The Sweetest Oblivion (Made, #1)(23)

Adriana leaned against the counter. A white apron covered her Hamlet t-shirt that was longer than her shorts, and a yellow bandana kept her hair back from her face. “Elena isn’t a good cook either.”

I frowned.

“Elena is not getting married in two weeks!”

The soft patter of rain hitting the windows filled the room, a quiet discomfort replacing any words. The need to ease the tension rushed over me. It was what I was good for, after all.

“I doubt she will kill the man, Mamma. If he can survive being shot a number of times like I’m sure he has, then he should outlive Adriana’s cooking.”

“Three times,” Adriana piped up.

My brows knitted. “What?”

“He’s been shot three times.”

“Mamma mia,” Mamma scolded. “Do not talk of such things.”

A certain interest ran over me, and, ignoring Mamma, I asked, “How do you know that?”

My sister’s sparkling gaze came my way. “I asked him last night.”

“You what? Adriana!”

I sat forward in my chair. “And he told you?”

“Well . . . not exactly. I asked him, and he only looked down on me like I was annoying him. But then Gianna, who was overhearing the conversation, told me three times.”

“Do you have a brain in your head? Why would you ask him something like that?”

Neither of us looked in Mamma’s direction. A smile pulled on our lips. We were now playing a popular game to see who could shock Mamma enough she’d storm from the room, berating us in Italian. It usually began with ignoring her a few times.

“Is Gianna his sister?” I asked, though I was 99 percent sure he was an only child. She could have been a cousin, but somehow, I knew she wasn’t.

Adriana laughed. “No. Stepmother.”

My jaw dropped. “She’s younger than him!”

“A year,” Adriana confirmed.

“My God. Can you imagine sleeping with a man more than twice your age?”

“Elena!”

Adriana’s gaze widened. “You think she had sex with his papà?”

“Stop with this talk.”

I pursed my lips. “Well, they were married. They at least had missionary—”

“Basta!” Mamma headed for the door, tossed her apron on the counter, and spewed Italian about her heathen daughters the whole way.

Our laughter filled the kitchen.

“I can’t believe she’s his stepmother,” I said, before adding, “Or, was.”

“I know.” Adriana stuck her finger in the sauce and tasted it, grimacing. “But I don’t think they have a mother-son relationship.”

“No,” I said, “more like the other way around.”

Adriana shook her head. “No, not like that either.”

“What do you mean?”

“I would bet my entire costume collection they’ve slept together.”

My eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yep,” she said, wiping the island down.

My sister was usually quiet, blending into the background at parties and events, but that only made her skilled at reading people—when she took the time or cared about doing it, anyway. She was probably right. How very . . . blasphemous. Though, I wouldn’t have expected much else from the boss.

I hopped off my chair, headed to the pot on the stove, and tasted a little from the wooden spoon. Bitterness exploded in my mouth. “Wow, that’s, um . . .”

Adriana laughed while struggling to reach a cup on the top shelf. She hopped and growled when she still couldn’t get it. She turned around, giving up, her gaze narrowed.

“Benito and Dominic are downstairs,” I told her. “They’re probably hungry.”

“Why would I care—?” She paused. Understanding filled her eyes and then she pushed off the counter. “I’ll go tell them lunch is ready.”





Red and orange streetlights blurred beyond the drips of rain running down the glass. The sky was dark, pretending to be night when it was only six o’clock on a summer’s day.

Benito’s phone flashed and buzzed in the console, again. Ironically enough, Benito reminded me of Manny Ribera from Scarface, in looks and personality. I could count on him flirting with at least one woman everywhere we went, like clockwork.

“Read it, Elena.”

“No,” I protested. “The last time I did that I saw something I didn’t want to see.”

“Then don’t bitch at me for checking it.”

Ugh. I reached forward and read it. “From ‘Blonde Angela.’” I didn’t blink twice to see that he had to mark his female contacts by more than their names, probably because there were simply too many. He wouldn’t want to mix them up. “I don’t want to see you anymore,” I read blandly and set the phone back in the console before a “goodbye” picture could be received.

His brows furrowed with one hand on the wheel. He wore black pants and a white dress shirt, no tie. It was a casual day for him. There was a high possibility he took longer than me to get ready in the mornings.

Mamma and Papà had a dinner planned with one of my father’s connections, and I’d told Nonna not to worry about coming because of the rain falling like it never had before. So, it was just Benito and me, and he would only drop me off like he usually did, before driving to whatever girl’s house in the meantime. Not Angela’s now, though.