The Sweetest Oblivion (Made 1)

I lay my head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat, how strong it was, how in sync it was with mine.

Regardless of what I was born into, I’d always thought of myself as a moral and honest person. Maybe my roots were too deep, or maybe love gave a woman a reason to let her dark colors shine, because I suddenly knew I would lie, cheat, and steal for this man.

I would burn the world for him.

He was King of the Cosa Nostra.

And he was all mine.

“If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life.”

—Oscar Wilde

I BLINKED AGAINST THE SUNLIGHT streaming through the windows like Heaven was descending upon us and realized why I’d always hated staying at the penthouse. No fucking curtains.

Reaching toward the other side of the bed and feeling nothing but sheets, something jack-knifed in my chest. The clanking of pots and pans from the kitchen sent an instant rush of relief through me. I ran a hand down my face. Jesus. I’d wanted a wife and I got a damn heart-attack waiting to happen.

After leaving her here yesterday, I’d gone to my club with every intention of shooting Sebastian Perez in the head, regardless if he touched Elena or not. He was in possession of my wife and he hadn’t contacted me. I’d been out of my mind while he sat his ass on a park bench beside her and chatted the hour away. I didn’t know what stopped me from sending his body back to Colombia in a box—well, I guess I did. Sebastian was a smooth-talker and I admired how well he could dig his way out of shit.

He’d kept her safe while she went on some mission in fucking East Tremont. If I would’ve stopped her before she could go through with her plan, that ring would still be on her finger, I’d still believe she was in love with another man, and she’d still be harboring secrets until she felt her conscience was clean.

I got up, took a piss, and slipped on a pair of boxer briefs before going to see what my thieving wife was doing.

The news played quietly in the living room while she stood in front of the stove, wearing one of my t-shirts that stopped at the bottom of her ass. Her messy black hair trailed down her back, and, for fuck’s sake, my chest grew all warm at the sight. I walked up behind her and slid a palm beneath the hem of her shirt.

She yelped, throwing a hand on her chest. “Oh my god, Nico! You scared me.”

&nb

sp; Good. Maybe she felt an ounce of what I did yesterday.

I rubbed her bare ass cheek before pulling her against me and looking over her shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to make you breakfast.”

I eyed the burnt eggs in the pan. “Not going so well, huh?”

“No,” she sighed.

I chuckled. “You’re a bad cook, baby.” She got distracted too easily, by anything and everything: the TV, reading, eating cereal, painting her nails. She had the attention span of a kid. “If you want it done right you have to stand by the stove until it’s finished.”

“I did this time, I swear,” she insisted. “But then Mamma called your cell phone, so I answered, and she was going on and on about being ‘worried sick’ because my phone wasn’t working. I told her it must have died or something.”

Yeah, didn’t really care to share that it was currently lying in pieces on my living room floor. In fact, we were staying here until Luca had someone go clean the mess up so Elena wouldn’t know I’d lost my goddamn mind and destroyed the house. And because she reminded me she’d made me act like a lunatic again, I slapped her ass hard.

“Ow!” she exclaimed. “What was that for?”

“Stealing from me. Lying to me. Pick one.”

She went still, her guilt-ridden thoughts swirling in the air around us. I sighed, turned her around, and pressed her face into my chest. She wrapped her arms around me, and satisfaction hummed in my throat.

Maybe I shouldn’t have trusted a thing she’d told me last night, but I did. I’d thought she was difficult to read before, but that might be because I found it hard to focus on her face. Now, I could see her thoughts leak into her soft brown eyes and hear them in her voice. She had a long way to go to be a Russo, but hell, I’d walk with her the whole way.

A sharp sting on my butt cheek caused me to spin around, narrow my eyes, and rub the sore spot.

Nico glared at me with a towel in hand that he’d just used as a whip. He only wore a pair of black boxer briefs, and his hair was still wet from our shower.

“Explain what’s happening tonight again.”