The Sweetest Oblivion (Made, #1)(35)

“He doesn’t. He just wants to sleep with you,” she deadpanned.

My eyes widened and then shot to the bartender who was within earshot. I expected a blatant refusal, but he only lifted a shoulder with a smirk before helping another customer.

He was either the bravest man in the room or the most idiotic to hit on a don’s daughter.

I blushed, shook my head at my sister, then brought the bottle to my lips and took a drink. It was cold, refreshing, with a hint of bitterness. “Do you want to share what the problem is, or try to drink it away?” I leaned against the bar and settled in, because I already knew her response.

“Drink it away.”

And so, we drank.





“I see nothing in space as promising as the view from a Ferris wheel.”

—E.B. White





MY HEAD FELT LIGHT AS my second beer settled into a warm puddle in my stomach.

I was only tipsy and had already exchanged alcohol for water. I never drank too much in public; it loosened my tongue, to the point I feared what I would say or do. What if I told everyone what I was thinking? The Sweet Abelli and alcohol didn’t mix. I wasn’t ready to jump headfirst into the world as myself, didn’t know if I’d ever be. When you’re groomed and praised for being a certain way your entire childhood, sometimes there’s no escape.

Adriana didn’t share the same opinions on the matter. She was drunk, very much so. Thankfully, she was usually quiet while intoxicated, and appeared to only be eating much more and with less decorum than she did sober.

More family had shown up and filled most of the restaurant. Russos sat with Russos and Abellis with Abellis. Though, Adriana sat next to Nicolas and his uncles and their wives. I knew his mamma had passed when he was a teen, and his papà had been killed when the Zanettis shot up one of his nightclubs. Unsurprisingly, it was because Nicolas’s father had cheated them on a business deal.

It was strange not having Adriana at our table, but I guessed she was going to be a Russo in less than two weeks. A discomfort tightened in my throat.

I sat next to Tony, who seemed to be in good spirits. He had a bandage on his right hand, though, and kept asking me to get his drinks for him, to pass this or that, and to cut his steak. He always asked with too much enthusiasm, as if he liked his new condition. I was feeling for Jenny, cheater or not.

My parents, Nonna, Dominic, and Benito also sat with us. The men kept the conversation monotonous with talk about work—Papà owned many different establishments, from strip clubs to laundromats, though the latter was probably a cover-up for the packaging and distribution of drugs—or about their bets on men in their illegal fights.

Gianna ran the conversation in the room, making Abellis converse with Russos and vice versa. She looked like Barbie today. Thin-strapped pink dress, high ponytail, and light pink makeup. She was charismatic, independent, and now that I believed she’d slept with Nicolas, I watched her more than I should have. I was fascinated with the idea that she knew what it was like to sleep with him. Though, the more I thought about it, a foreign feeling—a wave of something unpleasant—slithered through my veins.

Envy.

That’s what it was.

I wasn’t only attracted to the man, I was jealous of the women he’d been with.

I groaned out loud.

All eyes at our round table came my way, forks of dessert halfway to their lips.

“Indigestion?” Nonna questioned.

“Yeah,” I responded without thinking, and pushed my chair back. “I’m going to use the restroom.”

I didn’t even realize what I had said until I was walking away from the table and heard my brother and cousins’ soft laughter behind my back. Men.

I had the bathroom door open three inches when I heard my name between the sound of the running faucet and toilet flushing.

“Look, all I’m saying is that she’s known to be this Sweet Abelli, but really it’s only because she gets sweet with a lot of men.”

A bitter taste filled my mouth.

The voice belonged to a Russo woman. Valentina. Married to one of Nicolas’s cousins, though I didn’t know which. She was tall, statuesque, with strong Sicilian features. Hard to miss or forget.

“You’re just jealous because Ricardo’s been staring at her all night,” another woman replied. It sounded like Jemma, Nicolas’s cousin. She was close to my age, maybe a little younger, with light brown hair and eyes. I’d only spoken to her once, but she’d seemed like a nice girl.

“I don’t care what Ricardo does. I have Eddie,” Valentina replied. I heard a rustle like someone was digging through their purse, then silence, maybe reapplying makeup. “They killed her lover, don’t you know? Some man from Staten Island.”

“They’re going to kill yours too if you don’t shut up about it,” Jemma said.

Valentina scoffed. “Ricardo and I hardly sleep together anymore. What does he expect me to do?”

“Stop. I don’t want to hear about you, my brother, and sex in one sentence.”

“Fine, prude.”

I let the door close quietly. I hadn’t known my nickname was so popular until I’d met the Russos. I wondered if that’s what everyone believed—that the Sweet Abelli was easy and sweet about it.

My stomach turned. I didn’t care so much about what others thought of me, but the rumor hit closer to home than I wished. A man was killed because I’d made the mistake of sleeping with him, and now I was lusting after my sister’s fiancé. Her comment struck the right nerve.