gripped the side of my neck, tilting my head until I looked him in the eyes. His voice was deep, soft, yet laced with frustration that he even had to say it. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

He said that now, but I’d heard stories of how a don dealt with a thief.

“That much I can promise you, Elena.”

The words found their way into my chest, seeping into the cracks and filling it with warmth. This man’s voice turned my resolve to ash. However, I then read between the lines, and what he meant was: That’s all I can promise you.

I didn’t know why it mattered—it wasn’t like I had anything to offer him but betrayal.

“But this marriage is going to happen.”

“Why?”

I couldn’t help but think I’d been his second choice. He’d chosen Adriana over me, had he not? Why did he want me now? Was I merely a convenience?

“I need a wife. You need a husband. And I think we both know you don’t want your papà in charge of choosing for you.”

A convenience, then.

He was right. I never did have much faith in Papà in that department. I believed he really had encouraged Oscar’s suit, and it didn’t take a psychologist to understand that man’s character. I was ready to be out from under my father’s thumb, though I was unsure if being under this man’s would be worse.

If Nico could treat this marriage like an agreement, then surely so could I. I hesitated, his closeness pushing my reservations deeper into my subconscious with each second.

I had no idea if I was making a mistake, but as much as I liked to believe I had a choice in this marriage, I did not. He was merely humoring me by pretending to care about my opinion.

“Okay.” The quiet acquiescence filled the small space between us.

“Okay,” he repeated, running his thumb across my chin and, at the hint of amusement passing through his eyes, I knew he left some grease there.

My stomach fluttered, but then dipped at the dark tone of his next words.

“I said I’ll never hurt you, Elena, but if I find out you’ve touched another man, there is nothing in this world that could save him.”