3. Rico
Rico
My brother is dead to me.
Okay, maybe that’s a little extreme.
But still. Because of him, I’m now planted in this spot, in this study, with this glass of whiskey in my hand, waiting for my inevitable execution like a man on death row whose last meal was force-fed to him.
The leather couch under me is worn from decades of Bennetti men sitting in the same position, probably having the same conversation, staring at the same man who believes his word is law.
Papa’s study is designed to intimidate. Dark wood, rich leather, shelves stacked with books he has actually read and aren’t there solely for aesthetics.
Every single Violet Hart novel ever printed sits on one shelf—signed, of course—because my sister-in-law is the woman notorious for giving every other woman in Manhattan a misguided idea of relationships.
I forgive her for that though, because she’s also the only woman on the planet capable of making my older brother somewhat tolerable, and even then, it’s questionable.
A massive mahogany desk sits in the center, its surface perfectly organized because clutter gives Papa a migraine.
An old-school globe that doubles as a hidden bar cart looms in the corner because a normal liquor cabinet isn’t enough.
And then there’s the smell—whiskey, old paper, and a faint trace of cigar smoke, even though Mama would set this place on fire if she ever caught him smoking inside.
The air is thick with it, clinging to the walls, the furniture, my clothes.
Hell, it might as well be woven into the very fabric of the Bennetti DNA at this point.
Papa sits upright in his armchair, relaxed in that I’m-about-to-drop-a-bomb-on-you-and-you-can’t-do-shit-about-it kind of way. His glass sits untouched on the table between us, ice melting, condensation pooling around the base.
That’s the thing about Papa. He sets the stage for conversations that aren’t really conversations. This isn’t a discussion. This is a verdict.
After dinner, I thought I was in the clear. Plates cleared away, the noise faded, and no one uttered the dreaded words: We need to talk. I was already halfway out the door, my freedom within reach, when I made the fatal mistake of stopping to give Nonna a goodbye hug.
I turned around and almost smashed face-first into Papa’s chest. For the record, the man is built like a marble statue.
He’s pushing seventy, but he could still bench-press a truck.
His salt-and-pepper hair is the only indicator he’s over the hill.
Wrinkles? Mythical creatures in the Bennetti gene pool. Sicilian blood has its perks.
And now, here we are.
At least he gave me a drink first. Small mercies.
I bring the glass to my lips, take a slow sip, and let the whiskey burn all the way down, hoping it dulls the irritation clawing at my insides.
It doesn’t.
“Rico,” Papa says, his voice calm and steady, like he’s about to tell me I have cancer, but it’s the good kind — also known as marriage. “We need to talk about your inheritance.”
I blink, caught off guard. I’d mentally prepped for the wife, kids, and settle down lecture. Not this. I lean back, nursing the whiskey. “My inheritance?”
In case you’re wondering, we all have trust funds. Generous ones.
Papa made a lot of money before any of us existed—most of it was not exactly legal.
The kind of money that required creative accounting and a strategic mix of businesses to launder it.
Think dry cleaners, nail salons, pizza joints.
He diversified like a mobster Warren Buffett.
Toss in a few charitable donations for good measure, and voilà—he’s practically a saint.
The rest of his cash went into the pockets of people who could arrest him. I believe the technical term is payoff.
My oldest brother, Alex, inherits the family estate—because, obviously, the eldest son gets the house. Dom inherits all the real estate investments, mostly commercial properties and warehouses. God only knows what’s stashed in them, considering Uncle Tony has been known to use a few for "storage."
And me?
I inherit the businesses. Papa’s little empire of small companies scattered across the city.
Nail salons. Dry cleaners. Diners. Leave it to him to bestow the one son who approaches human interaction with all the enthusiasm of a root canal with businesses that require me to interact with a shitload of humans. Every day.
Humans. Daily.
I down the rest of my whiskey, already mourning my solitude.
“Rico, I can’t let you inherit the family businesses if you don’t have an heir to pass them to.”
Ah. There it is. The sales pitch, also known as my bitch slap of reality.
Papa leans forward, clasping his hands together like he’s presenting a well-rehearsed PowerPoint. This isn’t my first rodeo. So, I settle in. “Each of you boys have inheritances because we wanted you to have something, be comfortable, and carry on the legacy.”
Love how he conveniently leaves out the part where that legacy started with a lot of blood, a few offshore accounts, and enough creative accounting to make the IRS have a collective stroke. But sure. Hard work and perseverance for the win.
“Alex has the boys, Dom is about to have his girls, and he has Luca. You?” He levels me with a look.
“You’re not even married. I’m getting older, Rico, and without an heir, I can’t leave the family businesses with you not knowing if they’ll stay in the family.
Without an heir, you have no one to pass them to. ”
“I’ll leave them to one of Alex or Dom’s kids.” Hell knows they’ll have plenty. Alex treats knocking up Violet like it’s an Olympic event and peacocks about how he broke the genetic code and got three kids in one go instead of the highly predictable twins us Bennetti’s are known for.
Papa scowls. “No, you get these businesses so you can pass them to your children, who will pass them to their children. That’s the entire point of a legacy, Rico.”
Ah, yes. Silly me. How could I forget the sacred Bennetti tradition of breeding future restaurant and dry-cleaning moguls?
“Are there any women in your life?”
I blink at him. Seriously? The entire family knows the answer.
No. And not for lack of opportunity. Even when I was younger, I’d take a woman out, let her talk to me for an hour about the latest diet trends or why her best friend was a total bitch, and five minutes after she stopped talking, I’d forget everything she said.
The date would end in awkward silence, and I’d make a mental note to never bother again.
By twenty-five, I came to an undeniable conclusion: the only way to get exactly what I needed from a woman was to pay for it. Remove the variables, eliminate the unnecessary, and streamline the process. Efficiency at its finest.
For the last three years, I’ve had a standing appointment with the same escort.
She only sees regulars now—something about being married.
How her husband sleeps at night knowing his wife is treating matrimony like a side hustle is beyond me, but people have justified worse.
Every Wednesday, fifteen minutes. In, out, done.
A transaction as routine as renewing a domain subscription.
My family, in their infinite talent for selective blindness, calls it therapy.
Their way of skirting reality with the kind of grace only those with old money and deep denial can pull off. Since what they now refer to as the incident, they’ve opted for willful ignorance, as if slapping a polished euphemism on my habits makes it any less damning.
Therapy sounds a hell of a lot better than Rico pays a woman through Venmo, complete with emoji-coded transactions that give our mother heart palpitations. I keep my payment history public just to test if they check. A little weekly reminder that yes, I’m still attending my sessions.
Escorts don’t require conversation. No pretense, no tedious small talk, no listening to someone recount the latest plot twist in their coworker’s love triangle. She doesn’t talk. I don’t talk. It’s all very… surgical. And that’s how I prefer it.
"You know the answer to that."
I push up from the couch, moving to the liquor stash in the corner, and pour myself a generous three-finger measure of whiskey. I sip it slowly, mindful of how much I drink. Unlike my brothers, I don’t have a driver waiting outside to ferry me home like I’m some delicate prince. I drive myself.
The idea of someone else in control while I’m on the road? No. My skin crawls just thinking about it.
My brothers’ drivers aren’t just chauffeurs, anyway. They’re guards. Vetted, cherry-picked by Uncle Tony before Marco took over.
I don’t need a guard.
Ever since the incident—the family’s adorable euphemism to avoid saying the time Rico got kidnapped and nearly executed—I’ve spent my life ensuring that no one gets the drop on me again. Boxing. Krav Maga. Training with Marco’s best men.
The only downside to not having a driver? Nights like this. Nights where I’d rather get blackout drunk and forget this conversation ever happened, but instead, I have to sit here. Stone-cold sober(ish). Listening to my father lecture me about a wife and kids I don’t have and don’t want.
If I ever do get married, she better be mute.
And ovulate on command.
“You have six months, Rico.”
Mid-sip, I pause, glass hovering near my lips, and turn to my father. “Six months?”
He nods, entirely too pleased with himself. “I’ll give you six months to find a wife on your own, or your Mama and I will choose one for you.”
Fuck. That.
I know exactly what that means. Any time I’ve been forced into a “date,” it’s been with a woman hand-picked by Mama. Always some friend’s daughter. Always someone with too much personality, too much enthusiasm, and the ability to monologue for hours without requiring air.
No sane woman would willingly marry me. Which means whatever desperate soul my mama picks will be absolutely unhinged.
The kind of woman who sees nothing wrong with baby talk, demands matching Christmas pajamas, and is one nervous breakdown away from naming our future children after the herd of cats she already owns.
Hard pass.
Papa’s sharp gaze flicks to my fist, clenched tight at my side.
It’s a habit. Open. Close. Open. Close — all the while my eyes focus on one solid object in the room, defining color and what it reminds me of — it’s that or another rage fit.
I’ve kept the fits under control for almost twenty-one years and not about to break the streak.
It’s my body’s version of buffering when my brain is trying to process too much bullshit at once.
I focus on the antique clock in Papa’s office that has been there longer than I’ve been alive. Perched on the mantel, watching, waiting, judging. It’s an aged brown, though brown is a gentle way to describe the decay it’s settled into.
Brown like the damp earth after a rainstorm. Brown that reminds you of libraries filled with books and yellowed pages. Browned wood left in the sun too long, dried, cracked, and clinging to life.
I force myself to shake it out and place my glass down on his desk. “Going now.”
I don’t even make it two steps before Papa moves, blocking the door. His hand lands on my shoulder, heavy, warm—weight with something I don’t want to name.
“Rico, I’d prefer you find a wife on your own. Someone you’d be happy with. Someone you could love, like your brothers do. Have kids. Be settled.”
He means it. I know he does.
But that’s the problem.
He thinks love is something I’m capable of.
The thing he still doesn’t get after all these years? I’m not built for that. Never have been. There’s never been a woman who’s piqued my interest, and I’m pretty sure that thing in my chest people call a heart is either dead or cryogenically frozen—either way, no plans to thaw anytime soon.
Feelings? Emotions? A foreign concept for me.
The odds of me being happy, let alone loving someone, are about as likely as me adopting a rescue cat and naming it Fluffy.
My soul kicked the bucket twenty-four years ago, and last I checked, there’s no CPR for that.