The Sweetest Oblivion (Made, #1)(33)

As I imagined, he never noticed my missing bikini top. Didn’t ask questions about the broken strap. He only took me home. But before we reached the red front door, his suspicious gaze burned my face. “What’s on your neck?”

I wiped the spot, coming away with a smudge of grease. Unease leaked into my blood. “Um, I don’t know.”

He didn’t respond, didn’t hear my heartbeat ricocheting in my chest. Though, something dark crossed his expression before I could disappear upstairs.

I didn’t ask to get manhandled by Nicolas Russo, by my sister’s fiancé. But the one unfortunate truth I was scared Benito might read on my face was . . . I liked it.





“I want to live my life, not record it.”

—Jackie Kennedy





I WAS BEGINNING TO THINK this attraction was my punishment for him. This was karma. While he had touched me, I’d wished for someone else, and that someone came in the form of my sister’s fiancé.

The rest of Sunday passed with nothing but humidity, icy air-conditioning, and thoughts on my mind. Before him, I was a virgin, had never even kissed a man. An entire world of lust and sex had always been there, but I was unaware until I’d stepped into a low-income apartment holding the hand of a man I hardly knew. He didn’t know the Sweet Abelli, and, to me, that was all that mattered.

When I walked out the door, with that broken chain lock and a cheap ring on my finger, it was as a different woman, with a stain of red I could never remove, and a deeper, darker desire in my blood. Once you set foot into that hazy, carnal corner of the world, you couldn’t go back. The ingenious part was that you didn’t even want to. I attributed this to my problem and came to terms with the small fact that I was losing my mind.

When I’d heard my future brother-in-law in the foyer a few minutes ago while doing laundry to pass the time, I’d gone out of my way to cross his path. I hadn’t needed a drink of water, and I certainly hadn’t needed to wear the tiniest pair of shorts I owned while getting it. I was close to crossing a line, but I didn’t know how to stop myself from toeing the edge.

I understood my attraction to the man. His hands were rough, his voice deep, his presence commanding . . . he checked all the boxes I needed but didn’t want.

Whenever he was near, an invisible string pulled me toward him, vibrating with the promise of a thrill if I gave in to the heavy tug. I hadn’t known I had such a lack of self-control until him. The part that gave me a bitter taste was that I didn’t even want to show restraint.

At least I knew I couldn’t step over the line completely. It took two for that to happen, thankfully.

Nicolas had been on the phone in the foyer as I’d walked past him. His gaze had coasted from the marble floors, up my thighs, over the ridiculous shorts I was now regretting, and then to my face. He’d looked at me like I was gum on the bottom of one of his expensive shoes. It was a mystery how I could be so attracted to him.

Since that brief, wordless interaction, I’d been trying to conceive a plan to get over this all-consuming interest in everything Nicolas Russo.

I could ignore him. However, I’d already told myself I would do that, and look where it had gotten me: in the kitchen drinking a glass of water I didn’t need, while wearing tiny shorts you could call underwear. I could go to Confession and then pray for the good Lord to save me, though with my luck, Father Mathews would tell my papà.

The most feasible option was to try to turn the attraction on to someone else. That might cause issues in itself, but at least I wouldn’t be lusting after my sister’s fiancé. The problem was, if this were possible, I would have already done it.

Frustration ran through me, and I dumped the rest of the water into the sink. I was being ridiculous. I just needed to put the attraction behind me. Mind over matter. Easy, right . . .?

I didn’t have so much faith in myself after all, so, Monday evening, as we were on our way to Don Luigi’s to have dinner with the Russo family, I posed a hypothetical situation before my nonna. It had to be vague—very much so—otherwise she’d easily put it together with her astute ways.

“Nonna,” I started hesitantly, “say you’ve . . . wanted this . . . dog.”

Her nose wrinkled from her spot in the town car. “I would never get a dog. I have allergies.”

Dominic sat between us, texting. He was my quietest and broodiest cousin. And he smoked too much weed. I could smell it on him now.

Benito drove, singing along to Rocket Man by Elton John with his Aviators on, even though the sun had already fallen below the skyscrapers. Mamma sat in the front seat, fixing her makeup in the mirror and complaining when Benito went more than three miles per hour over the speed limit. Adriana had ridden with Papà and Tony, surprisingly. I was sure my father just wanted to chastise her about all the stuff she shouldn’t do while married to Nicolas.

“Imagine you weren’t allergic and you did want one, Nonna. But you want your . . . neighbor’s dog.”

“We’re not getting a dog, Elena,” Mamma said.

“Cazzo. I know.” I only spoke Italian when I wanted to curse. I hardly ever swore, except for damn, hell, and maybe ass with a hole on the end now that I’d met Nicolas. But that was mostly inner monologue, so it didn’t count. “It’s hypothetical,” I said. “Now, say your neighbor’s dog is so . . . cute, and you want him—er, her for yourself.”