Page 53 of No Greater Oblivion

Hours pass before I finally reach the end.

Rian asks questions, although only sparingly as he doesn’t want to interrupt and make me lose my train of thought. I tell him about everything that happened from the moment Alejandro entered my life until now, almost three years later. I get up, pace, sit back down, and pace again. Rian listens patiently and gives me the space I need to sort through the mess in my mind. So much has happened and at times I get overwhelmed trying to weave together a coherent narrative for him.

“Toward the end, it became unsustainable. He kept pushing me further away and I couldn’t take it anymore. He was consumed by his vendetta against Sandro and it cost him his relationship with me.”

“Not to defend him, but I’m sure he thought he was protecting you.”

“It wasn’t protection. It was torture,” I reply. “He had every opportunity to tell me the truth and he didn’t. In the end, what was it all for? Sandro’s dead but it doesn’t matter. None of it matters anymore. I never should’ve stayed as long as I did but I loved him and I wanted to⁠—”

“Do you?” Rian asks. “Still love him?”

I level him with a look. “I⁠—”

“Don’t lie,” he says quickly, cutting off my response. “I saw it myself.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means the two of you are so thoroughly entangled you don’t even realize how impossible it would be to tear you apart.” He pulls away from the desk and walks past me toward the door. “And I’m not so sure I want to.”

Alejandro

Dahlia rushes down the stairs like a bolt of lightning, pushing past bystanders and drunk partygoers in her pursuit of the dance floor. Rian isn’t too far behind. With a simmering expression and his hands shoved firmly in his pockets, his razor-sharp gaze is focused in her direction.

Dahlia manages to find Damiano in the chaos and she yanks him by the arm toward the throng of bodies all grinding and swaying near the DJ’s stage. The dress she’s wearing is criminally short and I have to wonder what went through her mind when she picked it out. Not a single outfit in her closet back home looks like the one she’s wearing now, provocative and skintight, the fabric nearly sheer. Adorned with crystal fringe that glimmers and moves around her like waves of silver, the heart-shape neckline hugs her breasts as the boning in the sides cinch in her waist.

She looks different—felt different—when I touched her. Diego told me ages ago he was worried about her. Stress kept her up at night and weight was melting off her body at an alarming rate. It was the only time my resolve weakened enough to make me consider a trip to New York. But the next day when we spoke on the phone, we said things to each other I wish we could take back.

Afterward, Lettie and Diego became our intermediaries because we couldn’t have a conversation without fighting. And when those relationships became strained, the Cold War between Dahlia and I reached a stalemate as we were forced to interact with each other once more.

She moves with so much confidence and freedom; it’s like she’s stepped into someone else’s body and isn’t afraid to be seen or admired. Something heavy settles in the pit of my stomach when I realize she was never this free with me. To me, she’s always been the most beautiful woman in the world. Her eyes, her mouth, the little sigh she makes every time she says my name. The shape of her is divine, every curve lush and lovely and full, the kind of body men have immortalized through art for centuries. But I don’t think she’s ever seen herself the way I see her and I can’t help but wonder if it’s my fault for not trying hard enough.

Dahlia takes whatever drinks are handed to her and I nearly have a stroke when she lets Damiano put a pill in her mouth. It takes everything in me not to sprint across the floor and force my hand down her throat so she can spit it out. However, if I’m going to play the long game, I need to exhibit a little more patience and restraint.

That and my head is still throbbing from when she knocked me off my seat. If I get up now, I’ll be fucking delirious.

I sense movement from my peripheral and Rian stops beside me, back against the bar, eyes leering in the same direction as mine. If Dahlia grinds any lower, the hem of her dress is going to reach heights that’ll push me to commit murder.

The man beside me sighs and gestures for the bartender. “Do you want anything?”

“Two bourbons on the rocks. One for the waste of time and the other for the love of her life.”

I turn my head to face him and Rian’s eyes are narrowed to slits but even he can’t help the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re as competitive now as you were in college.”

“Competition implies the presence of an opponent.”

A minute later, the bartender leaves two drinks on the counter for us. “I think we can both agree our families are a little too closely connected for us to risk a major conflict.” Rian lifts his glass. “Best man wins?”

I grind my teeth to hold back a scoff but clank glasses with him anyway.

We sip on our bourbons and watch as a pair of men pop bottles of shaken champagne while Dahlia screams and dances under the flashing lights.

Rian sighs. “She’s doing this to piss us off.”

“I know.”

A beat passes and he looks at me. “Was she always like this?”

“Worse.” I finish my drink. “She almost got herself trafficked once just to spite me.”