The Maddest Obsession (Made, #2)

by Danielle Lori

I looked up to see his gaze trail from my boots to the few inches of naked thigh. It was clinical, assessing, and hardly lascivious. Still, the touch of his stare burned, like an ice cube melting on bare skin beneath a summer sun.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he said, taking a large drink of what I was now sure was water. “I would say poor girl, but . . .” My eyes sparkled with that new thing I’m trying as I began to walk past him.

His next words, dripping with something bitter and sweet, stopped me in my tracks. “Trouble in paradise?” My grip tightened around the pen I still held. I swallowed ...

My marriage was a mockery, and I could never escape it—divorce didn’t exist in the Cosa Nostra—but I wouldn’t be chained by a diamond on my finger, by a symbol of love,...

His gaze narrowed in distaste as it fell to the pen I’d bitten between my teeth. It took only a second to connect the dots. Germs, most likely. I licked the end of the pen like a lollipop, tucked it into his front jacket pocket, and gave his chest a pat. “Have a lousy night, Allister.”

Antonio pulled me closer, wrapping an arm around my waist like we were the most normal couple in the world. As if there wasn’t a twenty-five-year age gap between us, as if he’d wooed me instead of having signed a contract for me, and, most importantly, as if he hadn’t cheated on me and then tried to apologize with a box of fucking chocolates.

Antonio was like his son, only wrapped in pain and delivered with a side of righteousness, even as the cross around his neck singed a hole through his skin. After two years of marriage, I didn’t believe he could even feel sympathy, and I knew it was how he’d climbed the ladder to be one of the most feared men in the United States.

“I really don’t like waiting around for you.” “I really don’t like you fucking my friends.”

We passed the ballroom doors and, as I glanced inside, my gaze collided with Allister’s. The exchange was a blur of heat, the burn of liquor, a flicker of pitch-black as his eyes dropped to Antonio’s grip on my arm.

“Do you want to know my favorite?” My grip tightened on the railing. In. Out. “Andromeda.” Allister moved closer. “An autumn constellation, forty-four light-years away.” His steps were smooth and indifferent, but his voice was dry, as though he found my panic attack positively boring.

“Andromeda was boasted to be one of the most beautiful goddesses.” He moved closer, so close his jacket brushed my bare arm. His hands were in his pockets and his gaze was on the sky. “She was sacrificed for her beauty, tied to a rock by the sea.” I imagined her, a red-haired goddess with a heart of steel chained to a rock. The question bubbled up from the depths of me.

His gaze fell to me. Down the tear tracks to the blood on my bottom lip. His eyes darkened, his jaw tightened, and he looked away.

“It means ruler of men.” An icy breeze almost swallowed his words before they reached me, whipping my hair at my cheeks.

I was young. Pampered. Full of ennui. I imbibed anything that made my heart race. Made me forget. Made me feel alive. Sometimes, it came in the form of a Colombian-imported powder. And other times . . . blue.

The glow of the pool lights cast him in shades of silver, blue, and shadow. Navy suit and tie. Polished Rolex and cufflinks. He stood in front of the terrace doors of my home, a tumbler in hand. His warm gaze took me in, from my hair, to the bowl of strawberries and glass of tequila on the table beside me, to my red velvet stilettos.

“Have you ever thought that maybe you’re the problem?” I took the tumbler from his hand and stole a sip. The vodka in his glass always tasted better than any other. “I’m guessing you’re going to enlighten me?” He took his glass back.

“A woman likes some passion and spontaneity in her life. You, Officer, need to loosen up.” “Should I fuck other women in her bed? Spontaneous enough, you think?”

Stepping closer, I ran a finger across his jawline, my voice soft. “You have such a handsome face. Does it get you everything you want?” “Almost.”

“One look from you, and women swoon at your feet.” He was growing annoyed with me. “Yet here you stand.”

Oooop the tension

His eyes narrowed. “You’re drunk.” My gaze filled with mischief when I slipped my thin dress strap off my shoulder. “And you never are. Don’t you ever live on the edge, Officer? Just let yourself have whatever you want?” The air pulsed like it had a heartbeat as I pushed the shimmery material over my hips, letting my gown fall to my feet. Chink.

I stood inches in front of him, in a red bra and panties, with an entire party and my husband just beyond a set of double doors. His response was simple and exactly what I’d expected from the strait-laced fed, yet it still found the heat to brush my back as I made my way to the pool.

A smile touched my lips as I dove into the water. Because his gaze had slid down the curves of my body, and it was the furthest thing from cold I’d ever felt.

“You only sleep with the same woman three times.” “True.” “Why?” A whole list of reasons, but there was only one that motivated me to do anything. “It feels right.”

I’d planned my future out, from the kind of woman I’d marry to the type of hardwood in my apartment. Nowhere in those dreams had I ever planned for a Gianna Marino. I should feel reprieved she was married and out of my reach again, but, fuck . . . it sometimes felt like an impossible feat to forget her.

Not surprising. When someone met me, they didn’t forget me. Except for one woman, anyway. My face had been a curse when I was a kid, but now, I took advantage of it. To intimidate, to manipulate, to get whatever I wanted.

“You don’t seem to have the same opinion regarding . . . other parts of a woman’s anatomy.” I laughed.

I wouldn’t have a problem with any part of a certain woman’s anatomy. Truthfully, I’d let her spit in my goddamn mouth. “So, if you’re willing to . . .” “Eat pussy?”

It was mostly true. When I was agitated or stressed, my issue with cleanliness magnified, but otherwise, I just liked to be clean. I liked a clean space, clean clothes, and not to put dirty shit, like a used communal pen, in my mouth. Not to wake up with bugs crawling on me. Not to have to wash the dirt off my body in a drinking fountain.

“They always knocked three times,” I said. “Who?” “The men who made me.”

Blue. My breath slowed, and so did my movements. I held his gaze as he stood next to Nico at the bar. Allister responded to something Ace had said but kept his eyes on me.

The roll of my hips, the glide of my hands in my hair—they moved to a different rhythm than the beat. Slower. Sexier. Like a caress of silk sheets against naked skin. Holding his stare, I lip-synced a line of the song. The words poured from my red-painted mouth, sensual exhales between parted lips. His eyes darkened.

He’d grown out the top of his fade haircut in the years since I’d met him. It was now long enough to run one’s fingers through, to grab a handful of. The thought made me feel warm and strange, and I quickly pushed the feeling away.

Hands braced on the bar, he only watched me unclasp his watch. My breath grew dense in my lungs. I was simply removing his watch, yet somehow, it felt like I was undoing his belt. The Rolex slid halfway down my forearm when I put it on, but I still waved it around like I would a new conflict-free diamond ring. “Thank you,” I said brightly. “I love it.”

“Fine. I know what I want for my birthday.” “I’m on the edge of my seat.”

He put his watch back on, and I grew distracted by the movement. Allister had the kind of hands that made a woman wonder what they would look like against her skin.

“Too busy for his wife on her birthday?” I recognized his indifferent yet vicious tone and where he was taking this. Frustration chafed beneath my skin. “Stop,” I told him. “What was Antonio doing today? Or, maybe the right word would be, who?”

I choked on my fury. “I hate you.” “I think about you.”

Downing his drink, he dropped it on the bar before heading to the door. He stopped with a hand on the knob and turned to me. “You want to know why I don’t touch you?” I shook my head. “Because if I did, I wouldn’t stop. Not until I’d snuffed out that pretty fire in your eyes.” His gaze flashed. “Don’t shut yourself in a room with me again, Gianna.”

He slipped his hands in his pockets, a smile pulling on his lips. Lorenzo was the cutest of the Russos, if you were ever going to use that word to describe any of them. Blood splatter and the look of the Cosa Nostra usually revoked any sense of cute from their description. But, somehow, Lorenzo still retained it.

“Don’t mind me,” I said, sitting on the couch beside her and grabbing the TV remote. “I’m waiting for Ace. I just need to kill him, and then I’ll be on my way.”

My chest had felt hollow since I was five years old, and sometimes, where emotions should be, there was only numbness. Some called it depression. I called it life.

I guessed a wife and a mistress sitting side-by-side was a perplexing sight. I aimed to make it more confusing. I smiled. “Aren’t you going to wish your wife a happy birthday?”

Father and son stood beside one another. Together, they could double as a brick wall. An unyielding force of nature. Or something someone might pray to.

“Yes, actually, there is. To shoot Ace. Since I’m not currently armed, I’ll let you do the honors.” He rolled his eyes and headed to his desk. “Appease my wife, son. It is her birthday.”

Pop. Pop. “Fuck,” Nico growled, smacking the wall beside my head. He whirled around, pressing his back to my front. The sound of three close gunshots cut through the air. They rang in my ears and vibrated in my bones.

His grip tightened on my shirt, and I stumbled a step closer. He was too close, and I had to place a hand on his stomach to catch myself from falling flush against him. His abs tightened beneath my palm, but his expression remained unmoved. “Regardless of what you might believe, Gianna, I’m a grown man. Dress appropriately in front of me next time.”

Vincent pressed a kiss to my cheek. “You’re the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispered in my ear. I laughed, trying hard to keep an uncomfortable edge from escaping. “You obviously haven’t seen a sunset in the Caribbean.”

It was the grand reopening, after the shooting last year. There hadn’t been much damage, and only six casualties—Antonio, his brother, Sydney, John, and two Zanettis. However, Nico had focused his time on revenge and not on opening his club to the public until now.

Allister was headed to a table where two other men in black suits stood together, talking. But, as though he’d felt my presence just as I had his, he glanced over and caught my gaze. I realized what was wrong with Charming. His blue eyes were dull and cloudy. Not piercing and deep enough to drown in.

Lovely. I’d let the disgustingly handsome fed ruin an entire eye color for me. Allister’s attention moved to the man beside me. His gaze narrowed and flickered with loathing before he looked away.