The Sweetest Oblivion (Made, #1)(34)

“I think, if I could, I would rather have a cat,” Nonna answered while looking out the window.

“Fine,” I sighed. “A cat, then. You want your neighbor’s cat—”

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

Oh my god.

“I know. I said it’s hypothetical—”

“Why does it smell like skunk in here?” Nonna’s brows knitted.

I didn’t miss Benito shooting a sharp glare at Dominic in the rear-view mirror. He wasn’t supposed to smoke weed; it altered the mind and slowed reflexes. Papà would be mad if he found out.

“Well”—Nonna picked a piece of lint off her skirt—“it must be that perfume you wear, Celia. Seems to ferment after a while.”

Benito choked, and Dominic ran a hand across his almost amused expression while still focused on his phone. I thought Nonna picked on my mamma a lot of the time just because she got laughs from the boys.

Mamma shook her head, probably planning to drink enough for five tonight. She loved wine. And soap operas. If only one of her kids had played soccer.

“Now, what were you asking, Elena? You want a pet?” Nonna opened her clutch purse for candy, most likely. She only put chocolate and Kleenexes in there, of which she reused and reused like they’d quit making them.

“She’s not getting a pet,” Mamma said sternly.

Nonna shifted haughtily on the seat. “Well, I’ve heard pets do wonders for depression. Maybe you should be concerned about your daughter’s mental health.”

“She is not depressed.”

“She wants an animal! In the house. What more needs to be said? Really, Celia . . .”

I tuned them out like the knob on the radio until all I heard was fuzz.

Looked like I was on my own with this one.





Black and white pictures of Old Bronx hung on the walls. The round tables were covered with red and green checkered tablecloths. A wooden bar ran across one wall, which my mamma headed straight for. Booths took up the other, where a few Russo women congregated. The light fixtures were originals, casting the room in a soft, warm glow. It was the kind of restaurant you would dine at to converse and get drunk, but I only stood by the door uncertainly.

I was in a Russo restaurant, in Russo territory.

I felt like a fish out of water, and by the way my two cousins stood by me, eyeing the place with their hands in their pockets, I imagined they felt the same way.

I’d met a few of the women who occupied the booths, but not enough to feel comfortable sitting near them, and I wouldn’t go join the men at the corner of the bar for anything. I noticed Nicolas among them; it wasn’t just his height that made him stand out, but his mere presence.

Warmth spread through me when his eyes landed on mine. He had a way of looking at me that made me feel like I was indecently dressed. He glanced away, responding to the man he was speaking to, and I let out a breath.

“What are you doing blocking the doorway?” Nonna muttered, pushing her way through me, Dominic, and Benito. “Kids these days. Typing on those phones all the time their brains have rot . . .” Her voice trailed off as she headed to a table to sit down.

Warm air brushed my skin as the door opened. Adriana stomped in, her eyes a dark storm. I stared at her attire—she wore a yellow t-shirt dress with black Converses. It was a cute ensemble, but this was a black-tie dinner, no matter the low-key Italian restaurant. I wore a black glitter maxi, and I wasn’t even the bride.

Her expression was equal parts fury, equal parts despair.

“What’s wrong?” I asked her.

She opened her mouth, closed it, then waltzed to the bar and pulled her petite frame onto a stool. Mamma had a glass of wine to her lips when she saw Adriana. Her eyes widened, her face darkened, but then she shook her head like she couldn’t deal with it at the moment and headed in the opposite direction.

Walking up to the bar, I met gazes with the young male bartender in a white shirt and black waistcoat and ordered a beer. He raised a brow at my choice of drink.

Benito was four years older than me and had always had the downstairs fridge stocked with beer. I drank with him secretly in my teen years when Mamma would’ve scolded me about it. I’d grown to like it more than the tartness of wine. At the time, I thought it would be the most scandalous thing I’d ever do. Boy, did I wish that were true.

“Why did the turkey cross the road?” I asked without looking at my brooding sister, who was sipping on a shot of what looked like vodka. I had no idea how she did that, and briefly wondered if my mamma had had an affair with a Russian. He would’ve quickly been a dead Russian if so.

“To prove it’s not chicken.” Her response was dry.

Crap. I must have used that one before. I used to tell her silly jokes when she got upset about something, though it didn’t look like it would work this time.

“Okay.” I tried to up my game. “Why do bananas use suntan lotion?”

She didn’t answer, only sipped her vodka.

“So they won’t peel!” I exclaimed it with so much cheer it hurt my own ears.

The bartender chuckled and slid my beer across the lacquered wooden bar to me. My sister, though—she didn’t blink.

I sighed. “Oh, come on. He thinks it’s funny.”