Текст книги "My sweetest oblivion"

Автор книги: Danielle Lori

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

“Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.”

–Leonardo da Vinci

I HATED HIS CAR, HOW it was infinitely him. How I was suffocated in his space in a way I couldn’t find unpleasant.

I hated his car.

But I loved how he drove it.

How his hand fit the wheel, how he sat in the driver’s seat with an unpretentious confidence, and how he always drove the speed limit as if to maintain that gentlemanly façade.

It reminded me of the soft sound of fabric hitting the floor, the scrape of teeth on the nape of my neck, the tug of my hair.

My pulse drifted between my thighs, and I pressed my legs together.

I wasn’t usually a betting girl, but I would put all of my papà’s ill-gotten gains on the idea that this man fucked just like he drove. With complete control and confidence.

Nico remained silent as we drove uptown, streetlights flickering and fading across an unreadable expression. Earlier, he’d picked the simple vase and said, “Less is more,” and I had to agree with him.

After that, he’d hardly said a word to me. During his silence, I realized I liked his voice. I wanted to know what he would say. There were whole sentences in that head just waiting to be drawled, and I wanted every one of them. I couldn’t and wouldn’t analyze why.

The quiet, the pressure between my legs, they started to build until I had to break the tension.

“How fast does this thing go?” I asked.

His head tilted to the side, catching my gaze. He held it for a moment before turning back to the road. “Fast.”

I pulled my bottom lip between my teeth, trying to think of how to respond. What I came up with was, “How fast?”

He didn’t glance at me, but a small smile appeared.

“Show me.” It escaped my lips on a breath, quiet and suggestive.

“No.”

I raised a brow. “Why? Are you scared?”

He flicked a gaze to me. Darkness glinted behind an ounce of amusement. “Scared and reckless are two different things.”

I didn’t know why considering it didn’t help my case, but it was a relief he’d said that. I had a rash brother—I didn’t want a similar husband. However, I wasn’t ready to give up yet; his attention had sparked a thrill inside of me.

“Are you saying you’ve never shown off with a woman in the car before?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“So, you have?”

“When I was sixteen, probably.”

That was a long time ago, yet I couldn’t stop a sliver of envy from finding its way to me. What girl was important enough to him that he’d shown off to impress her? I shook it off. “I’m marrying a Russo. Don’t you think I should know what it’s like before it’s too late?”

The glance he cast my way was nothing but heat. “It’s already too late.”

My pulse fluttered, but I forced a sigh. “It’s okay. If you’re scared—”

He shook his head before the car accelerated so fast I fell against my seat. A laugh escaped my lips, yet his only response was a look in my direction, a spark passing through his eyes. I watched the odometer hit 90 . . . 100 . . . 110.

Nico drove like he would if he were going a mere sixty mph: relaxed, not conveying an ounce of emotion. Adrenaline surged and fizzled through my veins. He hit 120 before he had to slow for our exit.

High on lust and life and speed, I rolled down my window and let the warm air brush my cheeks. We pulled into the driveway fifteen minutes later, and I couldn’t exactly say it felt like home yet, but something about it did feel right.

The adrenaline had faded to chugging along, like a train running out of fuel. It left a hot and cold sensation under my skin, nerves thriving in the atmosphere.

He turned the ignition off, and the soft pops and crackles of a hot engine filtered into the car through the open window. Hot urban air, silver moonlight, and a heavy tension settled in the space between us. My breaths were labored, each second feeling like a pregnant pause.

I was sure the truth was as clear as the sounds of the ball game escaping the neighbor’s window. That I wanted this man. Every time I was near him I lost all poise and control. What scared me the most was that I didn’t want control, I wanted him to have it all. I wanted to experience what I was sure a hundred other girls had, no matter that the thought made me burn with jealousy.

He must have known all of this, but I wasn’t so sure he shared the same sentiment.

I was a convenience.

His second choice.

It took a moment to realize Snap Your Fingers, Snap Your Neck played on the radio. The song was far from romantic, but it was rough and compelling, like the man beside me. It was the song I’d kissed him to. Someone might as well have yelled it into the car, as aware of it as we suddenly were.

I opened my door an inch so the radio would shut off, but I didn’t get out. Something pounded in my chest. An unfulfilled need that felt close to bursting. My palms grew clammy.

“Nico—”

His hand came toward my face and my words caught in my throat. As if my body expected a blow, a breath escaped me when his thumb brushed across my lips and down my chin. “Go inside. I have some things to do out here.”

The truth was, I hadn’t exactly figured out what I would say, and for that reason I was glad he’d stopped me. But as I made my way inside, a heavy weight that felt too much like rejection settled in my chest.

Once I was inside my room, I slipped into my Yankees t-shirt. My body thrummed with indecision, my heart beating with a speed that made me feel alive. I sat in the seat below the window and stared through the glass, at the light underneath the garage door.

I fell asleep before I ever heard the creak of the stairs.

A crick in my neck ached as I awoke curled up on the window seat. Sunlight filtered into the room in rays, lighting dust particles in the air. My mouth watered as the smell of bacon reached my nose. I wondered if Nico’s cook was here, though it was Sunday and she wasn’t due until tomorrow.

Not fully awake, I made my way into the hallway bathroom, combed my hair, and brushed my teeth. Maybe I should’ve put on a little makeup now that I had a fiancé I could run into at any moment, but truthfully, I’d never cared much for the stuff.

I padded toward the smell of bacon, and then stopped short at the base of the stairs. Heat curled in my stomach and drifted through my body in one smooth sweep. My heartbeat settled between my legs. A pan was cooking on the stove, but I hardly had a sexual fetish for food. That I knew of, anyway. I’d seldom seen this man out of a suit and tie. Now that he stood at the island without a single stitch on his upper half, it was a shock to my nervous system.

He was more brawn than chiseled, wide shoulders, defined chest, and when he ran a hand across his bare abs, my cheeks grew so warm they could have heated the house. I swore blushing was the bane of my existence.

He flipped a page of the magazine that held his attention. “Thought I told you to burn that shirt,” he drawled.

I swallowed, and couldn’t think of one thing to say, because it was so early and there was so much skin. His ink stopped at the shoulder of one arm, leaving everything else tan, hard, and ugh. I opened my mouth, and what came out was, “Why? So we can both walk around inappropriately dressed?”

His lips lifted, though he didn’t bother to look at me. “I don’t know, seems platonic compared to what you were begging me—”

“Okay,” I blurted. “Fine. But I’m not burning my shirt. You’ll have to convert.” I told him this with all seriousness as I made my way to the coffeemaker.

His response was a dry noise of amusement that let me know that was not going to happen.

I worked on getting the coffee started like it required my full attention, because his nudity made butterflies dance in my stomach. However, I got distracted somewhere along the way and ended up staring at his back.

All of a sudden I decided I had a thing for men’s backs, though I was uncertain about the gun tucked into the waistband of his sweatpants. No wonder he was still alive—he was never unarmed. There was a small circular scar low on his side, and I wondered where the two other bullet wounds had been.

“Who taught you how to cook?” I asked, eyeing the pan on the stove.

He turned around and leaned against the island, grasping the counter on either side of him. “Are you telling me you can’t make bacon and eggs?”

I frowned and shifted my weight to the other foot. “Well . . .”

His smile was sly and charming at the same time. “Starting to wonder what I’m getting out of this marriage.”

I bit my lip. “Me too.”

He laughed, deep and hearty, and it made my pulse skip a beat. It was only the second genuine laugh I’d heard from him, and I suddenly knew I could grow used to it.

The coffee began brewing, filling the kitchen with a rich and earthy smell. Nico had gotten me the good stuff, though I would have drunk burnt gas station coffee for my fix. Glancing at the clock, it read seven-thirty a.m.

“Does this marriage thing mean I have to go to your church?”

He smiled and then wiped it away with a palm. “Yeah. That’s what this marriage thing means.”

My lips pursed in thought. It wasn’t like I had a particular fondness for my church—in fact, I knew our priest was on Papà’s payroll. Therefore, I couldn’t be honest during Confession, leaving me with all these sins that needed to be absolved. It was a mess on my conscience, really. But I imagined it wouldn’t be that different at Nico’s church. And I’d also have to be surrounded by Russos . . .

I swallowed. “I guess I better go get ready.”

“Nah, not this week. We’ve got somewhere else to be.”

I watched him for a moment while a tickle played in the back of my mind. My gaze narrowed. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact your priest won’t approve of me living here before marriage?”

The tiniest flicker passed through his eyes and I knew I was right. He was hiding me from his priest. He wanted to be a respectable Catholic, and even though it was far, far from the truth, it was sort of admirable.

“So, I’m like your dirty little secret.” It was supposed to be teasing, but it came out more acutely as I realized it bothered me.

“Dirty?” The look he shot me was warm whiskey over ice. “Hopefully.”

I inhaled, though my lungs refused to accept it. I didn’t know how he could say something like that as if the intensity of it didn’t bother him a bit, whereas I needed to break eye contact and brush the moment away.

“I don’t need to keep you a secret, Elena,” he said, going to tend to his pan on the stove. “I just don’t have the patience to listen to what people think I should do with what’s mine.”

Mine. It drifted through the room, hanging above our heads like a lazy breeze unwilling to depart. Something touched me deep in the chest.

“Yours, huh?”

He stilled, running a hand across his jaw. “My fiancée,” he corrected with indifference, as though he’d realized his simple mistake, as though fiancée had a different meaning than mine. In this world, it did.

“My family’s aware you’re here and that’s all that matters,” he said. “They aren’t going to say anything.”

“Or you’ll shoot them?”

He glanced my way, gaze lazy. “Or I’ll shoot them.”

The frightening thing about it was that I couldn’t tell if he was serious or not. A part of me heard the light, teasing tone, while the other replayed him shooting his cousin in the head on a sunny Sunday afternoon.

His stare swept me from head to toe, burning my skin. But when his eyes met mine, something soft came to the front.

I don’t keep secrets, Elena.

He was lying to me.

And I could only think of one reason for it. A part of me rebuffed the possibility, while the other went soft and warm inside.

He was keeping me a secret because he worried about my reputation.

Maybe it was for selfish reasons, but my heart still decided to grow twice its size. Guilt deflated it just as fast. I seemed to bring this man more trouble than I was worth. The numbers I’d copied onto paper sat in the bottom of my duffel bag upstairs and heavily on my conscience. “Maybe I should stay at home until the marriage,” I offered.

“This is your home.”

“You know what—”

“No.”

Okay.

Not one for negotiating, it seemed.

He grabbed two plates from the cupboard. “Thought you ran every morning.”

I almost didn’t hear him over how shirtless he was.

I pursed my lips. “I’ve decided it doesn’t suit me.”

He gave me a dark look. “If you decide it does suit you, use the treadmill in the spare room upstairs. You can’t run the streets like you used to.”

My smile was sweet. “You have a way of making me feel so very liberated.”

He wasn’t amused. “What are your plans for dance?”

I hadn’t signed up for another class since the recital and I didn’t think I was going to. Although, now I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to get out of the house any other way.

“I haven’t decided.”

He filled two plates while I poured a cup of coffee. This man had given me an orgasm and made me breakfast. The former I had only hoped for, the latter I hadn’t imagined. I was beginning to wonder what he wanted with me. I would be a poor excuse of a wife.

He leaned against the counter, giving me all of his autocratic attention. “If you decide to go back, we’ll have to find you a new studio.”

I paused. “Why?”

“I don’t trust your papà’s streets.”

My eyes narrowed.

He noticed and returned the look. “You’re awfully loyal to the wrong people.” Annoyance coated his voice.

“You mean my family? Those people?” I raised a brow. “There’s nothing wrong with my papà’s streets.”

The unimpressed expression he gave me said driveby loud and clear.

I had nothing substantial to respond with, so I reflected. “Maybe I don’t trust your streets.”

“You won’t be an Abelli for much longer. If you’re going to dance or whatever else it is you do, you’re doing it on my streets.” He added with a dark tone, “And forget sucking anyone’s life away.”

A shiver went through me as I realized I would be Elena Russo in a short amount of time. I forced a sigh to hide my unsettlement.

“You’re dreadfully totalitarian today.”

“Just shy of psychotic, then?” His eyes sparked. “Guess I’d better up my game.”

As we stared at each other, three feet apart, something heavy flowed into the kitchen. A languid, hot, and suggestive air. My heart thumped the heavy beats of a drum. He stood there, half-naked, so much man. And I knew that if I remained silent, something was going to happen. Everything was going to change. Just before eight a.m. on a Sunday. Unease, anticipation, and a sliver of panic flooded me.

I knew something about the next step would break my heart.

“Please do,” I breathed. “So I know what to expect.” The words cut through the thick haze, clearing the air.

He watched me for another second. Shook his head. And then pushed off the counter.

“Eat your breakfast. We’re leaving in twenty.”

“Where are we going?”

He grabbed a magazine off the island and dropped it on the counter in front of me. The advertisement said Show and Shine Car Show.

What on earth did you wear to a car show?

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“Fashion fades, only style remains the same.”

–Coco Chanel

WITH MUCH REGRET, I REALIZED that Nico was a morning person.

While I needed a good hour or two to drink my coffee and prepare to even get ready for the day, he made breakfast, dressed in jeans and that white t-shirt, and was ready to go with the sun.

Flaw found. Right next to the question of his mental status. Though, I believed the issues went hand in hand.

“You look nice,” he told me as we pulled out of the drive.

Like an idiot, I flushed all the way to my hairline.

He laughed quietly and then turned up Last Resort by Papa Roach until it was all I could hear.

Throughout the day, You look nice was a deep, worn-out recording in the back of my mind. It was such a simple observation, and for that reason warmth filled my chest. I was used to compliments, and maybe that sounded shallow, as though I felt I was deserving of them. But I didn’t believe I was, nor did I want them. In my life, the beautiful girls ended up like Gianna: hiding the misery in their eyes with dilated pupils.

I was observant as a child. I wanted to analyze the world and decipher its meaning, but what I found was myself as a little girl standing in front of a mirror where a loveless, empty life stared back.

The truth was, I was a liar. I’d always been a romantic. So deep a romantic that the thought of not finding my own love story felt like I once again stood in that vacant parking lot with nothing but snow and the whistle of cold wind.

I wasn’t the smartest girl in the world to blush from his compliment right after I’d used his girlfriend’s—lover’s, whoever she was—iron to curl my hair and pull it into a ponytail. Nevertheless, with a violence I hadn’t felt before, I only hoped the other woman wasn’t Gianna. She was my opposite—carefree and uninhibited—while I was so . . . pale in comparison. And with a triviality I doubted we shared, I was concerned about having to wear the same heels two days in a row because they were the only ones that paired well with my summer dress.

During the hour-long drive, I decided on the flowers for my bouquet and arrangements for the tables, while Nico was either on the phone or had the radio too loud for conversation. It was hardly a romantic date, but there was something comfortable about it.

Cars sparkled beneath sunlight as people milled up and down the parking lot. The day heated up like an oven burner, like the sun was angry at the world. In my ignorance, I believed there would be entertainment of some kind. However, the only entertainment was the cars. It was at times like this I was glad my thoughts were private.

Maybe there weren’t any performances, but what I experienced was far from monotony. I oftentimes felt like one of the cars to be admired as Nico’s attention found me, burning my skin with a distinct gaze that brought one thing to mind. I wondered if he was as attentive with all his women, and then immediately hated myself for thinking it.

“Stay by my side,” he’d told me as soon as we got there.

A tenacious part of me wanted to know what he would do if I didn’t.

I always was a bit too curious.

As he was busy saying a few words to one of the cars’ owners, I slipped away and pretended to be admiring a convertible. It was only thirty seconds later that a large, intimidating presence brushed my back.

His voice was gravel, silk, and annoyed against my ear. “Do you honestly think I’m going to follow you around all day?”

I nodded, my heart fluttering like wings. “You have to.”

He didn’t touch me anywhere, though he stood so close the deep timbre of his words touched my neck. “I don’t have to do anything.”

The light summer breeze played on my skin as people walked around us, but I was only aware of one of them, one man.

You look nice.

Mine.

“Maybe you want to,” I breathed.

Two heartbeats passed. Three.

He could have said he didn’t. He could have said anything to deny it, but instead, he chose to let a silence full of unspoken words spread between us.

This tie we shared used to be equal parts thrill and terror. Today, the former was nudging the other away until it was as forgotten as a faded photograph tucked in the bottom of a drawer.

As I often pushed my luck and stepped away from him, growing tired of his car talk with the few people he chose to speak to, I felt his gaze follow my every move, even while he was immersed in conversation. And I realized one thing: I might not be the only woman in his life, but I would be the only one he called wife. The revelation was a vigorous thrum in my chest. So consuming a hum I couldn’t force myself to feel anything but a deep-seated contentment.

“Nicolas,” I said a few moments later, covering my eyes from the sun as I glanced across the lot. “It’s just like your Gran Torino.”

Nico stopped by my side but was busy sending a text. I’d yet to see this man drunk when I’d assumed he was an alcoholic. However, I was always seeing him work. I was beginning to think workaholic was a more likely diagnosis.

“How do you know what model my car is?” he asked without looking up.

“I have a superior knowledge in all things cars.” I smiled, because I didn’t even know how to freakin’ drive.

He glanced at me, amusement ghosting across whiskey-colored eyes. “I’m sure you do.” Slipping his phone into his back pocket, he looked across the lot. “That’s a ‘70. Mine’s a ‘72.”

I paused. That was awfully perceptive of him, having been too far away to read the paper in the windshield. “How do you know?”

“Wild guess,” he drawled.

Hmm . . .

“What year is that red one?” I pointed to the next Gran Torino in line.

He gave the car a glance. “‘71.” And then a smile pulled on a corner of his lips. “It was the movie, wasn’t it? How you know?”

I frowned.

That was the fourth time I heard him laugh. I didn’t know when I’d started counting, but now I wondered if I would ever stop.

I soon learned it wasn’t a “wild guess” as he’d said. In fact, with some more questioning, I realized he could tell me the make, model, and year of all these cars here with a simple look. He was like a car encyclopedia, though humble enough not to admit it.

I watched him, was fascinated in a way by the few words that he spoke, and I took a mental image when he glanced my way and the sunlight hit him just right. Pierced with that dark, acquisitive gaze of his, something warm started in my chest, and as the day went on it spread further through my being until it was so interwoven I’d never get it out.

“How do you know so much about cars?” I asked him as we walked side-by-side. The sun was a sweltering weight against my skin, and I pulled my ponytail off the back of my sticky neck.

“Kept me out of trouble,” was all he said.

I imagined he meant when he was a teenager. What kind of trouble did a young Nico get into?

Guilt felt heavy in my chest when I recalled what I’d insinuated about his mamma last night. My parents were far from the best, but I’d been safe, loved, and cared for as a child. I wondered who’d loved Nico. I bet his papà had shown him about as much affection as mine did Tony, which was worrisome. And I doubted an addict for a mamma could be very caring and supportive.

“Nico,” I said, then hesitated. I wanted to ask him so much. I wanted to know everything, but I knew he wouldn’t tell me. So, I settled with: “I’m thirsty.”

“Ah, so it’s Nico when you want something,” he drawled, amused. “Come on. Let’s get you something to drink.”

I’d never seen my papà leave the house in anything less than a two-piece suit. Yet here this man was in boots, jeans, and a white t-shirt. He still didn’t fit in with the crowd. It was like everyone knew he had a gun tucked somewhere under his shirt. Or maybe they could see the Cosa Nostra in his eyes.

We sat at a picnic table near the edge of the lot with a bottle of water. Nico finished his in two drinks and then rested his elbows on his knees and watched the crowd. After the driveby I’d experienced not even a week ago, maybe I should be worried about my wellbeing. But the truth was, I didn’t think there was another person in this world who could make me feel safer.

When his gaze settled on my face, I tried to pretend I didn’t notice. But after a moment with a sputtering pulse, I couldn’t take it any longer.

“Why are you staring at me?”

One heartbeat. Two.

His voice was rough and his gaze was steady when he said, “Maybe I want to.”

Something soft and warm wrapped around my heart and squeezed.

We stopped in front of the Gran Torinos, and mischief flamed to life in my chest. I strayed to the next car over, examining it like I knew what I was examining. And knowing he owned a ‘72, I announced, “I think I like the ‘70 the best.”

He didn’t look at me, but a sly smile tugged at his lips. “Come a little closer and say that.”

Butterflies took flight in my stomach, and I had to bite my cheek to hold in a smile.

It was eleven a.m. on a Sunday when I realized I wasn’t only attracted to my fiancé. I was, with a madness that ached, completely and utterly infatuated with him.

By the time we got back to the car, my feet were killing me and the sun had reddened the skin on my shoulders. It could also be said that I was nearing starvation. It was only two in the afternoon, but I was very particular about when I got fed, and now I had missed lunch and second breakfast.

As he drove, I rested my head against the window and watched the world fly by. After a moment, I sat up, my brows knitting in confusion.

“Nico, I thought the Capellos owned this part of the Bronx?”

When he licked his lips and didn’t say a thing, a disbelieving laugh escaped me. “Oh my god. You’re crazy. We can’t be here.”

He glanced at me, a sly glint in his eyes. “I thought we already established I was crazy.”

I glanced out the window and felt like I was a wanted criminal in a foreign land. I couldn’t believe I’d been walking so casually only moments ago on Capello streets, the family whom my papà had a neutral but sometimes tense relationship with.

“You’re going to get me killed,” I announced.

He shook his head before pinning me with a gaze that pooled with intensity. “Do you honestly think for a second I would let someone kill you?”

No. It was an immediate, visceral response in my head.

I warmed from his words, though was uncertain of how to feel. I’d always followed the rules, and the one time I didn’t it had cost an innocent man his life. I’d known Nico didn’t care much for the law of the land, nor even the rules and etiquette of the Cosa Nostra. And today only proved it. I didn’t want trouble; this man lived for it.

“It’s dangerous,” I said.

Silence filled the car. He ran a thumb across his bottom lip and glanced at me with one hand on the wheel. “Trust me?”

The fact that he’d told me not to last night was a loud awareness between us. I swallowed, because the way he’d said it, all soft and rough, burned through my chest and straight to a place I tried to close off from the world. This was him telling me I could. That I should.

I had to marry the man.

I didn’t have to trust him.

Though not everything is about what we have to do, but what we want to.

I glanced outside the glass, at this forbidden part of town he’d taken me to. My stomach tightened at the unfamiliarity of it all, but the warm presence beside me, the strong heartbeat I’d felt last night, the masculine scent, it was all beginning to feel familiar. Necessary.

I never was a very good liar, so I told him the truth.

“Yes,” I breathed.

And I’d never been more sure of anything.

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