“Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.”
—John Keats
“PAPÀ, I’D APPRECIATE IT IF next time you would send anyone—anyone at all—but Nicolas to pick me up.”
I stood in my papà’s office doorway, my duffel bag hanging from my shoulder. As soon as Nicolas had pulled into the driveway and I’d seen my father was home, I’d hopped out of the car and came straight here.
I had already been humiliated enough by the incident. I wasn’t a girl who wanted to be saved or avenged. I just wanted to forget about it and put it behind me. But I couldn’t do that because Nicolas had burned the entire gas station down. There would always be charred remains—and possibly a body—reminding me. I’d never seen the cashier come out. Sure, he was a disgusting creep, but did he deserve to burn to death? My throat tightened.
Papà set his pen down and gave me his “I’m listening” expression for the first time in a long time. “And why is that?”
I crossed my arms, saying simply, “He’s psychotic, Papà.”
At that moment, my back tingled in awareness, and my father’s gaze coasted above my head. Apparently, Nicolas now came in and out of my house like he owned it.
I hadn’t said a word to him the rest of the drive home, though he’d hardly tried to instigate a conversation. Between him threatening me about Tyler, kind of kissing him, and watching the gas station light up in my side-view mirror as we drove away, I was more frustrated than I’d ever been.
That kiss had made me hotter for more than I’d ever felt before, and he hadn’t even touched me. I hated how it made me feel. How it made me realize that the man whose life I’d ruined was based on a meaningless, even passionless, motivation.
Papà’s brows rose when he took in my words, and then, surprisingly, he laughed. “Well, Ace, I’ve never heard such an accusation from my daughter. What do you have to say about it?”
Nicolas stood so close my ponytail brushed his chest. He had no boundaries, I noticed with annoyance, while at the same time I tried to ignore the heady pull to step backward until my back touched his front.
“The cashier groped her,” he said indifferently. “So I burned down his place of business . . . and maybe him.”
Papà’s gaze hardened. “Who’s stupid enough to touch my daughter?”
Oscar Perez, and every time you invite him over . . .
“A nobody now, if he even made it out.”
“Good,” Papà snapped. “Let’s hope he didn’t.”
I didn’t know why I had even tried.
“Nico, we need to talk if you have some time. Elena, go check on Benito in the kitchen and make sure he’s still alive.”
My eyes widened. “What?”
“He was shot tonight. Though, maybe you aren’t so concerned about that as you are about who drives you home.”
I frowned.
Turning around, I was frustrated enough with his barb that I forgot Nicolas stood so close. I bumped into him, and then braced my hand on his stomach to steady myself. Heat burned through his white dress shirt and into my palm. God, he was a furnace. My fingers unwillingly curled into the muscle before I stepped back.
“I’m convinced they should call you the Clumsy Abelli instead,” he said, annoyance coating his tone.
My gaze sparked. “Cute.”
A hint of a humoring smile pulled on his lips, but he only grabbed my wrist, pulled me impolitely out of his way, and then shut my papà’s office door behind him.
I shook off the tingling warmth left behind from his grip and walked down the hall toward the kitchen. It didn’t take long to realize that Benito was going to live. Pushing the swinging door open, I stopped in my tracks, a blank gaze taking in the horror show.
Benito leaned against the counter with a hand towel pressed to his shoulder, while Gabriella—who wasn’t even supposed to be here this late—kissed a corner of his lips, cooing something too low to hear. I imagined something like, “Poor baby.”
It was a little cringe-worthy, but that wasn’t the reason I turned around and headed back to my room. That’s because her hand was in his pants. My cousin was getting a handjob in the kitchen, and while it was seriously unsanitary, I didn’t have the energy to tell them to get a room.
Later, I lay in my bed staring at the ceiling, at the lone glowing star left from years before. Because every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was fire reflected in an amber gaze.
Every time I closed my eyes, all I felt was the wrong man’s lips against mine.
“I told you we didn’t have to go, Benito.”
“I know, and I said it isn’t a big deal, Elena.”
I sighed and fell back in my seat. I’d been excited about the pool party, but after the night before, I wasn’t confident it was a good idea to spend any more time around Tyler. Especially now that I’d seen how easy it was for Nicolas Russo to destroy a man’s life in five minutes flat.
Urban development and eleven o’clock morning sun blurred through the car window as we sped uptown. Benito drove with his uninjured arm, his fingers tapping on the steering wheel to the beat, while singing along to How Deep Is Your Love by the Bee Gees. Typical behavior for him, but he’d been awfully quiet the whole drive . . . I watched him for a moment, a frown tugging at my lips.
“Are you on painkillers?”
His brows pulled together. “I only took three this morning.”
“You mean, like right before we got in the car. That this morning?”
“Yeah, with some orange juice.” He said it like that tidbit was important. I closed my eyes. Benito was high. He should’ve known those painkillers Vito supplied were in doses large enough for a horse, and he’d taken three.
I rubbed my temple. “You shouldn’t be driving.”
“And what?” he scoffed. “Let you drive? You don’t know how.”
“No, I was going to say we should have just stayed home.” I trailed off, staring in confusion when he took an exit off the expressway. “What are you doing, Benito? You can’t get off here.”
“Can now. The marriage, Elena.”
How could I have forgotten? As I drove on Russo streets for the first time, it was beginning to feel real. My sister was marrying Nicolas. My throat felt tight.
“What are we doing here?” It felt like I was visiting another world, when it was only a part of New York City I hadn’t seen. It made me realize how sheltered I was. The only other countries I’d been to were Italy and Mexico. The former was to visit Mamma’s parents and family over there; the latter was for yearly vacations, though I thought that was just a guise for Papà’s business meetings with Mexican cartels.
“I just have to drop something off at Nico’s.”
I swallowed and tried to will my body into complacency, but I couldn’t stop the rush of anticipation from zinging beneath my skin. I gave my head a small shake in frustration. The truth was, I was incredibly attracted to my sister’s fiancé, whether I liked him or not. And I didn’t. The idea that I might get to see him from the car window was enough to have me on edge. I hated it, but I didn’t know how to turn it off either.
The city passed before my fresh eyes as we drove deeper into Russo territory.
We lived in a classy, spacious community in Long Island. The only neighbor you could see from the backyard was Tim Fultz. He owned a law firm Papà laundered money through; at least that’s what Benito told me once. He was a nice guy, besides. Our neighborhood was quiet and private, and I’d always assumed Nicolas resided in something similar, but he didn’t. He lived in the middle of the Bronx, in a red-brick home with a small white porch and a private drive that went to a garage in the back.
Benito pulled into the drive, drove to the back, and parked next to Nicolas’s car. The detached garage door was up, and two vehicles sat inside, one with its hood open. They were both black, just like Nicolas’s soul. I didn’t know a thing about cars—who could blame me? I’d never even been taught to drive—but I was aware these were classics. One was a Gran Torino. I only knew that because I’d seen Gran Torino not too long ago. Benito had cried, though he would never admit it. And since seeing a man cry was the saddest thing in the world, so had I.
My heartbeat jumped when Nicolas stepped out from behind the hood, wiping his hands with a rag. He wore dark jeans and a plain white t-shirt. I’d never seen a man covered in grease who looked this good. I let my head fall against the seat.
“Son of a bitch. I’m bleeding again.”
Sure enough, a red stain had bled through Benito’s white dress shirt. We were going to a pool party, but he wouldn’t be swimming or dressing down. Where would he put his gun?
“Didn’t you get stitches?”
“Yeah.” He pulled the keys out of the ignition. “But I split a couple open.”
Stupidly, I asked, “Doing what?”
“Gabriella.” He smirked.
“Yeah, about that . . .” My nose wrinkled. “Can you keep it away from the kitchen?”
His gaze narrowed before filling with amused clarity. “I know we all have our kinks, Elena, but you’re my cousin. Find someone else to watch.”
I rolled my eyes, opened the door, and got out before I knew what I was doing. I didn’t want to sit in a hot car, not while my skin was already warmer than normal from being in a certain man’s proximity.
Nicolas leaned against the garage, towel in hand. His gaze found mine, narrowing at the edges, before coasting to Benito, who handed him a manila envelope. These men sure loved their manila.
“Hey, man, can I use your bathroom?”
Nicolas’s attention fell to the bloodstain, and then he nodded once. “Second door on the left.”
“Thanks,” Benito said, heading inside.
Nicolas and I stood there, watching each other. His gaze went to the white bikini strap I wore underneath a pink cover-up dress, paired with wedge sandals. It was a cute ensemble, but I only got a squinted condescending stare.
I frowned, crossing my arms defensively.
He looked at me for another second before heading back into his garage. I stared at his white-clad muscled back until he dipped his head under a car hood and ignored me. Quite the host, this one.
It was one of those days the heat grabs on and doesn’t let go. We’d had a cool summer up until a week ago, but with the start of August tomorrow it seemed to be hitting us all at once. The sun burned hot and unforgiving, enough to make my olive skin redden if I stood beneath it long enough.
Something about the relentless heat and watching Nicolas wipe the sweat off his neck with the collar of his t-shirt made a warm haze permeate the corners of my mind.
A fan whirled near the door. A baseball game filtered out the open window of the neighboring house, and a small TV played the news in the corner of the garage. I wanted to catch the highlights, but it was too quiet, and to get closer I’d have to walk within the two feet of space behind Nicolas. I hesitated.
With the idea that I was being ridiculous, I made up my mind. Every nerve ending tingled as I squeezed past him to get to the wooden workbench and stool. I grabbed the remote and turned up the TV, but it took much longer than it should have to find the volume button. I was attuned to every movement, every noise behind me. Connected to him like static electricity. A drop of sweat ran down my back, and goose bumps rose on my skin.
I tried to watch the news, but it was like reading with Nicolas around: impossible. I pulled my hair into a ponytail while pretending to listen to the blonde newscaster’s words.
I could feel his gaze on my bare shoulder blades as I twisted the tie around my long strands. Breathless. Itchy. Hot. I should have gone to church today because this was the wrong way to feel in the presence of one’s soon-to-be brother-in-law. But I’d stayed home, or I’d be late for the pool party.
My nails dug into my palms. Why did I have to be attracted to this man? If given the choice, I’d rather be infatuated with fifty-year-old, married Tim Fultz. Maybe if I spoke to Nicolas, his terrible personality would make this strange attraction fade away. It was worth a try . . .
I turned around, leaned against the workbench, and ignored the nerves coursing through me about starting a conversation with him. “Your place is . . . nice. Not at all what I expected.”
He side-eyed me with a look that made my heart stutter, while working on something beneath the hood of the Gran Torino. “And what did you expect?”
I swallowed under his attention. A few words from him were more exciting than they should have been. “I guess I expected a little more . . . fire and brimstone.”
His gaze turned darkly entertained. “Hell.”
“Or padded rooms . . .”
He wiped the side of his face with his sleeve, his focus on his work. “For thinking I’m a psychopath, you don’t seem to fear being alone with me.”
“I can scream. Loudly.”
He glanced at me, like my words had an entirely different meaning—like he might like to hear me scream. My breathing became shallow.
The baseball game from the next house over filtered in, and I glanced out of the garage. Nicolas had a chain-link fence, no privacy . . . for someone in his profession, it wasn’t normal. “Your neighbors are so close,” I noted.
His expression sparked with dry amusement. “What, you think I shoot someone every time I eat lunch?”
I lifted a shoulder, biting my bottom lip.
He stared at me, and me at him. This conversation was doing nothing to ruin his appeal. He was slightly sweaty, grease-stained, and tattooed. None of which I thought I could appreciate until now. This strange attraction sank so deep, my cells shifted and grew heavy as they soaked it in.
“The only acts of violence I’ve committed this week have somehow revolved around you,” he pointed out.
“You mean last night when you promised you wouldn’t do anything? Was that one of them?” My words were sweet as I tilted my head.
“Wasn’t it you who called me a cheat, Elena?”
I wasn’t even sure how he did it, but my name rolled off his lips in a low, suggestive drawl that ghosted across my skin like a shiver. Heat ran between my legs.
“Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
I grew flustered. “You know what you’re doing. Stop.”
He walked toward me with a car part, setting it on the workbench. My entire side tingled at his proximity a couple feet away. I turned in his direction and leaned my hip against the table. I didn’t know what I was doing in here, watching him work, but it was almost . . . thrilling. Like living on the edge. Who would rather sit in the car?
He took a similar-looking part out of a box. I couldn’t believe he did his own mechanic work. I guessed even men like him had to have a hobby.
“What are you doing with Benito?” His tone seeped with indifference, but interest shone through.
“We’re going to a pool party.”
After a moment, he said, “Tyler Whitmore’s, I imagine.”
“Yeah—” I froze. I knew this interaction was going over too smoothly. “Why do you know his last name?”
“You can find out anything these days, Elena.” He said it with a dark edge, while wiping his hands off.
My teeth clenched. “I didn’t ask how, I asked why.”
His gaze came my way, hard and intimidating. “I’m marrying into your family. That makes your business now mine.”
“No, it doesn’t.” My eyes narrowed. “That makes Adriana’s business yours, not mine. I have plenty of men in my life already.”
“Guess you got another.” His words were deep. Smooth. Final.
I opened my mouth to say something—something about how much I disliked him—but before I could work out my thoughts into coherent words, he told me, “Maybe rethink what you’re about to say.”
I closed my mouth. He was so confident, unconcerned, while my stomach twisted with worry for Tyler. The last thing anyone wanted was their full name on Nicolas Russo’s radar. Frustration clawed beneath my skin. He’d come and butted into my life like he had a right to. He would make a disaster of it.
I couldn’t keep it in.
“Have you always been unhinged? Or is your controlling, delusional nature a product of inadequacy?” I said it sweetly. Sweet as poison.
He continued tinkering with his part, his gaze staying focused like he hadn’t even heard me.
I had to admit, it felt good to get that off my chest. Great, actually—
A cool rush of shock flooded me as he grabbed the back of my neck and pulled me within a foot of him. My heart was in my throat and my eyes squeezed shut, because I didn’t want to see how he was going to kill me. All I felt was warm skin and a tug on my dress, and then his hand slipped from my nape and he was gone.
After a couple seconds, I opened my eyes to see him walking away with a part in hand.
I stood there, frozen.
“Never really thought about it,” he drawled. “But I guess I’ve always been.”
Feeling something out of order, I glanced down.
My lips parted in disbelief. He cut my bikini strap.
I had a feeling this wasn’t even because of the comment; he just didn’t want me to go to that party.
Benito’s voice filtered into the garage, though I couldn’t see him over the car. “I used your kit under the sink to fix a couple stitches. Hope you don’t mind.”
I tried to catch my breath and collect myself while they talked for a moment. I slipped my bikini top off under my dress—it was worthless now. I wasn’t a girl who could go without a bra. Not to Benito’s standards, but close. I’d have to cross my arms the whole way home and tell my cousin my strap broke. He’d believe me, and he wouldn’t even notice anything. Men were oblivious.
“You ready, Elena?” Benito asked. “Let’s go.”
“Coming.”
As I passed Nicolas and noticed that Benito was preoccupied with texting next to his car, I tossed my bikini top under the hood. “Don’t psychopaths like souvenirs?”
The tiniest hint of amusement pulled on his lips, and one grease-stained hand fisted the white fabric before I left the garage.
Benito sat in the driver’s seat, sunglasses on. “Sorry I took so long. ‘Bout fucking passed out fixing a stitch.”
As I imagined, he never noticed my missing bikini top. Didn’t ask questions about the broken strap. He only took me home. But before we reached the red front door, his suspicious gaze burned my face. “What’s on your neck?”
I wiped the spot, coming away with a smudge of grease. Unease leaked into my blood. “Um, I don’t know.”
He didn’t respond, didn’t hear my heartbeat ricocheting in my chest. Though, something dark crossed his expression before I could disappear upstairs.
I didn’t ask to get manhandled by Nicolas Russo, by my sister’s fiancé. But the one unfortunate truth I was scared Benito might read on my face was . . . I liked it.
