2. Rico
Rico
Life, when you strip away the Hallmark card sentiments and Instagram filter bullshit, boils down to two irreplaceable commodities: words and time. And like most idiots in this world, people waste both with the reckless abandon of drunk frat boys tossing hundred-dollar bills in Vegas.
Take my family, for example—a masterclass in controlled chaos. Every Sunday, without fail, they gather for what they call "family time."
What it actually involves is inhaling food as if we’re preparing for a natural disaster, talking over one another because silence is apparently forbidden, and pretending our last name doesn’t come with enough emotional baggage to sink a cargo ship.
The table stretches longer every year, Bennettis multiplying at a rate that would concern most scientists.
Conversations clash, kids scream, babies wail—an unfiltered, high-volume symphony of dysfunction.
And here I sit. Every damn Sunday.
Why? Because the noise drowns out the demons.
The nonstop chatter, the clink of glasses, the scrape of silverware—it’s a static hum that, for a few hours, keeps everything else at bay.
Temporary peace is still peace, even if it comes wrapped in loud Sicilians and unsolicited life advice.
The only other time I get that kind of relief is the rhythmic clicking of my keyboard when I work.
To my left, my cousin Eddie—who has the intellectual depth of a kiddie pool—chews with his mouth open, shoveling food in with all the grace of a farm animal at feeding time.
Honestly, that’s insulting to farm animals.
Across from me, Valeria tap, tap, taps her nails against the table, auditioning to become the next Morse code prodigy.
The red polish catches the light, and because I’m a glutton for punishment, I glance.
Red. It doesn’t send me into cold sweats anymore, doesn’t clamp my chest shut with steel-jawed precision, but it lingers at the edge of my vision, a ghost that refuses to leave.
Hands under the table. Fists. Open. Close. One… two… three. Red like marinara. Red like the Cabernet I clearly didn’t drink enough of. By the time Valeria’s nails tap out another round of passive-aggressive irritation, I’ve convinced myself I’m fine. Fine-ish.
"Well, we have an announcement!" My twin brother, Dom, grins from across the table, his arm around his wife, Sienna. Sweet girl. Talented. Gorgeous. I still have no idea how my brother landed that one.
"We already know you knocked her up," Eddie, the village idiot, interjects, proving once again that he has the self-preservation instincts of a lemming. He registers my glare, swallows hard, and looks down at his plate. "Sorry, Dom. What’s the news?"
Unfazed, my brother looks toward our parents at the head of the table. "Yes, we’re having a baby." He pauses because the drama gene runs strong in this family. "But we just found out—it’s twins."
The collective gasp is unnecessary. Nobody needs to be shocked. Bennetti twins are about as predictable as the Manhattan gridlock. We breed in bulk.
My jaw tightens, so I rock it back and forth, ignoring the warning creak of my molars. I could replace them, but I’m not in the mood for oral surgery.
"Well," Mama starts, but Dominic holds up a hand. She grins, folding her hands in front of her, letting him have his moment. If I did that, I’d get slapped upside the head, but apparently impregnating your wife earns you a free pass. I suppose that's one perk to look forward to.
"Twin girls," he announces, beaming as he kisses Sienna’s hand, gathering votes for the role of Devoted Husband of the Year. My gag reflex considers activating. I rather enjoyed Nonna’s eggplant parmesan, and I’d prefer to keep it down.
"Girls?" Papa, who has an army of grandsons, looks as though he just hit the genetic jackpot. He’s out of his chair before his brain fully processes the news, moving with the agility of a man half his age, crushing Dom and Sienna in a hug. "Baby girls!" He’s practically glowing.
I’d like to take a moment to thank Nonna for her eggplant parmesan, which is currently staging a mutiny in my stomach.
Across from me, my older brother Alex sits with his wife, Violet, and one of his sons strapped to his chest in a ridiculous baby backpack contraption that makes him look like a combat-ready marsupial.
The kid, a tiny dictator with a head full of chocolate-brown hair, is blissfully unaware of his father’s dignity dying a slow death.
Two of Alex’s boys inherited his blue eyes, while the third got Violet’s striking green ones.
Genetics did them a favor. The other two kids are inside, no doubt being force-fed espresso-dipped biscotti and whatever else Nonna has deemed suitable for infants.
Their fault for leaving them alone with a woman who considers bedtime a social construct.
I nod at Dom, my way of saying congratulations.
He knows what it means. No need to waste breath stating the obvious.
I am happy for him. He spent years raising his now six-year-old son alone, met Sienna, decided she was it, and permanently anchored her to his side with an iron-clad pregnancy contract.
Unfortunately, thanks to Dom and his overachieving sperm, all eyes—specifically Mama and Papa’s—are now firmly on me.
Perfect.
As I sip my wine, my gaze drifts toward the garden, but I can feel the burn of their stares.
Thanks, Dom. Really. Couldn’t have timed this announcement for a day I conveniently "forgot" to show up?
My future is no longer a mystery. In thirty minutes or less—about the time it takes for everyone to finish fawning over Dom’s twin revelation—Mama will rise from the table, conveniently leave Papa behind, and set him loose on me with a carefully curated list of why it’s time I do my duty and get married.
It doesn’t take a genius to know where this is heading. I am the only unmarried Bennetti at thirty-seven. Our family doesn’t believe in divorce, only long, emotionally suffocating love stories. Not that anyone has ever been miserable enough to test the system.
But as the last remaining Bennetti bachelor spawned from my parents, Dom might as well have taken a freshly plucked cactus and jammed it straight up my ass.
Because now, the expectation isn’t just that I get married—but that I impregnate some poor woman and dedicate the rest of my days to diapers, bottles, and ungodly amounts of screaming at all hours of the night.
I love my nephews. I babysit them.
Babysit.
Keyword.
I watch them for a few hours—hell, sometimes even an entire night—so Alex and Violet can get some sleep. Then I kiss them goodnight, hand them back, and return to my blissfully quiet, child-free life.
Fatherhood? That’s a whole different beast. Kids of your own don’t come with an off switch.
They’re permanent. An eighteen-year (or more) prison sentence, especially if they turn out like my idiot cousin Eddie, who, at thirty, is still living in his parent’s basement, working for his papa, and coasting through life with the drive of a sedated sloth.
Yeah. No, thanks.
Do I want a family? Sure. But not for the bullshit reasons that make Dom look at Sienna—apparently she’s single-handedly keeping the Earth from spinning off its axis from the way he worships her.
I don’t care about love, soulmates, or whatever cosmic nonsense makes people think destiny plays matchmaker.
I want an heir. Someone to carry the Bennetti name. That’s it.
So, I raise my glass to Dom, who smirks because he knows exactly what he’s set me up for, and down the rest of my drink in one gulp.
I’d give my left nut to punch him right now, but something tells me I’m going to need my nuts to reproduce.
"Another set of grandbabies," Papa announces, his eyes locking on me while he says it. "Just one of you left to go."
Subtlety has never been one of Papa’s strong suits. Marriage and children rank about as high on my to-do list as hiking Mount Everest. I don’t do nature, and if forced, I’d rather be mauled by a mountain lion halfway up the incline.
I always figured I’d get married—eventually. Preferably after forty. Thankfully, men don’t have that ticking clock my cousins are always whining about in their wombs, so I’ve got time. Or at least I had time until Dom dropped his twin-baby bomb. Now, the countdown has officially begun.
Sienna clears her throat, resting her hand on her already swollen belly.
She’s due in two months, and why Dom waited until now to share the twin news is beyond me.
What I know is that thanks to my brother’s prolific sperm, I’m about to be fast-tracked into "marriage and kids" territory faster than I can blink.
My parents will insist. No demand. Find a wife. Knock her up. Keep the family legacy rolling, and now there is a looming deadline.
Not sure where I’m going to find a woman crazy enough to marry me.
And even if I did, I’m not convinced I’d survive the experience.