The Sweetest Oblivion (Made Book 1)

“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.”

“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.”

“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.