Page 53 of Obsession

“I love it,” I say, smiling.

My husband smiles back at me. “I love it too,” he says, pressing a tender kiss to my forehead.

As our eyes meet in the mirror, both of us smiling, I forget how we got here. All the family drama and obligations. The war that’s going on and how I’m meant to convince him to help Sam. It all slips from my mind, and for a second, I think this is what it would feel like to be a normal couple deep in love.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Adrian

Madi is huffing and puffing as she flings clothes from her closet. I inhale a breath as I work on my tie. One more huff and a dress comes flying my way.

“Okay,” I sigh. “What’s going on?”

My blue-haired bride comes to the doorway of the walk-in closet. “I hate everything in here.”

“That’s a lie. You have no problem finding something to wear every day. And no problem spending money on that wardrobe of yours.”

Madi scoffs. “What’s yours is mine and all that,husband.” She flips a strand of her newly blue hair over her shoulder. “Maybe you should have married someone with less expensive taste.”

I chuckle, moving toward her so I can wrap an arm around her waist and pull her slight frame against mine. She’s not dressed yet and we need to leave in ten minutes to make her family’s get-together. “What’s really going on, princess?”

White teeth pull her bottom lip between them, and her dark eyes look down, away from me.

“Tell me,” I say, lifting her chin with my forefinger so she’s forced to meet my eyes.

“My mother.” She sighs. “She’s gonna flip the fuck out when she sees me.”

Ah, the hair.

To me, Madi has always seemed like such a strong spitfire of a woman. I didn’t think she was intimidated by anything. Seeing this vulnerability over her mother tugs at something in my chest.

“So?”

Madi rolls her eyes. “You don’t get it.” She tries to pull herself from my grasp, but I stop her, pulling her back against my chest tight.

“No, I get it. I don’t understand why you’re bothered. What does her opinion matter? The woman I know doesn’t give a fuck what other people think about her.”

She smiles a bit at that. “You’re right.”

“I’ll tell you what, princess. If you’re a good girl and get a pretty dress on this body in the next ten minutes, I’ll give you a reward when we get back later tonight.

A brightening grin spreads on her pretty face. “Yeah? Promise.”

“Promise.”

Ten minutes later, we’re in the car with Madi dressed in a pale blue sundress that I have the urge to rip off her body. It complements her blue hair that falls in soft curls down her back. Twenty after that, we’re pulling up to her family’s mansion outside the French Quarter.

The Costello brood is thinner than it was four years ago when I started working with Marcus. He’s gone, as is his uncle, Carmine Sr. died of cancer about a year ago, and the oldest Romano girl committed suicide about three years before that to avoid an arranged marriage. The youngest Romano girl ran away to New York on the day of her arranged marriage. And Samstill sits in a prison cell in Orleans Parish. Of all the Costellos, all that’s left is Caterina and Madi, Damien and Carlotta, John and his parents, Cosetta and James. They fill in the gaps with their capos and the wives, though. Even some children run through the back gardens, making the place feel livelier.

No wonder Madi is anxious; all the cousins she leaned on are gone. Except for John, who’s a fucking psychopath. I groan as Madi makes a beeline for him. The last thing I want to do is talk to the man who kidnapped me and had me beaten to send a message. On his arm is the small brunette who smiles brightly when she sees Madi.

“Your hair!” Zoe shouts, immediately running her fingers through the blue locks. “It looks so good.”

“Thank you.” Madi flips some over her shoulder. She’s grinning, and I can’t get over how much I like the sight of it.

“You like her.” The words are deadpan leaving John’s lips. Not a trace of emotion behind them. The empty look on his face is concerning. I’ve worked with a bunch of criminals as a defense attorney, but none of them were quite like John Vitale.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I make my way to the bar to get a whiskey, hoping John won’t follow me. Of course he does.

---