The Sweetest Oblivion (Made, #1)(107)

A drop of sweat ran a lazy path down my back.

Tapping a few keys, I woke the computer up. When the screen asked for the password, I said a quick prayer that Zio hadn’t changed it in the past six years.

Dulce. His late wife.

The rainbow spinning wheel went round and round, and as the computer opened to the home screen, another heavy breath rushed past my lips.

When Adriana and I were younger and Mamma and Papà had dinners to attend, they’d drop us off here. Most kids watched Disney movies and ate fruit snacks at the babysitter’s. I sat on Zio’s lap at his desk while he cooked books and let me have tiny sips of scotch.

I’d watched him transfer money a hundred different times, but I didn’t remember there being so many programs as there was now.

Please, Memory, don’t fail me now.

Five minutes later, I found what I was looking for just as my nerve endings threatened to jump out of my skin.

I typed in the information from Nico’s personal bank account and then mine.

Entered a seven-digit number.

And pressed Transfer.





On my way out of the bank, my shoulder collided with another’s. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, giving the man a glance. My stomach dropped like an anchor to my toes.

Sebastian.

“My, my, what do we have here?” Intrigue glinted in his dark eyes as he ran a hand down his navy blue tie.

My heart beat in my throat. This was probably the worst thing that could have happened—running into one of my husband’s newest business partners—but I didn’t come this far to stop now.

“You know you sound like a cliché villain, don’t you?” I responded, continuing down the sidewalk and into the bustle of the city.

Sebastian caught up to me, his Ferragamos in sync with my sneakers. “Oh, Elena. I am the villain.” A dark undertone slipped into his light Colombian accent. His gaze coasted the area. “Why do I have a feeling you’re out here all alone?”

I ignored his question. “Have you gotten laid yet?”

A soft laugh escaped him. He ran a thumb across his bottom lip, his gold watch glinting in the sun. “Sí. I found the most accommodating ladies.”

“Ladies, huh? Not prostitutes?”

“Ay, Elena.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “You wound me. Give me twenty minutes and I could charm you out of those . . .” His eyes drifted down. “. . . Jeans.”

“And you’re starting by stalking me?”

“No. I’m stalking you because I’m beginning to believe you really are alone, and if I didn’t, my new business partner would try to shoot me.”

I raised a brow. “Try?”

“I’m hard to kill.” He winked.

We stopped at a stoplight and Sebastian rolled his shoulders in the smooth lines of his gray suit as the corner filled with people.

“How do you speak such good English?” I asked. If he was going to be invasive by following me around, so was I.

He slipped his hands into his pockets. “My mother’s Australian. I went to school in Sydney.” That made sense. No wonder Oscar was so fair. His brother received the goldenness of a Colombian, however.

I scrunched my nose. “They have a lot of snakes and spiders there.”

“They do. But I think you have bigger problems here,” he said, grimacing as a taxi driver screamed at a man on a bike to get out of the way.

The light turned green and Sebastian continued to follow me all the way to the bus station. I stopped at the kiosk to get my ticket, but my fingers faltered on the screen when Sebastian coolly said, “Two.”

“No,” I breathed. “Thank you for offering though.”

“If that’s how you want it, Elena. I was planning to give Ace a call anyway.” He reached for his pocket, but before he could get his phone out I turned and grabbed his hand. A smirk pulled on his lips. “See what I mean? I’ve hardly begun charming you and you’re already dying to touch me.”

I swallowed. “Don’t call him.”

Darkness flashed through his eyes. “Why not, Elena?”

“Just . . . you can’t.”

“Are you running?”

“No,” I insisted. “I swear it. But there’s something I need to do.”

“With thousands of dollars in your pocket?” he asked with a sardonic tone.

I only nodded.

“And a thoroughly pissed don on your trail?”

Another nod.

He gave his head a shake, tightening his jaw. “What the hell,” he muttered. “This city was beginning to bore me anyway.” His hand dropped from his pocket and his dark gaze met mine. “Two. Tickets. Elena.”

With no other choice in the matter, two tickets it was.





“I have killed no men, that, in the first place didn’t deserve killing.”

—Mickey Cohen





THE FAN WHIRLED AS SWEAT dripped down my back under the heat of the sun. I wiped my neck and tossed the rag on the worktable. Tension coiled beneath my skin, and I gave in and grabbed a pack of smokes from a drawer and lit one. I inhaled until my lungs burned and nicotine spread through my veins in one relaxing rush.

In all honesty, I didn’t feel like working on my car right now. I felt like fucking my wife, or even staring at her. Whatever I could get. But I came out here for a reason. Inside, she was everywhere. The sound of her voice. Her soap in my shower and her clothes in my room. Her hair ties and little wedding notes on every surface. The soft scrape of her nails on the back of my neck whenever she sat on my lap.