Page 150 of The Maddest Obsession (Made 2)

He didn’t.

A tear ran down my cheek, and my throat tried to close around the words before they could escape. “I can’t be with you and only get half of you anymore.”

Something conflicted flared in his eyes.

I turned to leave, but his words stopped me.

“Try and leave me, Gianna.” It was a threat, but there was something else—something rough and untamed—behind it. Something close to panic.

My gaze met his. One last parting look, and then I walked out the door.

Once I was in the hall, my pulse jumped at the sound of a glass breaking. I imagined my orange juice pooling on his kitchen floor right next to where my discarded heart lay.

Ten minutes later, I was sitting on my couch, not

sure what to do with myself or where to go, when my front door opened.

My eyes shot to his, but he didn’t hold my gaze as he shut the door behind him. He always held eye-contact. He’d gotten dressed, not even sparing the tie clip and cufflinks.

“You want to know what made me this way? Fine.” His voice carried something bitter. “I’ll tell you.”

He paced further into the room, stopped a few feet in front of me, and then let out a caustic breath, like he couldn’t believe he was doing this. Like he already regretted it.

My lungs grew tight with uncertainty, then inflated with relief that he was giving in.

“My mother would do anything for a few bucks, Gianna. Anything to get her high. Heroine was her drug of choice, but she was far from particular.”

I swallowed, now understanding why he’d been so unpleasant when he’d gotten me out of jail even though we’d met before. The drugs. He’d probably been disgusted with me.

“Somehow, she got mixed up with a pimp in the Bratva. We all knew when she had a client because they would always knock three times and it would shake the entire one-bedroom apartment we lived in. It was a never-ending cycle. Couldn’t get any sleep with the sounds of fucking going on in the other room until four in the morning.” He twisted his watch on his wrist. Once, twice, three times.

“You think I’m good-looking now?” His gaze filled with sarcasm. “You should have seen me as a kid.”

My chest went cold as horror bubbled up inside.

“A few of her clients seemed to be more interested in a pretty five-year-old boy than my mother. And she wasn’t hesitant to oblige them. You know what I remember as being the most irritating? I had a United States quarter I kept under my pillow. It was the only thing I owned”—his voice turned acidic around the edges—“and they always fucking touched it. Would pick it up, smile, and toss it back down.”

The backs of my eyes burned, a few tears escaping. I let them roll down my cheeks while he continued.

“Eventually, my mother remembered she had two sons. The money could really come in then.” His eyes flared with contempt. “That was the first man I ever killed, malyshka. Stabbed him in the back with a kitchen knife. I was seven by then. A couple of men showed up, disposed of his body, and she never sent anyone to my little brother again.”

I didn’t know if he expected me to be judgmental or horrified about what he’d done. I felt neither. Some men deserved to die.

A grimace touched his lips. “Nobody cleaned up the blood right. It just sat there for years, this red, lingering stain.” He finished it thoughtfully, as if he was picturing that stain right now. “Russians are superstitious, and eventually, they became too fucking scared to touch me. My eyes disturbed them.”

I moved to the edge of the couch, taking a shallow breath.

“But this fairy tale isn’t over yet. I think I was thirteen when she stumbled home, drunk or high, probably both. She fell on top of me on the couch, mistaking me for one of her clients.” A bitter breath escaped him. “She tried to fuck her own son.”

Bile turned in my stomach, rising up my throat.

“That was the night she fell asleep on her back on the floor. She started to gag, but instead of rolling her onto her side, Ronan and I stood there and watched her choke on her own vomit.”

My face went pale.

I covered my mouth.

He let out a mocking noise at my expression. “Sorry I couldn’t give you the white-picket-fence story you’ve been waiting to hear.”