The Maddest Obsession (Made 2)

His fist collided with my jaw.

It felt like a fucking sledgehammer, and finally cleared my head of a certain dark-haired woman since she’d thrown her shoe at me earlier. A welcome reprieve.

I walked toward the kitchen to get a drink.

“What? Not going to hit me back? Too grandiose, or something?”

I let out a sardonic breath. “Or something.”

I’d had enough fighting to last a cage-fighter two lifetimes. Fought to eat. Fought not to be touched. Fought to stay alive. The streets of Moscow hadn’t been a school trip, and I’d only ended up there because my mother’s house had been anyone’s worst nightmare.

“You want to tell me what your problem is with me?”

I laughed. “I don’t give a single fuck about you.”

“Cut the shit. You’ve had a hard-on for pissing me off from day one.”

“Sometimes an opportunity presents itself and I take it. It has nothing to do with you or my cock.” Unless it involves Gianna Marino, anyway.

I’d always convinced myself I disliked Nico because he was impulsive and reckless. But I knew that was just an excuse for the real reason: he’d fucked her. If I couldn’t fuck her, nobody could fuck her. It was that simple. The idea of anyone touching her was a nauseating pill I refused to swallow.

I’d never seen Ace interested in any particular woman besides Elena Abelli. The opportunity for my small vendetta practically landed in my lap earlier. Maybe it was a little immature, considering he’d slept with Gianna only once years ago. But . . . I held grudges. Fucking sue me.

“Elena is mine, Allister.”

I raised a brow. “Does she know?”

“She will tomorrow.”

“Ah.” I leaned against the counter, sipped my drink. “So, that’s why you’re here.”

He rubbed his jaw. “We’re having lunch at Francesco’s tomorrow to go over wedding plans.”

“And what?” I said, amused. “Gonna see if they can do a quick switcharoo for the other sister . . . or something?”

His eyes narrowed. “Or something.”

“What do you need?” I got straight to business.

“An intermediary.”

“Don’t think you can handle the Abellis yourself?”

“I know I can. But I would rather not start a war with my future wife’s family.”

I nodded. “I imagine that would kill the honeymoon. Fine, I’ll send someone—”

“I don’t want someone, I want you to do it. If her fuck-up brother or cousin gets hurt in the process—”

Jesus, he was hard-up for this girl. I wished I couldn’t relate.

“The women should be at this luncheon tomorrow,” I told him. A woman’s presence always seemed to dull a man’s bloodlust.

“They’ll be there.”

“What time is it?”

“Noon.”