6. Rico
Rico
It’s not a Sunday. I have shit to do. So why am I here?
We’re all seated in the living room at the family estate like it’s some kind of Bennetti summit.
Mama and Nonna have claimed the couch like it’s their throne, Papa’s in his armchair, and my brothers—Alex and Dom—are parked on the loveseat.
None of their wives or kids are in sight, which is always a bad sign.
And then there’s Marco, lounging in the other armchair like a kingpin with nowhere better to be. Casual as fuck, legs crossed, the hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. It’s been a while since I’ve punched him, but right now my fist is itching like an allergy I can’t scratch.
Is this an intervention?
It better not be. I’m well aware that I’m a brooding asshole. I don’t need a committee to tell me that warm and fuzzy isn’t part of my DNA.
But no one’s smiling. Not Mama, not Nonna, not even Papa. And my brothers—who usually find something to smirk about—look dead serious. Shit. This is worse than an intervention.
“It’s been six months, Rico,” Papa says, as if I don’t know how time works.
Yeah, it’s been six months. I’ve spent the past four weeks holed up in my office, working on security updates because some hacker decided to breach my system.
Not because I care about stocks or quarterly profits—God, no—but because no one beats me at my own game.
Time moves differently when you have no windows, a bank of monitors, and a keyboard that feels more like an extension of your body than a tool.
My sanctuary.
Hell, I felt like a vampire dragged into daylight when Dom pulled me out of the office this afternoon.
The sun stung my eyes like it held a personal grudge for me ignoring it the past month as it seared straight into my retinas.
I didn’t bother asking questions; I just followed, assuming this was another routine family ambush.
Which, for the record, happens every other month.
Wrong.
“So,” Papa continues, his voice steady but loaded with landmines, “you know what that means…”
I glance at him, then Mama, then my brothers. Dom looks confused. Good. I didn’t tell them about Papa’s little six-month threat, and it appears he didn’t share it with them either. Rare. No one holds secrets in this family.
“Six months for what?” Dom takes the bait.
“Rico had six months to find a wife,” Papa explains.
Alex folds in half, howling. Full-on choking for air like Papa just told the greatest joke of the century.
“Oh shit, that’s a good one,” he gasps, tears streaming down his face while I contemplate how best to wipe that smirk off without leaving a bruise.
“You could’ve given him twelve months. Wouldn’t have made a difference. ”
Papa doesn’t even spare him a glance. He doesn’t need to. Mama, his ever-loyal enforcer, locks onto Alex with the precision of a sniper, and just like that, all the color drains from his face faster than a gambler watching their last chip slide across the table.
I sink back into my chair, suddenly grateful that those eyes aren’t aimed at me.
At thirty-seven, Mama still scares the ever-living hell out of me.
And Nonna? She’s the real threat. Forget needing a bodyguard; if Nonna ever decides I’ve stepped out of line, I’ll lose my balls faster than I can say ciao.
Alex clears his throat, coughs once, and stands upright like a soldier at attention.
His hands tuck into his jean pockets—jeans.
When the hell did he start wearing jeans?
Marriage and babies have turned him into a different species.
This, right here, is why I don’t need a wife.
Women change you, mold you like pliable Play-Doh until you’re unrecognizable.
My brothers may be soft and squishy, but I don’t bend.
I’m wearing jeans too, but it’s nothing new.
Unlike my suit-obsessed brothers, who spend thousands tailoring their Brionis, I stick to the basics—jeans, a T-shirt, sneakers.
Efficient. Comfortable. Cheap. Sometimes I throw on a dress shirt or sweater for good measure, but only when it makes logistical sense and not fulfilling some societal check box.
Why the hell would I spend a small fortune on a suit when I can keep my money in the bank collecting interest?
Flashing cash requires human interaction and small talk, and I’d rather slowly untangle my own intestines.
“Okay, so it’s been six months. What does that mean now?” Dom asks, throwing me a lifeline since Alex is too busy clamping his mouth shut like a toddler trying not to laugh. Man’s been spending way too much time with his kids. He’s picking up their habits—like acting four instead of pushing forty.
“It means he can either marry the woman we’ve chosen for him or..,” Papa says, fingers gesturing between himself and Mama like the ‘we’ wasn’t glaringly obvious, “Well, there is no ‘or.’” His lips curl into a smug smile, head cocking to the side in that go ahead, fight me way.
Truly, I didn’t think Papa would follow through on picking out a bride.
One, he has to find someone willing to marry me, and despite my bottomless bank account and what I’ve been told is a good-looking face, those two things don’t make up for the miles of items I don’t have to offer a wife.
So, I figured being disinherited was the only real consequence of blowing off my six-month gift, which I was totally fine with.
Let my brothers inherit the businesses. They’re already knee-deep in family life and cranking out kids like it’s a competition.
They can have the empire. I’ve got my keyboards and peace of mind—or at least, I did.
Then Nonna grins, and it’s the kind of smile you see in horror movies right before the sweet neighbor turns out to be a serial killer.
“We found you the perfect bride,” Nonna says, her smile fixed and eyes disturbingly unblinking. I’m fucked.
Marco clears his throat and leans forward, elbows on his knees, all casual-like. “Technically, I found her.”
Correcting Nonna? Bold move. Man clearly has a death wish. Nonna gives him the look, the one that sends grown men running, but Marco doesn’t even flinch. Dude’s certifiable. I may be an asshole, but at least I’m not clinically insane.
I haven’t spoken a word since I walked into this house. A glance at my watch tells me I’ve been here for thirty minutes. In that time, I could’ve stress-tested the new code I implemented, but nope. Here I am, about to be auctioned off to the highest bidder.
Could I say no? Sure. But Papa plays the long game, and he plays it well. It’s not about the inheritance—he knows I don’t give a shit about that. What I do care about is family. And he knows how to twist that knife just right.
Besides, arranged marriage? Possibly the best life hack ever. No dates, no wasted time, and no pretending to be interested in someone’s vacation stories. Efficient. Like a business merger with wedding cake.
“Doesn’t matter who found her,” Nonna waves off Marco’s correction. “We found the perfect woman. You’ll meet her tonight, get to know her over the next few weeks while your Mama and I plan the wedding.”
I arch a brow. Few weeks? Please. Mama and Nonna planned Dom and Sienna’s wedding in under a week. If they’ve already picked a woman, the wedding is probably booked, catered, and floral arrangements are already en route.
“It has to be a big wedding,” Mama chimes in, as if I needed more reasons to break out in hives.
Big wedding = a lot of people.
I don’t do people. If there’s such a thing as a human interaction allergy, I have it. Benadryl won’t help. My skin will break out, and I’ll go into anaphylactic shock just thinking about small talk with second cousins twice removed.
A sharp sting pulls me out of my spiral. I glance down at my hand, where my nails have bitten half-moon indents into my palm. One hard enough to draw blood.
Mama’s icy-blue eyes flick to my hand, then back to my face. Calm. Controlled. Dangerous. “This is for the best, Rico. You might not see it now, but you’ll thank us later.”
Yeah. Doubt it.
Arguing would take more energy than I’m willing to waste.
“Don’t you want to know who you’re marrying?” Alex asks, his earlier grin wiped clean. Now it’s all business.
I shrug. Do I care? Not even a little. Whoever Mama and Nonna picked is the woman I’m marrying.
Whether her name’s Susan or Gigi, whether she has brown hair, blonde hair, or collects taxidermy squirrels as a hobby—it makes no difference.
The paperwork’s already being drafted, so why waste my time worrying about trivial details like her name, appearance, or, God forbid, personality.
What does concern me is that I’m now stuck here for dinner to meet her. My plan was an hour—two, max—at the family house. Enough time to sit through the meeting, check the boxes, and bounce. Now, I’m recalculating my entire day like a GPS rerouting through hell’s scenic route.
I’m mentally reorganizing my calendar when I feel a hand clamp around my arm.
Dom’s standing next to me, nodding toward the formal living room—aka the Museum of Untouched Furniture. “Let’s talk,” he says.
The formal living room is a museum for furniture that no one’s allowed to sit on.
Gray and cream sofas that are graced with an ass cheek sighting as often as the world sees an eclipse, a fireplace that’s decorative at best and depressing at worst, and a massive family portrait hanging above it.
Dom’s wife painted it two months ago. Sitting for that portrait made me want to gouge my eyes out with a spoon, but I survived it.
Barely. Still, a few hours in that room were enough to convince me that a big wedding—complete with hundreds of guests and endless small talk—would probably land me in prison after I punch the third person who asks me if I’m excited to marry whatever poor woman agrees to this unholy union.