The Sweetest Oblivion (Made 1)

I didn’t see Nicolas anywhere, and suddenly grew an itch to check out the club upstairs. I was going to have a rule-breaker for a husband, so maybe I needed to go out of my comfort zone and learn how to get on his level. On the balls of my feet so my heels didn’t click, I walked to the staircase and slipped out the door.

The place was elegant yet comfortably decorated. A wide dance floor made of panels blinked from purple, blue to yellow. A long line of red plush chairs sat around lacquered, round wooden tables, with a mirror taking up the far wall. A staircase led upstairs to where I imagined the VIP rooms were. I hoped Nico didn’t allow shady things to go on in there, though that was wishful thinking.

After another moment, I decided to head back downstairs before they noticed I was gone. As I took a step to leave, I realized I wasn’t alone.

“So, you’re the lovely Elena.”

I froze.

The voice was unfamiliar, though I’d learned I was a top choice on any gossip list lately, so it wasn’t surprising he would know me.

I turned around and met an uncultured yet refined gaze, as though the two battled amongst themselves. Ruthlessness spilled out of his Armani suit, yet his easy looks, urbane wardrobe, and relaxed carriage belied it. I imagined he was a chameleon, effortlessly taking form of whatever façade he wished.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”

His quiet laugh sounded like low musical notes left to die on the wind. “No, you wouldn’t. I’m only a second son.”

While the significance of his statement should have become extinct in the twentieth century, I understood what he meant. I was living proof of the Cosa Nostra’s old-fashioned ways—my wedding right around the corner.

As a second son, he wouldn’t inherit much, not the title nor the business, and he would always be expected to work for his papà and then older brother. He would be forever second best and overlooked.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

He scratched his jaw, amused, and then I thought he muttered, “No wonder he liked you.”

I didn’t know the man to question him, though the past tense of that statement—liked—piqued my interest. I shouldn’t be conversing alone with a man I didn’t know, but it wasn’t like Nico would let someone he didn’t trust into his club, would he?

With hesitant steps, I closed the distance between us. This stranger grasped my hand and pressed a light kiss to it. As he did, I said to him, “You seem to already know who I am, though I know nothing about you. You must have a name?”

“You can call me Sebastian.” A subtle glint passed through his eyes before he added, “Perez.”

Something cold shot through me, and my knee-jerk response was to yank my hand out of his grasp. It was then I noticed the thin accent to his words as Colombian.

He blew out a breath like my reaction was equal parts amusing and annoying. “Third time that’s happened. Starting to wonder how I’m going to get laid in this city.”

I wavered at the light tone of his voice and statement. However, as I watched him slip his hands in his pocket and turn to look at the place, I realized this man might be more manipulative than his brother. Though, what I wanted to know was how deviant.

I wondered if what he insinuated was true—if Oscar had a bad reputation with women. He seemed to have enough female attention that I’d seen, but it was only in our circle, and if he had certain . . . proclivities,

I was certain he wouldn’t show them to anyone in the Cosa Nostra. Not until he locked one of their women down with marriage and stole them away to Colombia, anyway. A fate it felt like I’d missed by a hair.

“You know, he liked you,” he said. “He liked you a lot.”

An unpleasant taste filled my mouth. To be desired by Oscar Perez felt like contracting an STD.

“This is a nice place,” he observed, taking a few steps deeper into the club. “Interesting to find you here, though. Thought Ace was marrying your sister?”

I swallowed. “Change of plans.”

The simple huh that escaped him was coated with amusement.

“You know,” he said, “one time when my brother was drunk, he told me your voice was like a woman’s soft caress.”

“How very . . .” I held in the grimace. “Nice.”

He chuckled as though he loved the awkwardness his statement had brought into the room. “He spoke sonnets of you. Would you like to hear the others?”

“I . . . don’t think so.”