The Sweetest Oblivion (Made Book 1)

“Nothing personal, it’s just business.”

—Otto Berman

IT WAS WORSE THAN I’D expected.

Adriana was primly folding a blouse and placing it into a suitcase on her bed. She wore an oversized Tweety Bird t-shirt and Christmas socks, and wads of toilet paper lay scattered about the room.

A few years ago, Adriana went through a rebellious stage and chopped her hair off into a pixie cut. I’d never seen my mother more horrified. Adriana had lost her credit card, her acting classes at our all-girls school, and got glowered at every day for a month. It’d grown into a sleek bob now, but it was then I’d learned that cutting your hair in this house was worse than murder.

With dark blue walls, white crown molding and golden accents, Adriana’s room would appear fit for a home staging . . . if it didn’t look like a costume designer had thrown up in it. Posters from famous plays like The Great Gatsby hung on the walls. Weird stage props sat on the vanity: feathers, hats, and masquerade masks. Things that made your head hurt while trying to figure out their purpose—like the giant rabbit’s head on the bed.

I didn’t believe Papà knew he was paying for every penny of Adriana’s dramatic art school’s stage props. But my father didn’t concern himself with my sister too much. As long as she was where she was supposed to be, he was happy. He just didn’t understand her, nor she him.

With a sigh, I grabbed the blouse from her suitcase and went to the walk-in closet to hang it back up. She ignored my presence, brushing shoulders with me as she passed with a pair of jeans.

“What’s with all of the toilet paper?” I asked, sliding the shirt onto a hanger.

She sniffled but didn’t respond.

The last time I’d seen her cry was at our nonno’s funeral when she was thirteen. My little sister was one of the most unemotional people I’d ever met. In fact, I thought the idea of emotion repelled her. My stomach twisted with concern, but I knew Adriana appreciated pity as much as she loved chick flicks. She hated them.

I grabbed the jeans from the suitcase and headed to the closet. “So, where are you going?”

She passed me with a yellow polka-dot bikini. “Cuba. Saudi Arabia. North Korea. Pick one.”

We continued this dance of packing and unpacking like a human conveyor belt.

My brows knitted. “Well, you didn’t exactly give me a good list. But Saudi Arabia is out if you’re planning on wearing this bathing suit.” I folded it and put it away.

“Have you met him?” she asked, walking past me with a zebra-printed robe.

I knew she meant her future husband.

I hesitated. “Yes. He’s, uh . . . real nice.”

“Where am I going to fit all my props?” She threw her hands on her hips and stared into her small suitcase like she’d just realized it wasn’t a Mary Poppins bag.

“I think they’re going to have to stay here.”

Her face scrunched up like she was about to cry. “But I love my costumes.” Tears were running now. “And what about Mr. Rabbit?” She grabbed the giant rabbit’s head off the bed and held it next to her own.

“Well . . . I’m not sure about North Korea’s shipping policies, but I’m betting Mr. Rabbit won’t pass.”

She threw herself on the bed and whined, “What about Cuba?”

“It’s probably a better possibility.”

She nodded like that was good. “I have an Alice in Wonderland production coming up.” She wiped her cheeks, already finished crying.

“Who are you playing?” I knew it wasn’t Alice. My sister didn’t like anything mainstream or blonde.

“The Cheshire Cat.” She smiled.

“Yeah, that sounds like you.” I went into the closet and found a thin-strapped black dress she could wear to lunch. It took a moment to find it because it was squeezed between a Legend of Zelda and Peter Pan costume.

I set the dress on her bed. “You better get ready. Almost everyone is here.”

“Ryan broke up with me,” she deadpanned.

My expression softened. “I’m so sorry, Adriana.”

“He doesn’t understand why I’m getting married and doesn’t want to see me anymore. So, he must not love me very much, right, Elena?” She looked at me with big brown eyes.

I paused.

Explain rationality to my sister and ease her heartbreak a bit, or rip the Band-Aid off?

“Right.”

She nodded. “I’ll be down soon.”

I was downstairs, turning a corner in the hall near the library when I collided with something warm and solid. A breath escaped me as I was forced a step back. I knew who I’d run into before I had to look.

Russo.

Unease drifted through my body like a kindled flame. We were no longer in a foyer filled with people, but completely alone. It was so quiet I could hear my heart beating in my chest.

I took another step back as if to get some footing, but it was mostly just to put myself out of his reach, some kind of survival instinct kicking in.

He stood there in a gray suit and a smooth black tie. He was larger than life in this hallway. Or maybe this hall was just small? No, it looked like a normal-sized hallway. Ugh, get a grip, Elena.

He regarded me like someone would watch Animal Planet—like I was another species and possibly dull entertainment. He had a cell phone in one hand at his side, so I assumed he must have been making a private call.

This hallway was more of an alcove made of arches behind the staircase. Some large potted plants blocked our view from the main hall, and a green glass lamp on a side table cast the area in dim light. However, it was bright enough to see the flicker of impatience behind his gaze.

“You going to stand here and stare at me all day, or are you going to move?”

I blinked.

“And if I say stand here and stare at you?” It was out of my mouth before I could stop it, and I instantly wished I could reach out and take my words back. I’d never spoken to someone like that—let alone a boss—in my life. My stomach dipped like a tilt-a-whirl.

With the phone in his hand, a thumb came up to run across his jaw. I imagined he did that while thinking of how he was going to kill a man.

He took a small step forward.

As if we were the same poles of a magnet, I took one back.

He dropped his hand to his side, the slightest bit of amusement coming to life in his eyes as if I’d just done a trick that entertained him. I suddenly had the distinct feeling I didn’t want to be his entertainment. And an even stronger feeling that I already was.

“Thought the Sweet Abelli was sweet.”

How did he know my nickname?

I didn’t know what came over me, but I suddenly felt free of that name—maybe because he’d never met that girl before. I wanted to be someone different. Especially to him, for some inexplicable reason.

“Well, I guess we were both fooled then. Here I was thinking a gentleman apologized when running into a woman.”

“Sounds like someone’s been making assumptions again,” he drawled.

An odd thumping began in my chest, and I shook my head. “It wasn’t an assumption.”

He took a step forward, and once again I took one back.

He slipped his hands into his pockets as his gaze fell down my body. It was hardly leering and more observant, like I was in fact another species and he was wondering if I was edible.

His eyes narrowed on my pink heels. “You think you’ve got some proof, huh?”

I nodded, feeling strangely breathless under his scrutiny. “My mamma said you acted the perfect gentleman at church.”

“I did act the perfect gentleman.”

“So, it’s a matter of if you want to be one?”

He didn’t say a word, but his neutral expression confirmed it as his stare traveled back up from my heels.

“And I’m guessing you don’t want to be one right now?” I realized I shouldn’t have said it as I was saying it.

His heavy gaze reached mine, burning me.

He gave his head a slow shake.

Okay.

I’d stood my ground long enough, much longer than the Sweet Abelli ever would. But now, I just needed to get the heck out of here.

“Okay, well . . . I’ll see you around.”

I couldn’t think of a less idiotic response, so I only took a step to go around him—but, before I could, something grabbed my wrist. He grabbed my wrist. His grip felt like a band of fire; rough, calloused fire. A cool breath of fear mixed with something boiling hot leaked into my bloodstream.

He stood a couple feet from me, his grip the only thing connecting us. “Write up a list of your sister’s hobbies. Likes and dislikes, shoe size, dress size, and anything else you think will be useful. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I breathed. How many men had he killed with the hand wrapped around my wrist? It wasn’t a hard grip, but it was heavy, firm, immovable. It made me aware of how much smaller I was, how unnerved and out of place I felt. How I couldn’t leave unless he chose to release me.

He watched me with an inquisitive gaze. My heart felt close to stopping and my skin was burning up. It was inappropriate for him to touch me, future brother-in-law or not. My papà could come out of his office any moment, but this man didn’t seem to care. I did, though, especially after the scene earlier.

“I’ll give the list to you on Friday at the engagement party,” I managed to say and tried to pull my wrist away.

He didn’t let me go. My pulse fluttered when his thumb brushed my knuckles. “I was under the impression the Abellis could afford more than a fifty-cent ring.”

I glanced at the ring on my middle finger. It came from one of those vending machines and had a purple round-cut jewel in the center. The thought of it sobered me.

“Sometimes the cheapest things are the most valuable.”

His gaze came back to my face, and we looked at each other for a moment. His grip slipped down my wrist, palm, fingers. The rough pads of his fingertips brushed my softer ones, and made my heart skip a beat.

“I’ll see you at lunch, Elena.”

He left, disappearing into my papà’s office.

Cazzo . . .

Leaning against the wall, the ring was a heavy weight on my finger. I could take it off, put it somewhere it couldn’t haunt me, but I knew I never would. Not yet.

His grip still burned like a brand on my wrist as I left the hallway.

Once again, he’d said my name in the most inappropriate way.