5. Allie
Allie
We’re ten minutes early.
Normally, that would feel like a win. Early is punctual. Early is responsible. Early means I didn’t leave the Don waiting—which is good because leaving Marco Bennetti waiting sounds like a fast track to cement shoes.
But no. Instead of relief, I now have ten long, excruciating minutes to sit outside his office, spiraling internally while my anxiety tap-dances all over my sanity.
Six months.
That’s how long Marco’s kept me dangling over the edge of freedom sitting on ice until he’s ready.
And not the fun kind of ice—you know, sipping a frozen margarita on a beach somewhere while bronzed men fan you with palm leaves.
No, I’ve been kept on ice mafia-style, which is a lot more like living in a freezer with no end in sight, waiting for the door to finally swing open.
Today’s grand meeting is at a strip club.
Because where else does a respectable Don conduct life-altering business?
It’s midday, and yet the place is alive—if that’s what you call half-naked women in pasties and thongs grinding on poles while middle-aged men, some of whom I recognize, sip whiskey and shove dollar bills into places no fabric should ever cover. Oh, and they’re all wearing wedding bands.
Hypocrites.
In this family, wedding vows mean about as much as a carnival prize—a fun trinket until you’re bored with it.
But when I get married, it’ll be real. No strip club escapades. No “business lunches” with women named Cinnamon and Destiny. Nope. My future husband will love me, adore me, and definitely not spend his afternoons licking salt off another woman’s navel.
“Come,” Marco’s voice barks from behind the closed door.
Vinnie opens the door, nodding for me to enter first. The office looks like a time capsule from 1975—a beaten-down metal desk, peeling wallpaper, and carpet that probably has more stories than the club itself.
The only modern things in the room are the wall of security monitors and Marco’s sleek laptop.
Everything else is straight out of a sad garage sale.
“Sit,” Marco commands, waving toward two rust-covered metal chairs that look like they’re barely holding on to life in this decade.
I glance at the chair, then at Vinnie, wondering if it’ll survive his weight.
Probably not. Still, I sit, crossing my legs and trying to seem composed while I resist the urge to bite my nails down to stubs.
The car ride here was pure torture and judging by how tight my jaw feels, I’ve probably ground my molars down to nubs.
Marco leans back, steepling his fingers across his chin, and studies me with unnerving focus. “So… you can cook, yes?”
I nod eagerly. Is he going to set me up as a chef? Butterflies take off in my stomach. This could be it—the dream. A life of sauté pans and stainless-steel counters.
“Do you know how to clean?”
I blink. “Clean?”
Okay, that’s not exactly what I expected. “I mean, sure. I could figure it out.” Cleaning in cashmere isn’t exactly practical, and Mama shrieks like I’ve burned down the house every time I so much as touch furniture polish. But I’ll scrub toilets all day if it gets me out of here.
“And you’re twenty-four?”
I nod again, darting a glance at Vinnie, who just cocks his head like a curious golden retriever.
“And… you are untouched?”
A chill runs down my spine. Normal people don’t ask about virginity. But in our world, it’s about as private as the weather report. Only this? This is giving me a very bad feeling.
Clearing my throat, I sit up straighter. “Mr. Bennetti, where exactly are you going with this?”
His fingers stop their steepling. My pulse stops right along with them. Shit. Why can’t I just keep my mouth shut? It’s not like I wasn’t raised to speak only when spoken to.
"I’m assessing if my current idea will work for you," Marco says, casually, like he’s plotting brunch plans, not life-changing decisions. "You came to me wanting out of the Cosa Nostra, and the only way to leave is to either change your identity or marry outside the family."
Those butterflies in my stomach? Full-on riot. It’s like they’ve organized into warring factions and are battling it out for control. Meanwhile, my heart is racing like it’s auditioning for NASCAR.
I glance at Vinnie, hoping for some kind of lifeline. Maybe a wink, a blink—something. But no. His face is as blank as a fresh sheet of printer paper. Super helpful.
"Then," I say, lifting my chin, "I’d like to change my identity." Simple. Logical. Done.
Marco laughs. Not the jolly Santa Claus kind of laugh.
No, this is deep, gravelly, and teetering dangerously close to a mad scientist unveiling his evil plan.
His smile is all menace, the kind that sends a shiver down your spine, and his amber eyes lock on me like I’m an insect pinned under glass.
I’m seeing where his reputation comes from.
Just a solid look gives you a glimpse of his infamous “crazy” hiding under the surface.
"You don’t get to choose," he says, leaning back in this chair. "The only choice you had was wanting to leave. I told you there would be stipulations. So, do you want out or not?"
I swallow hard.
Marco checks his Rolex, tapping his finger on it impatiently. "I’ve got a family meeting in a few, so I’ll cut to the chase. My cousin, Rico, needs a wife. You’re going to be that wife."
My mouth opens. Words try to form, but all that comes out is a tiny squeak. I sound like a dog toy.
Marco raises a hand, silencing me before I can get my bearings.
"Not done. You’ll marry him. No questions asked.
Be a good little wife. Cook, clean, do whatever it is housewives do.
If you want to work as a chef, fine. I’ll make it happen, and Rico won’t object.
Honestly, he won’t give a flying fuck what you do.
He just needs a wife to bear his children, and you’re young, untouched, and not too shabby to look at. "
I sit there, stunned. Processing. Rico needs a wife to bear his children.
I’m running from the Cosa Nostra because I don’t want to be used as some heir-producing machine.
I’ve spent my whole life dreaming of something more—a husband who loves me, a partner who actually gives a damn, someone who won’t measure my worth by my fertility.
And now?
To earn my freedom, I have to give up that dream by doing the one thing I dreaded most of all. Irony is a real bitch.
Marco’s words hang in the air so thick I could chew them. I’m pretty sure I blinked twice and stopped breathing somewhere between “wife” and “bear his children.”
I’ve been given some pretty questionable offers in life—like that time Tori Valencia suggested I get matching lower-back tattoos with her—but this? This is a whole new level of insanity.
“You don’t have much time to answer, Miss De Luca,” Marco says, checking his Rolex again.
“I meet with my uncle and cousins shortly, including Rico. If you accept, you’ll come over for dinner tonight to meet your fiancé.
” His eyes flick toward the ceiling as if the right words are hiding in the water-stained ceiling tiles above him.
His jaw ticks, and then, with a resigned sigh, he mutters, “Rico is…difficult. Yeah, let’s go with that.
Unique creature. Not very sociable. Hates people, really.
Prefers to sit in his little office dungeon and code.
” He waves a hand vaguely in my direction.
“You’ll only have to deal with him when it’s time to, you know…
consummate and produce an heir. Other than that, he’ll probably leave you alone.
You’ll be provided for, no worries there.
My cousin is loaded. You can work, follow your dreams, chase rainbows or whatever it is women like to do.
Just, you know, raise some kids in between. ”
Consummate and make an heir. Fabulous.
He hates people. Fantastic.
And a unique creature? Could he sound any more like the Beast from Beauty and the Beast? Only, there’s no enchanted roses here.
“He doesn’t like to talk?” I ask, my brain still catching up to the verbal train wreck I just witnessed. “What does that even mean? Like… antisocial? Or mute?”
Marco shrugs. “Talking isn’t really his thing. You’ll get more grunts and snorts than full sentences. Honestly, I think you’d have a better conversation with a brick wall. The man has zero interest in socializing, which makes finding him a wife… tricky. Easier to just pick one for him.”
I glance at Vinnie, who’s covering his mouth to hide a smirk. Traitor.
Why is this funny? This is awful. I’m running from one arranged marriage with a man who would ignore me to end up in another arranged marriage with a man who…
will ignore me. The difference is, in this scenario, I can work.
I can have a life. A say in things. A glimmer of freedom that one path would never give, while the other does… but with conditions.
“I can work?” I ask, needing confirmation.
Marco nods.
“He won’t stop me from having friends or doing what I want?”
Another nod.
Marco leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk.
“After tonight’s dinner, you’ll sit down with the family lawyers to draft the wedding contract.
Terms, conditions, all that legal crap. If there’s something specific you want, speak up.
Rico won’t care. He only cares about one thing—a woman who can have his kids. ”
Oh. Good. I’m being reduced to a walking uterus. My inner feminist just died a little.
I slump back in my chair, the hope I clung to moments ago deflating like a cheap party balloon stabbed with a toothpick. Will I really be free if I’m stuck in a loveless marriage with a man who barely acknowledges my existence?
Marco stands, his chair scraping against the floor. “You’ve got ten minutes. I’m going to get a drink. Coffee, no… fuck that, scotch. I’ll need it to survive my family dinner. When I get back, give me your answer, or I’ll find another woman for Rico. Simple as that.”
The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone with Vinnie.
I turn toward him, and tears sting the back of my eyes.
The burning sensation is real, but I can’t cry—I’ll ruin the three pounds of makeup on my face, and waterproof mascara is a damn liar.
One tear and I’ll be sporting raccoon chic for the rest of the day.
Vinnie gives me a sympathetic look, the kind that says Yup, you’re screwed, but this is what you wanted. Meanwhile, my brain has officially left the building, chasing after the rapidly fleeing shreds of my sanity.
“So… just to clarify,” I say, because apparently, I hate myself, “I’m supposed to marry this socially awkward tech hermit who doesn’t enjoy talking or physical contact, yet we’ll somehow make babies in complete silence?”
Seems doable. Totally. Maybe I should start practicing my Monk of Silence routine now.
Vinnie is not even pretending to hide his amusement.
“Yeah, sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.
”“Figured out?” I scoff. “I’m basically walking into an episode of Married at First Sight.
Except no roses, no champagne, just a family full of overly curious Sicilians waiting to assess my reproductive potential. ”
Marco chuckles when he enters the office, swirling his scotch like a man with zero sympathy and a lot of alcohol tolerance.
“Don’t worry, principessa. The family is mostly harmless.
Just steer clear of Nonna. She’ll pinch your cheeks, interrogate you about your virginity, and then whisper wildly inappropriate advice into your ear.
She once told my cousin’s new wife to ‘keep things spicy by wearing lace and a smile’—at the dinner table. ”
So we’ve got Nonna the Ninja who moonlights as an X-rated fortune cookie.
“What time am I supposed to be there?” I ask, already regretting that I’m actually considering this.
“Six. I’ll send Vinnie the address,” Marco replies, downing the rest of his scotch like it’s a shot of water. “I’m headed over now to break the news to Rico. Fair warning—don’t expect a warm reception. Rico doesn’t do enthusiasm.” He stops at the door, glancing back at me.
“Oh, and Miss De Luca, a little tip: introduce yourself, but don’t bother blabbering. He’ll tune you out. Avoid touching him. He doesn’t like to be touched.”
My mouth falls open. Avoid touching him? He doesn’t like to be touched?
“How does he plan to have babies, then? Psychic conception?” I mutter as Marco walks out, knowing he won’t answer.
Vinnie chuckles. “Guess you’ll find out soon enough.”
“Soon enough?” I whisper-shout, following him out the door. “I need a crash course in How to Seduce a Man Who Hates Humans. Is there a manual for that? Because if so, I missed the memo.”
Vinnie just grins as he holds the car door open for me. “Relax, Allie. You’ll be fine. Rico’s… unique, sure. But it beats Romano, right?”
He’s right, but I’m still not convinced. At least with Romano, I’d know what I’m getting—a total creep with wandering hands. With Rico, I’m walking blind into a marriage with a man who might not speak to me for days on end and could very well text me instructions when it’s time to “do the deed.”
But…it’s a way out.