The Sweetest Oblivion
About this book
Elena Abelli has learned to perform composure inside a family where reputation and obedience carry physical consequences. Nicolas Russo arrives as a powerful match for her sister, but his attention repeatedly settles where it should not.
Their attraction develops under surveillance, obligation, and the knowledge that a private choice can provoke public violence. Elena’s apparent sweetness is partly strategy; Nico’s control is tested by the one relationship he has not authorised himself to want.
Danielle Lori writes the romance within a criminal hierarchy rather than treating that hierarchy as harmless decoration. Possessiveness, danger, and coercive family power are central to the fantasy and may not suit readers looking for a gentle relationship.
The Sweetest Oblivion begins the Made series. It is a dark mafia romance focused on forbidden attraction, divided loyalties, and the cost of becoming visible to a powerful man.
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“There’s no such thing as good money or bad money. There’s just money.”
—Lucky Luciano
Long Island, New York
MY HOME WAS PICTURESQUE. A red front door with a golden knocker. Black and white checkered flooring. A wooden staircase with a lacquer shine and a sparkling chandelier. However, I’d always wondered, If I pulled back a corner of the wallpaper . . . would it bleed red? If this world was as transparent as glass, soft splats would drip a pool to the marble floors.
I stared at the TV in the corner of the kitchen, hardly processing the newscaster’s voice, but when murder passed her ruby red lips, the word resounded in my mind. My throat tightened as I twisted the ring on my middle finger.
While my home, my life, was built on piles of dirty money, I’d always been able to say I hadn’t contributed to the balance. Not until earlier this year, that is. Now, blood was on my hands and guilt watched me while I slept.
Voices from the foyer drifted to my ears every time the swinging door opened as our servants came in and out, preparing for lunch.
A feminine trill of a laugh, my cousin Benito’s lively timbre, and a voice I’d vaguely recognized as I left the church this morning. It was low, smooth, and indifferent. The hair on the back of my neck rose. I knew it belonged to my future brother-in-law.
And it was partly—wholly—the reason I was hiding in the kitchen, though I would never admit it.
“You are too beautiful for that frown, Sweet Abelli,” my mamma said, as she entered the room with the cacophony of our guests’ conversations following her.
I shifted under the weight of her words. For obvious reasons, I hadn’t heard that nickname in a while. I’d grown out of the name some, especially when I realized I was the girl adored for all the wrong reasons: I wasn’t hard to look at, I was quiet when I should be and polite when I wasn’t. Like a childhood dress that didn’t fit anymore, I was stuck in the world’s expectations for me. It took years of feeling like a pretty bird in a cage until it all became too much . . . and I escaped.
“I don’t know why you watch this, Elena,” Mamma said, stirring the sauce on the stove. “All that nonsense is depressing.”
Mamma was married to Salvatore Abelli—a high-profile boss of one of the biggest organized crime syndicates in the United States. Sometimes I wondered if the naivety was denial, or if she would truly rather watch Days of Our Lives than worry about my papà’s affairs.
“I’m not sure who to vote for in the election,” I answered absently.
She shook her head in disbelief, and I guessed it was odd for the daughter of a mob boss to care about the legalities of the government.
“Your papà isn’t happy with you,” she said, looking at me under her dark eyelashes with that pursed-lips-you’re-in-trouble expression.
“When isn’t Papà unhappy with me lately?”
“What do you expect after what you did?”
Six months had passed, and I swore she brought it up every day. She was like a dog with a bone, and I honestly thought she enjoyed the mistake I’d made because she finally had something to chastise me about.
“Why didn’t you come meet the Russo after church today?” She pointed her spoon at me. “I’m not buying the act that you forgot and were waiting innocently in the car.”
I crossed my arms. “I just didn’t want to. He’s . . . rude.”
“Elena,” she scolded. “You don’t even know him.”
“You don’t need to meet someone with his reputation to know his character, Mamma.”
“Oh, Madonna, salvami,” she muttered.
“And he won’t understand Adriana,” I added tersely.
She snorted. “Not many will understand your sister, figlia mia.”
The gardener did . . . but I wasn’t going to share that with Mamma, or by the end of the day he’d be at the bottom of the Hudson.
Earlier this week, Papà had announced that Adriana would be marrying Nicolas Russo, the don of one of the five families in New York. My past transgressions were still tender wounds, but with this news added to the list it was like they’d been cut back open.
I was the eldest sister; therefore, it was my responsibility to marry first. But because of my mistake, my sister had been thrown under the bus—and to a man with a reputation. Everyone knew that when someone had a reputation in this world it meant one thing: stay the hell away from them.
“Besides, Nico is a perfect gentleman. If you would’ve met him this morning after church like you were supposed to, you would know that.”
I’d strode right out of the church doors and to the car before I could be corralled to meet my future brother-in-law. I was practically a pariah to my papà, so I was surprised he’d even noticed my absence. Besides, I was sure Nicolas Russo’s gentleman act was nothing but smoke and mirrors.
Since Nicolas’s papà had died five years ago, the twenty-nine-year-old and youngest sitting don had become well-known in the underworld. Following his father’s footsteps, he was a cheat, had more blood on his hands than the entirety of the New York State Penitentiary, and was unremorseful about it all. At least I imagined he was unapologetic. The newscaster wouldn’t have reported a new victim with the name “Zanetti” every morning for a year—the family Nicolas had once feuded with for killing his papà—if he felt at all guilty. He was going straight to Hell with that attitude if you asked me.
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“I did meet him, Mamma.”
She raised a brow. “You did?”
“Well, no.”
Her expression darkened.
“But I shared a look with him,” I insisted. “And that was all I needed to see to know he wouldn’t be good for Adriana.”
She rolled her eyes. “Ridicolo.”
A glare and a look were the same things . . . right? It was an accident, really. It was as I was walking down the church steps that my gaze caught on the meeting I was supposed to be attending. Papà and Mamma stood on either side of Adriana and across from Nicolas Russo—and that was usually how a bride and groom met in this life. Arranged marriages were par for the course in the Cosa Nostra.
In annoyance at the entire situation, my eyes had narrowed slightly before glancing at my future brother-in-law, only to find he was already looking at me. That was how the glaring occurred—an accident, you see. But I could hardly convey that to the man, and if I had smiled it would’ve come off condescending, so I just . . . went with the glare and hoped it wouldn’t get me killed.
Nicolas’s gaze had hardened a flicker to show he didn’t like it, but after a second of heavy eye contact, he returned his attention to my papà like I was nothing but a leaf blowing by. I’d let out the breath I was holding and went to hide in the car. There was no way I was meeting him after that exchange. I’d just avoid him until the end of my days.
“Stop worrying and trust your papà.”
I made a hmm noise because I’d overheard from my cousin Benito that the alliance was for collaboration on some weapons deal, nothing more. My sister was a pawn in some large-scale trafficking agreement. How romantic. Even so, we knew this day would come. I held no expectations for a marriage of love, and neither did Adriana.
The problem was, my sister believed she was already in love.
With the gardener.
“Elena, go see if Adriana is ready for lunch.”
“She told me last night she wasn’t coming.”
“She’s coming!” Mamma snapped, followed by muttering in Italian.
With reluctance, I pushed off the counter and headed out of the kitchen. The newscaster’s voice trailed me out the swinging door, and, like a warning, that word murder spilled from red lips once more.
On an Evening in Roma played from the antique record player as I headed toward the staircase and took in the guests in the foyer. My papà’s sister and husband, a few male cousins, and my brother Tony, who was shooting an intense glare in Nicolas’s direction. Tony leaned against the wall with his hands in his black suit pockets, alone. His girlfriend wasn’t Italian and was rarely invited over. My mamma disliked her just because she was dating her son.
I loved my brother, but he was reckless, impulsive, and lived by the code, “If I don’t like it then I’ll fucking shoot it.” And it looked like he wanted to shoot Nicolas Russo. There was some history between the two, and it wasn’t the good kind.
My gaze caught on a striking woman with . . . interesting style. She stood next to a man who I assumed to be her grandfather, but then he slid a hand onto her ass. She only pursed her lips like it was an annoyance.
She wore a mink shawl in July, over a thin olive-green dress, and thigh-high boots. Long dark hair fell in smooth waves, and with her fake eyelashes and large hoop earrings she was like an ad to the seventies era. And, as if she wasn’t doing her job well enough, she blew a pink bubble and popped it, her eyes narrowing on me like I was the one whose style was four decades too late. If polar opposites were ever in the same room, it was her and me, undoubtedly.
Almost home free with one hand on the banister, my father’s voice sounded behind me. “Elena, come here.”
My stomach dipped and I closed my eyes in defeat, but I only hesitated for a second because that voice was non-negotiable.
My hands grew clammy as I made my way to where my papà stood next to Nicolas. When I reached my father’s side, he took my arm and gave me a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Papà looked ten years younger than his fifty-five, with small streaks of silver through his black hair. He was always in a suit, and you’d never find a wrinkle in it, but that gentleman look was just a façade. I’d first seen how he’d gotten his reputation when I was seven, through a crack in his office door.
“Elena, this is Nicolas Russo. Nico, this is Elena, my eldest daughter.”
I’d done this dance a hundred times, just a different day, a different man. However, this time my breath was cut short, as though I was about to be pushed off a plank and into shark-infested water if I looked up at him. He’s just a man, I reminded myself. A man with the worst reputation in New York State, easily.
Why did I glare?
Inhaling for courage, I tipped my head, not being able to see him under the brim of my hat. A warm rush of recognition ran down my spine as I met his heavy gaze. Light brown eyes, the color of whiskey on ice, and thick, dark lashes. It gave him a brooding expression, almost as if he was looking into the sun, yet he was looking at me as though he was being introduced to one of the servants and not someone he would call “sister-in-law.”
I stood a few inches taller than Adriana, and even in my heels the top of my head wouldn’t hit his chin. I had the strong urge to avert my gaze and focus it eye-level on his black tie, but it felt like he’d be winning something if I looked away, so I held his stare. My tone was as polite as it always was in company. “It’s a pleasure—”
“We’ve already met.”
We what?
His indifferent voice ran down my spine, with a strange thrill following in its wake. He’d hardly said anything, but it now felt like I was standing on Russo turf instead of Abelli. As if a six-foot diameter around him was claimed as Russo no matter where he stood.
Papà frowned. “When did you two have the chance to meet?”
I swallowed.
Something amused and dangerous played in Nicolas’s gaze. “Earlier at church. Remember, Elena?”
My heartbeats collided with a crash. Why had my name rolled off his tongue like he was more than familiar with it?
My papà stiffened beside me, and I knew why he did: he thought I’d done something inappropriate with this man, like his tone had suggested. Heat rushed to my cheeks. All because of one mistake I’d made six months ago, my papà thought I’d come on to my sister’s fiancé?
I blinked through my apprehension. This was due to a really short, not even that hostile glare? This man had found out my weakness and was now playing with me.
Frustration clawed at my chest. I couldn’t very well go and make this situation worse by disagreeing with a don my father would most likely believe over me now. And so, I forced my voice into the lightest tone I could muster. “Yes, we’ve met, Papà. I forgot my jacket in the church and ran into him inside.”
I realized my mistake too late. It was July; I hadn’t worn a jacket. And Nicolas knew that.
He pulled a hand out of his pocket and ran a thumb across his bottom lip, giving his head a small shake. He looked impressed I had played along but almost disappointed at what a poor job I’d done.
I did not like this man—not at all.
A cold whisper ran through my blood as my father looked between us like he was unsure.
“Well, all right,” Papà finally responded, patting my arm. “That’s good, then. I’m sure Nico might have some questions for you about Adriana. You know her best.”
My lungs expanded, and I took in a breath. “Yes, of course, Papà.”
I would rather eat a handful of dirt.
The front door opened and my mamma’s brother and Papà’s consigliere, Marco, entered with his wife. My father said a parting word and went to greet them, and just left me with this man, whose presence was beginning to burn.
He stared down at me.
I stared up at him.
As a corner of his lips lifted, I realized I was amusing him. My cheeks heated with annoyance. Before, I would have murmured something sweet and made my leave, but that was before. Now, I couldn’t keep my expression polite as I met Nicolas’s—Nico’s, whatever his name was—gaze.
“We have not met,” I said firmly.
He cocked a brow in a cavalier way. “You sure? Here I was under the impression you had me all figured out.”
My heart fluttered so fast it couldn’t be healthy. I had no idea what to say because he was right. This interaction wasn’t doing anything to prove he wasn’t who I thought he was all along, however.
He smoothed an absent hand down his tie. “Do you know what assuming gets you?”
“Killed?” I breathed.
His eyes fell to my lips. “Smart girl.” The words were deep and soft, and a strange part of me felt like I’d done something good.
My breaths turned shallow when he moved to walk past me but stopped by my side. His arm touched mine and it burned like the lightest licks of a flame. His voice brushed the side of my neck. “It’s nice to meet you, Elena.” He said my name like he should have earlier: without any insinuation. Like I was something he could check off his list before he walked away.
I stood there, staring ahead, while absently returning a couple smiles to family members.
So that was my future brother-in-law. The man my sister would marry.
Maybe I was a horrible person, but some guilt drifted away and out the door another person just entered.
Because I was suddenly glad it was her and not me.
“Nothing personal, it’s just business.”
—Otto Berman
IT WAS WORSE THAN I’D expected.
Adriana was primly folding a blouse and placing it into a suitcase on her bed. She wore an oversized Tweety Bird t-shirt and Christmas socks, and wads of toilet paper lay scattered about the room.
A few years ago, Adriana went through a rebellious stage and chopped her hair off into a pixie cut. I’d never seen my mother more horrified. Adriana had lost her credit card, her acting classes at our all-girls school, and got glowered at every day for a month. It’d grown into a sleek bob now, but it was then I’d learned that cutting your hair in this house was worse than murder.
With dark blue walls, white crown molding and golden accents, Adriana’s room would appear fit for a home staging . . . if it didn’t look like a costume designer had thrown up in it. Posters from famous plays like The Great Gatsby hung on the walls. Weird stage props sat on the vanity: feathers, hats, and masquerade masks. Things that made your head hurt while trying to figure out their purpose—like the giant rabbit’s head on the bed.
I didn’t believe Papà knew he was paying for every penny of Adriana’s dramatic art school’s stage props. But my father didn’t concern himself with my sister too much. As long as she was where she was supposed to be, he was happy. He just didn’t understand her, nor she him.
With a sigh, I grabbed the blouse from her suitcase and went to the walk-in closet to hang it back up. She ignored my presence, brushing shoulders with me as she passed with a pair of jeans.
“What’s with all of the toilet paper?” I asked, sliding the shirt onto a hanger.
She sniffled but didn’t respond.
The last time I’d seen her cry was at our nonno’s funeral when she was thirteen. My little sister was one of the most unemotional people I’d ever met. In fact, I thought the idea of emotion repelled her. My stomach twisted with concern, but I knew Adriana appreciated pity as much as she loved chick flicks. She hated them.
I grabbed the jeans from the suitcase and headed to the closet. “So, where are you going?”
She passed me with a yellow polka-dot bikini. “Cuba. Saudi Arabia. North Korea. Pick one.”
We continued this dance of packing and unpacking like a human conveyor belt.
My brows knitted. “Well, you didn’t exactly give me a good list. But Saudi Arabia is out if you’re planning on wearing this bathing suit.” I folded it and put it away.
“Have you met him?” she asked, walking past me with a zebra-printed robe.
I knew she meant her future husband.
I hesitated. “Yes. He’s, uh . . . real nice.”
“Where am I going to fit all my props?” She threw her hands on her hips and stared into her small suitcase like she’d just realized it wasn’t a Mary Poppins bag.
“I think they’re going to have to stay here.”
Her face scrunched up like she was about to cry. “But I love my costumes.” Tears were running now. “And what about Mr. Rabbit?” She grabbed the giant rabbit’s head off the bed and held it next to her own.
“Well . . . I’m not sure about North Korea’s shipping policies, but I’m betting Mr. Rabbit won’t pass.”
She threw herself on the bed and whined, “What about Cuba?”
“It’s probably a better possibility.”
She nodded like that was good. “I have an Alice in Wonderland production coming up.” She wiped her cheeks, already finished crying.
“Who are you playing?” I knew it wasn’t Alice. My sister didn’t like anything mainstream or blonde.
“The Cheshire Cat.” She smiled.
“Yeah, that sounds like you.” I went into the closet and found a thin-strapped black dress she could wear to lunch. It took a moment to find it because it was squeezed between a Legend of Zelda and Peter Pan costume.
I set the dress on her bed. “You better get ready. Almost everyone is here.”
“Ryan broke up with me,” she deadpanned.
My expression softened. “I’m so sorry, Adriana.”
“He doesn’t understand why I’m getting married and doesn’t want to see me anymore. So, he must not love me very much, right, Elena?” She looked at me with big brown eyes.
I paused.
Explain rationality to my sister and ease her heartbreak a bit, or rip the Band-Aid off?
“Right.”
She nodded. “I’ll be down soon.”
I was downstairs, turning a corner in the hall near the library when I collided with something warm and solid. A breath escaped me as I was forced a step back. I knew who I’d run into before I had to look.
Russo.
Unease drifted through my body like a kindled flame. We were no longer in a foyer filled with people, but completely alone. It was so quiet I could hear my heart beating in my chest.
I took another step back as if to get some footing, but it was mostly just to put myself out of his reach, some kind of survival instinct kicking in.
He stood there in a gray suit and a smooth black tie. He was larger than life in this hallway. Or maybe this hall was just small? No, it looked like a normal-sized hallway. Ugh, get a grip, Elena.
He regarded me like someone would watch Animal Planet—like I was another species and possibly dull entertainment. He had a cell phone in one hand at his side, so I assumed he must have been making a private call.
This hallway was more of an alcove made of arches behind the staircase. Some large potted plants blocked our view from the main hall, and a green glass lamp on a side table cast the area in dim light. However, it was bright enough to see the flicker of impatience behind his gaze.
“You going to stand here and stare at me all day, or are you going to move?”
I blinked.
“And if I say stand here and stare at you?” It was out of my mouth before I could stop it, and I instantly wished I could reach out and take my words back. I’d never spoken to someone like that—let alone a boss—in my life. My stomach dipped like a tilt-a-whirl.
With the phone in his hand, a thumb came up to run across his jaw. I imagined he did that while thinking of how he was going to kill a man.
He took a small step forward.
As if we were the same poles of a magnet, I took one back.
He dropped his hand to his side, the slightest bit of amusement coming to life in his eyes as if I’d just done a trick that entertained him. I suddenly had the distinct feeling I didn’t want to be his entertainment. And an even stronger feeling that I already was.
“Thought the Sweet Abelli was sweet.”
How did he know my nickname?
I didn’t know what came over me, but I suddenly felt free of that name—maybe because he’d never met that girl before. I wanted to be someone different. Especially to him, for some inexplicable reason.
“Well, I guess we were both fooled then. Here I was thinking a gentleman apologized when running into a woman.”
“Sounds like someone’s been making assumptions again,” he drawled.
An odd thumping began in my chest, and I shook my head. “It wasn’t an assumption.”
He took a step forward, and once again I took one back.
He slipped his hands into his pockets as his gaze fell down my body. It was hardly leering and more observant, like I was in fact another species and he was wondering if I was edible.
His eyes narrowed on my pink heels. “You think you’ve got some proof, huh?”
I nodded, feeling strangely breathless under his scrutiny. “My mamma said you acted the perfect gentleman at church.”
“I did act the perfect gentleman.”
“So, it’s a matter of if you want to be one?”
He didn’t say a word, but his neutral expression confirmed it as his stare traveled back up from my heels.
“And I’m guessing you don’t want to be one right now?” I realized I shouldn’t have said it as I was saying it.
His heavy gaze reached mine, burning me.
He gave his head a slow shake.
Okay.
I’d stood my ground long enough, much longer than the Sweet Abelli ever would. But now, I just needed to get the heck out of here.
“Okay, well . . . I’ll see you around.”
I couldn’t think of a less idiotic response, so I only took a step to go around him—but, before I could, something grabbed my wrist. He grabbed my wrist. His grip felt like a band of fire; rough, calloused fire. A cool breath of fear mixed with something boiling hot leaked into my bloodstream.
He stood a couple feet from me, his grip the only thing connecting us. “Write up a list of your sister’s hobbies. Likes and dislikes, shoe size, dress size, and anything else you think will be useful. Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I breathed. How many men had he killed with the hand wrapped around my wrist? It wasn’t a hard grip, but it was heavy, firm, immovable. It made me aware of how much smaller I was, how unnerved and out of place I felt. How I couldn’t leave unless he chose to release me.
He watched me with an inquisitive gaze. My heart felt close to stopping and my skin was burning up. It was inappropriate for him to touch me, future brother-in-law or not. My papà could come out of his office any moment, but this man didn’t seem to care. I did, though, especially after the scene earlier.
“I’ll give the list to you on Friday at the engagement party,” I managed to say and tried to pull my wrist away.
He didn’t let me go. My pulse fluttered when his thumb brushed my knuckles. “I was under the impression the Abellis could afford more than a fifty-cent ring.”
I glanced at the ring on my middle finger. It came from one of those vending machines and had a purple round-cut jewel in the center. The thought of it sobered me.
“Sometimes the cheapest things are the most valuable.”
His gaze came back to my face, and we looked at each other for a moment. His grip slipped down my wrist, palm, fingers. The rough pads of his fingertips brushed my softer ones, and made my heart skip a beat.
“I’ll see you at lunch, Elena.”
He left, disappearing into my papà’s office.
Cazzo . . .
Leaning against the wall, the ring was a heavy weight on my finger. I could take it off, put it somewhere it couldn’t haunt me, but I knew I never would. Not yet.
His grip still burned like a brand on my wrist as I left the hallway.
Once again, he’d said my name in the most inappropriate way.
“Murders came with smiles, shooting people was no big deal for us Goodfellas.”
—Henry Hill
BILLIE HOLIDAY PLAYED SOFTLY FROM the old pool radio. Condensation dripped down crystal glasses, and silverware glinted in the bright sunlight. It was a hot July afternoon, but the steady breeze was the perfect interlude.
Lights wound around the wooden slats of the patio cover, and my mamma’s rose bushes were flourishing. The chairs were soft and the food was good, but it could only be so comfortable having lunch with a bunch of strangers. However, the seventies ad sitting across from me didn’t seem to share the same opinion.
“Anyway, the cop let me go and he didn’t even take my coke—”
“Gianna.” The word was a low warning from Nicolas’s spot at the table.
She rolled her eyes and took a deep drink of wine, but she spoke no more.
I wondered why Nicolas had chastised her and what their relationship was. Siblings? They did appear to find each other annoying, but I was sure I’d heard somewhere that Nicolas was an only child. Gianna’s senior citizen of a husband sitting next to her hadn’t said a word, except for some oddly-timed chuckling. I was beginning to think he was hard of hearing.
Gianna was my polar opposite. Where I was quiet, she spoke with abandon and laughed loudly. Where I was demure, well . . . she’d stuck her gum to her cloth napkin before eating her pasta without twirling it around the fork. I was a little jealous of her carefree approach to life.
Tony sat on her other side. He leaned back in his chair with his jacket unbuttoned looking bored, but I knew him better than that. I’d seen that smug way he scratched the scruff on his jaw like he was angry and amused at the same time. And that never meant anything good. He was handsome, but if I wasn’t his sister I wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole. His recklessness was dangerous for anyone involved, especially himself. He caught my uneasy look and shot me a wink.
Low chatter and the scraping of silverware filled the yard, but beneath that lay a tense air that wouldn’t dissipate, an uncomfortable vibe the breeze wouldn’t take with it. Everyone seemed to be easily chatting amongst themselves, so maybe it was just me. I brushed it off.
Gianna didn’t stay quiet for long, though she no longer spoke about 8-balls of coke. She changed the subject to horse racing. That was an acceptable conversation many joined in on. It wasn’t like this was a drug-free zone—in fact, many people came through this house on a daily basis with drugs on them—but out in the open, it was Cosa Nostra etiquette to pretend we were the classic example of a white-picket-fence family. Even if our homes were surrounded by an iron gate and security instead.