The Sweetest Oblivion (Made, #1)(49)
Jenny was a gold digger.
A nice one, but a little gold digger, indeed.
Tony was paying for her classes, her apartment, and the diamond bracelet on her wrist.
I’d always tried to give her the benefit of the doubt, but after seeing her very naked on Nicolas’s phone a couple nights ago, I realized I was wrong.
She grew up in the foster system, in a poor home. I couldn’t dislike her for trying to make her life better any way she could, but I didn’t like that she was pulling on my brother’s heartstrings for her own gain.
I never confronted anyone, though.
No one besides Nicolas Russo, anyway.
“Well, you’re definitely better than Adriana and I combined,” I said with a laugh. Nico’s gaze found me, lingering, and I swallowed. “You’ll have to give us some pointers some time.”
“Oh, I’d love that!” Jenny exclaimed.
Two quiet knocks sounded on the door, and Gianna pulled herself away from a conversation with Valentina Russo to answer it.
When I saw it was Christian standing on the other side, I sat straighter in my chair. Brown hair combed back, in a navy suit and red tie, his countenance appeared welcoming. Only his icy blue eyes seemed to fit with the cold resonance he carried around.
Every woman in the room turned to stare—even my mamma’s eyes widened on him. They might as well have taken their panties off and thrown them at him it was so obvious. Nicolas’s gaze warmed my face, but I refused to look at him.
Once Gianna noticed who it was, her head rolled with annoyance, and she tried to shut the door on him.
With one hand and indifference, Christian easily kept it open.
Gianna turned to walk away, but he stopped her by grabbing her wrist, and then pulled her closer.
I watched, enraptured.
I didn’t want Gianna to be involved with Christian because I needed him, but there was something compelling about the dressed-to-the-nines agent and the walking fashion disaster that was Gianna. They were so different, and yet . . . maybe not so different at all.
Gripping her chin, Christian looked into her eyes with scrutiny. He shook his head with a slight grimace, before shoving her face away. Gianna muttered something that looked to be stronzo—asshole—and then stomped away on her stilettos.
Christian must have noticed she was high, but it didn’t look like Gianna cared at all what he thought. So, what was their relationship? Maybe she was his stepmother, too. She was married to a man three times her age, though I noticed she never wore a ring.
Adriana’s gaze landed on Christian, before she announced, “Perfectionist.” She paused, tilted her head. “Straight as an arrow.”
Well, at least that was on my side.
“Judges, lawyers, and politicians have a license to steal. We don’t need one.”
—Carlo Gambino
I WAS POURING A COUPLE fingers of whiskey neat when Adriana came up beside me. I eyed her as she grabbed the vodka decanter and then filled a tumbler three-fourths full.
She glanced at me, looked away, and then flicked her gaze back to me when she noticed my attention. “What?”
“Maybe try to hide your alcoholism from me from now on.”
“Let me continue my classes and I will.”
“Would you rather be safe, or happy?”
She blinked as if it were a much more complicated question. “Both, I think.”
“Unfortunately, that isn’t a choice.”
Her sigh was put-out. “It’s not my fault a lot of men want to kill you.”
A lot was probably an understatement.
“And now you.”
Her brows knitted. “What?”
“They’ll want to kill my wife too,” I said, before adding, “Probably rape you a few times first.”
She frowned. “Like you’re going to do to me?”
Somehow, I knew she was going to say that. I stared at her, my expression impassive. She pushed a strand of caramel-colored hair behind her ear. She had golden specks in her brown eyes, like Elena’s. In a disturbing way, I hoped there were other similarities.
“You’re not even going to say you won’t rape me?” She sounded annoyed, bringing her drink to her lips while looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I admired the view with her. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Not very good at keeping promises.”
She choked on a sip of vodka, glancing at me with wide eyes. “I’m going to die,” she muttered before disappearing.
Dry amusement filled me, and I gave my head the tiniest shake. That meeting with my future wife went well. I hadn’t raped a woman in my life and wouldn’t start now, though, for some reason, I’d felt like sabotaging the conversation. Probably because I was already agitated, and the night had just started.
Elena stood in the kitchen talking to Lorenzo, with her complete attention on him. Her long hair was pin-straight and she wore a gold dress that hugged her every curve. It was way too fucking tight and receiving enough stares from my cousins to piss me off. Even Luca had glanced at her with a knowing smile and then tipped his beer to me in an obnoxious gesture.
Lorenzo was making a besotted idiot of himself. The man was a cold-blooded killer, yet he appeared to be a nervous mess talking to Elena Abelli. He was currently rubbing the back of his neck and fucking blushing—and just imagining Elena tied to Lorenzo’s bed in some kind of fucked-up BDSM scenario made that Russo blood burn me from the inside out.