Page 36 of Scorned Obsession

I clasped the back of her head and brought her close.

I kissed her forehead, and when I drew back, I asked, “I’m going to go get that blueberry soda. Want anything else?”

“Can we watch a movie when you get back?”

“You got it.”

Chapter

Ten

Bianca

I found Sandro staring at the freezer in the garage, lost in thought. He said he remembered something, and when he saw me holding the six-pack of blueberry soda, a smile crossed his face. Divina must have cleaned out the stores for my favorite drink, but Sandro’s thoughtfulness did something to my hardened heart. It cracked a little and let some of my fondness for him sneak through. How something as ordinary as blueberry soda could bring back the good times. It wasn’t easy to find and only a few Manhattan bodegas carried it, but he made an effort to stock it in his fridge.

Plus, his revelation about being the interim boss ate at me. He was going to disappear, fake his death, so I would be free? As much as my feelings toward Sandro were in limbo, I would never be okay with that, especially since this whole predicament started because of my obsession with him. There had to be another way. One that we could both live with.

Sandro had been right all along when he said we didn’t work. Now that I’d seen the world he’d been trying to hide from me, I agreed.

But I intended to make the best of my situation. I had the tenacity from both sides of the family. I was a De Lucci and a McGrath. We didn’t wallow. We made shit happen. Well, right now, that was getting dinner ready.

Sandro had been called away and I was left alone to do as I pleased. I glanced around the kitchen. Groceries were still scattered about. I had only put away the perishables. A layer of dust covered the shelves and I cleaned what I could so I could get started on the sauce for the baked rigatoni. If I was going to survive my captivity, which, if I were honest, was better than being locked in a room, I should make my stay bearable. Be useful and keep my mind busy as I counted my days to freedom. Growing up, the kitchen was a sanctuary. I was determined to make this kitchen mine.

“Damn, it smells good in here,” a voice called from the mouth of the kitchen. I turned and a smile spread across my face when I recognized the big, burly man in fatigue-colored cargo pants and a gray shirt striding into the kitchen.

“Sticks!” He was the head of security at Sandro’s dance club. While he engulfed me in a bear hug, another man behind him who I didn’t recognize, walked straight to the counter and set down shopping bags imprinted with the label of a kitchen equipment store I’d given Sandro. Sticks was the only one who’d been with Sandro for years. He used to be a member of a motorcycle club before he joined Sandro’s team at Club Aristos.

“So, who’s watching the club when everyone is here?”

“Club’s indefinitely closed, sweetheart.” He ran his hand over his bald head. He was the epitome of club bouncer, his physique so at odds with his name.

“What? Why?” This was news to me.

“Kinda hot right now.” He winked at me. “Now that the boss has kidnapped his bride.”

My smile fell. “My family is looking for me.” It was more a statement than a question.

“Harlem is crawling with De Lucci soldiers and those military types who hang around The Grindhouse.”

I crossed my arms. “And you’re okay with Sandro kidnapping me.”

Sticks mimicked the gesture of my arms, the warmth on his face cooling. “You and your brother put him in a difficult situation.”

“They should have dropped us off at the hospital.”

Sticks laughed. “You’re not that naïve.”

“Renz is the last person who would threaten the Rossis. He’s a business owner, not mafia.”

“You really think your pop is gonna let this simply slide?”

“How is forcing me to marry a Rossi the best idea?”

“Uh, guys,” the man who came in with Sticks interrupted. “Should I head back outside?”

Sticks exhaled deeply. “Bianca, this is Miller. Do you need his help around the kitchen?”

Miller had already slunk toward the exit of the kitchen and a pettiness in me kicked in. “As a matter of fact, I need some shelves cleaned.”

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