The Sweetest Oblivion (Made, #1)(11)

Another pull.

“Did she tell you?” I asked.

He shook his head. “He sent me a picture.”

Ouch.

“Are you sure it was her?”

“Butterfly. Lower back.”

“Oh . . . well, that was rude of him.”

Honestly, it was hard to feel sorry for Tony. He’d cheated on Jenny with that servant Gabriella and I wouldn’t doubt others. I didn’t take Nicolas as a man to sleep with other men’s girlfriends for the hell of it, though, and I had a feeling . . . “What did you do to him?”

A not-so-nice smile tugged at Tony’s lips.

And there it was. There were always two sides to every story.

He took another pull, and with a frown I watched the blood drip down the side of the island and collect into a small pool. Drinking was only going to make him bleed more. I pushed off the counter and pulled the bottle straight from his lips. Whiskey splashed down his chin and chest.

His eyes narrowed, but his next words were slurred. “Jesus, Elena.” He looked wasted, or really close to passing out.

I unwound the shirt from his hand and recoiled. “Oh my god! You have to go to the hospital, Tony!”

A bullet-shaped hole went straight through his hand like the barrel had been placed directly to it. I covered my mouth, the urge to gag rising in my throat. As I backed up to find Benito, Tony passed out. He fell sideways out of his chair, leaving a smear of red across the counter, and landed with a heavy thunk on the kitchen floor.

Crap, crap, crap.

“Benito!” I yelled.

“Why are you shouting?” Adriana asked as she breezed into the kitchen in galaxy leggings and a sports bra.

“Your fiancé shot Tony!”

“Dead?” She raised a brow, focused on picking the best apple out of the bowl on the counter.

“Where’s Mamma?” I asked.

She shrugged, peeling the sticker off a green apple.

I sighed. Fine. If they want to play this game . . . I nudged open the swinging door and shouted into the hallway, “I’m calling 911!”

On cue, Benito, Dominic, and my papà pushed their way into the kitchen.

Papà narrowed his eyes on me, but then noticed his only son lying on his back in a lot of red. He spoke quietly to Benito—he always spoke quietly unless he was mad—and then my cousins hauled Tony up, one under his arms and one by his ankles, and carried him out of the kitchen.

“Not Vito,” I told my papà. “The hospital.”

“Yeah, yeah, Elena. They’re taking him,” he said dismissively, his gaze coasting over the blood on the floor.

I eyed him, wondering if he was telling me the truth. My papà never took any of us to the hospital without a fight.

He glanced at me, noting my suspicious gaze. “It’s just as good as a hospital,” he snapped.

Ugh. I had no idea where they were taking my brother. Most likely a doctor Papà had on his payroll.

“Hey, has anyone seen my drawing pencils?” Adriana interrupted.





“Behind every great fortune, there is a crime.”

—Lucky Luciano





I MIGHT NOT HAVE HAD a good reason to dislike Nicolas Russo in the beginning, but after meeting him, after he shot too close to my head, and after he put a bullet through my brother’s hand, I now had substantial motive to immensely dislike him.

The whys of it all didn’t matter.

Tony had been gone all night. It wasn’t until I’d gotten back from dance practice twenty minutes ago that I learned he was going to be okay. He was given a 75 percent chance of having full function of his hand again.

Apparently, Jenny had volunteered to move into his apartment and help him out. My mamma told me this with a roll of her eyes. She really didn’t like Jenny. And after hearing she’d cheated on Tony with Nicolas, I wasn’t sure what to think about her either. Granted, I would have dumped Tony years ago if I was her, but I didn’t understand sticking around if you weren’t going to be faithful. It made me believe she was only around for one thing.

I sat cross-legged on the couch, watching a documentary on recent humanitarian crises, still dressed in my sweaty leggings and an off-the-shoulder top. It was one of the hottest days of the summer so far, and Benito had left the windows down the entire drive home. He’d said the wind did great things for his hair, and so I never got to cool off. I pressed a cold water bottle to my face.

The front door opened and my papà’s voice filled the foyer. A rush of awareness ran from my nape down the length of my spine. I realized Nicolas was here before I even heard his voice, deep and indifferent. A strange dance began in my stomach.

Even though I stared at the TV, I had no idea what was happening because I was hyperaware of every noise coming from the foyer.

As their steps went by the living room’s double doors, a cell phone rang.

“Take it,” Papà said. “I’ll be in my office.”

Since it was silent, I imagined a nod from Nicolas. My papà’s footsteps drifted down the hall.

“Yeah?” Nicolas drawled. A couple of seconds passed before, “Motherfucker.”

I tensed. It sounded like he was going to kill someone, and his steps were coming straight for me. Before I knew it, he reached over my shoulder and stole my remote.