The Sweetest Oblivion (Made Book 1)

“What is drama but life with the dull bits cut out.”

—Alfred Hitchcock

WHILE I CLIMBED OUT OF the pool, soaking wet, they stood a foot apart staring at one another.

Christian’s lips tipped up as he brought his drink to his mouth, but his gaze never left Nico’s.

“Elena!” Mamma gasped, running onto the patio. “What happened?”

Everyone’s eyes touched my skin through the glass, and it felt like I was on display at the zoo.

My teeth clenched. “I fell.”

“Madonna! How much have you drunk?”

“Apparently more than I thought,” I muttered.

Her hesitant gaze ran to Nicolas and Christian, who were the two most ungentlemanly men I’d ever met—the former for pushing me into the pool, and the latter for not helping me out.

Gianna came rushing outside with a towel, and Christian flicked a slow gaze to her over his glass, like the glance was equal parts involuntary and unwanted.

“Thank you,” I mumbled, accepting it.

“I think I have something for you to wear.” She grabbed the heels I’d pulled off so I could get out of the pool. I should have thrown them at Nicolas’s head, but by that time I had the entire party’s attention.

As I followed Gianna inside, everyone stared at me with wide eyes—well, all the women. I expected the worst from my papà, but he wasn’t even looking at me. His attention was on the two men on the patio, his expression darkening.

My stomach dipped.

How many had seen that it was Nicolas who pushed me in? And why would he do something like that? I guessed Russos did what they wanted when they wanted. Papà should have known from the beginning not to get involved with Nicolas.

I followed Gianna into a room that looked like a spare, while drying my hair with a towel. She dug through a bag on the bed, and something twisted in my chest. Was she planning on spending the night? Ugh, why did I even care? Nicolas had pushed me into a damn pool. I didn’t like him at all.

Gianna found a pair of red shorts that had white trim on the edges and up the sides, and a plain white t-shirt. The outfit was from the seventies, right off Farrah Fawcett. I was beginning to wonder where Gianna shopped.

I accepted the clothes and a sports bra—thankfully, Gianna was close to the same size as me in the breast department—and turned around to change.

“Thank you. I’m sorry for the inconvenience. I guess I’m just . . . clumsy.”

Ugh.

Gianna laughed. “You don’t have to lie. I saw Ace push you in.”

I paused with my dress around my waist while I pulled the t-shirt on. “How many saw?”

“Oh, mostly everyone.”

Of course they did. I blew out a breath, shimmied the dress down my hips, and then pulled the shorts on.

Turning around, I saw Gianna lying on the bed, her feet on the floor and her arms stretched above her head. It was an unladylike pose the Sweet Abelli would have never imitated. And I envied her for it.

“Thank you for the clothes again,” I said. “I’ll wash them and return them to you.”

“Keep them.”

Silence morphed between us, and I had an urge to fill it.

“Does he usually push girls into pools?”

She laughed, sitting up. “No, definitely not. He would have to care to do that.”

I paused, not knowing what to say considering she’d insinuated he cared about me. What have I gotten myself into? All I knew was that I needed to undo it.

“It’s not like that.” I wanted to sound firm, but I came off more uncertain than anything.

She smiled, but her eyes conveyed years of hidden torment, before saying quietly, “It never is.”

A few minutes later, I learned that everyone had in fact witnessed my sister’s fiancé pushing me into the pool. Apparently, this was hard for even the Russos to understand, because the women—Valentina, especially—regarded me with scrutiny, like they’d finally noticed I was at the party. Jemma, however, looked at me with sympathy, as though I’d gotten into something that would eventually kill me. I didn’t know what to think about that one.

On the way out of the apartment, I ignored Adriana’s drunk and curious questions, Benito’s angry gaze on the back of my head, and my papà’s and brother’s stone-cold silence. Before I stepped out the door, I glanced back.

Nico’s hands were braced on the island, and he watched me, his gaze a warm caress on my skin. I’d met his stare enough to grow used to it by now, but tonight something was different. It wasn’t rude. It was pensive, calculating, slightly devious. Like he was contemplating doing something he shouldn’t.

I swallowed, tore my gaze away, and didn’t look back.

I assumed I would be grilled on the way home, but nobody said a word to me. My mamma talked about the wedding that was next weekend, and my papà responded accordingly from the driver’s seat.

Adriana fell asleep, her head resting against the window.

Tony wrapped an arm around my shoulders, giving me a squeeze. I listened to the tire noise, watched the yellow light fly by and cascade through the glass and into the car.

Through it all, I still saw the calculating expression on Nico’s face, still felt the caress on my skin.

And I knew it like the sky was blue, he’d been thinking about me.

It was Thursday afternoon. Hot sun burned on concrete, while the smells of fresh bread and garlic filled the air outside Francesco’s green double doors.

My gaze focused on the ground as I walked from the car to the restaurant, because the strap on one of my heels had come undone. I tried to fix it, hopped on one foot, and when I began to tip sideways a strong hand gripped my waist from behind and steadied me.

“You’re a walking hazard, you know that?”

I tensed. His deep voice rushed over me and filled my insides with a warmth it shouldn’t.

As I stepped away from his grasp, his palm skimmed from my waist to my hip. A burning caress. It felt obscene when he touched me, like he had his hands in much different places than only on my side. The feeling was frustrating because I couldn’t stop it, nor could I turn off the thrill that buzzed beneath my skin when he was near.

My eyes narrowed but I kept my mouth closed. I’d gone over how I would deal with this man: I wouldn’t. Don’t engage him. It was the best I could come up with.

When I continued to walk awkwardly with my strap dangling against my ankle, an amused breath came from behind me.

“The silent treatment, huh?”

My teeth clenched. He thought this was funny. How could I be so confused and twisted up about him, while he thought it was all amusing? I spun around, retorting, “You pushed me into a pool! Why should I talk to you?”

Light blue shirt, gray waistcoat and pants, black tie, stupidly handsome face. I swallowed. Why did I engage? It was too late to go back now.

He ran a thumb across his bottom lip, his gaze falling to coast over my strapless nude dress and pink heels. “You’re the little liar, Elena.”

Of course he’d turn this around on me; he was too good at that. “Me? You tried to blackmail me!”

“If you would’ve listened to me in the first place I wouldn’t have had to.”

Was he serious? His gaze remained stoic. Ugh, he was.

I turned around, and when I almost fell again, I braced a palm on the hot brick wall and managed to buckle my shoe with one hand.

“Where’s your cousin?” he asked, typing something on his phone. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

Benito had only dropped me off at the door to go park, and Mamma and Papà had driven separately with Adriana. But that was none of Nicolas’s business.

“Quit the brotherly act. I already have one.”

I said it just because I thought it bothered him.

His jaw ticked. “Inside, Elena.”

“Ask me nicely,” I retorted, mocking him from the time he’d said it to me.

His gaze came up from his phone, amused, dark. “If you don’t get your ass inside, Elena, you’ll be the one screaming please.”

My God . . .

“That was inappropriate,” I breathed while heading to the doors.

“Perfectly platonic,” he parried.

It was then I realized I’d really screwed myself over with that word.

The red-lettered Closed sign was visible through the window near a few shelves of fresh bread, but when I pushed the door open, I was immediately greeted with, “Mia bella ragazza!”

A smile tugged at my lips. “Zio.”

My great uncle grasped my face and pressed a kiss to each cheek. He smelled like oregano and nostalgia. Some things will forever have that smell no matter if they never left to begin with.

Francesco Abelli lived on the tamer side of the Cosa Nostra. Every cent laundered in our family name was a product of this dress pants and shoes, wife beater and apron-wearing sixty-five-year-old. When he wasn’t cooking books, he was running this restaurant.

“Have a seat near the windows. It’s a buona giornata.”

It wasn’t that beautiful of a day. It was hotter than Hades, but he probably hadn’t set foot outside. He lived upstairs.

I took a seat at the table and poured myself a glass of water from the pitcher. Blinding sunlight streamed through the large window. It was an awful spot to sit, honestly, but Zio’s word was as final as Papà’s, no matter if everyone was miserable because of it.

Benito came in and took a seat, clearing his throat and pouring himself some tea. My eyes narrowed on him as I sipped water through a straw. “You got a hickey on your neck.”

He rubbed the spot, muttering, “Told her not to do that.”

I shook my head, not wanting to know how he’d gotten some action in between parking the car and now.

Fifteen minutes later, Mamma and Papà sat across from me, Adriana on my side, and Nico on my other. Mamma frowned when she realized my sister and Nico weren’t sitting beside each other, but neither the bride nor groom seemed concerned. Tony, Benito, Dominic, Luca, and my uncle Manuel shared a table next to us, talking amongst themselves.

Mamma glowered and blinked against the bright sunlight, and Papà blocked it by reading his menu, though he knew it by heart.

Lunch wasn’t a tense affair like I’d expected it to be after the note last night left off on. However, the oddest thing about it was Adriana. She seemed distant, like she was here but her thoughts were a mile away. She only stared out the window, when she was known to always keep her hands busy.

Papers were strewn about the table as Mamma went over the last of the wedding details with Nico, asking for his approval on some things.

“And will there be a honeymoon?” Mamma asked.

Unease danced beneath my skin to a foreboding tune. I shifted in my seat.

Nico ran a hand across his jaw, glancing out the window. My gaze followed his into the street, Long Island pavement and sun.

A tickle played in my awareness when I saw a black town car on the road, going slower than normal. And by the time I saw the tattoo MS on the driver’s face, Nico’s voice filled the restaurant, “Scendi!”

Down.

Shouts broke out. Scendi, scendi, scendi, over and over again like a messed-up recording with a myriad of voices. Alarm came on the air so thick I could taste it on my tongue.

And then a lungful of air escaped me as I was taken to the floor. A heavy body covered mine as glass shattered in an unmistakable pattern. Gunfire. My heartbeat drummed in my ears, and I couldn’t discern it from the bullets flying above me.

I knew who lay on me, tried to match my breathing to his as the chaos played on. A feeling of safety enveloped me while the restaurant became a battleground for New York’s scorned criminals.

It felt like it went on forever, before a stillness fell over the room that carried an echo of gunfire.

“Stai bene?”

I heard the words, but my thoughts were focused on red. Blood dripped to the wooden floorboards in my line of vision.

Hands grasped my face, turning it.

“Are you okay?” Nico repeated.

I nodded, the ringing in my ears fading.

His hands and gaze ran down my body, checking anyway, but I didn’t feel it because all I saw was the drip, drip, drip of red. Anguish tore into my chest, cutting my consciousness down to only emotion. I pushed Nico’s hands away.

“Get off me!”

“Stop.” He gripped my wrists. “Everyone’s all right.”

I blinked numbly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He ran a thumb across my cheek. “Breathe.”

I inhaled a steady breath, and it was then that I heard their voices. They were all checking in, and I hadn’t been able to hear it over the horror of that dripping blood.

Benito was the one bleeding. He groaned, “Son of a bitch,” while holding his arm. “The same fucking arm.”

Papà spit Italian over the phone and Mamma was crying. Adriana sat up, surrounded by broken glass and disorder. Just as sirens sounded in the distance, the restaurant fell into silence, as though the shift in the air touched everyone’s skin.

And then my sister stared ahead and muttered two little words that would change both of our lives forever.

“I’m pregnant.”