6. Rico #2
I drop onto the biggest sofa in the room, sprawling out in the middle like a king. No dust cloud, so I guess the housekeeper earned her keep this week. Dom and Alex squeeze onto the loveseat across from me, their knees bumping awkwardly.
Could I have taken the smaller sofa to be a decent human being? Sure. But they butted into my life, so here we are.
I expect Alex to lecture me first, but a voice from the doorway cuts in.
“Don’t worry, boys. I picked him a good one,” Marco says, strolling into the room before dropping onto the sofa next to me, patting my thigh like I’m his golden retriever.
My fingers twitch with the urge to break one—or two—of his. I don’t like being touched. This isn’t news to anyone in the family. But Marco? Marco doesn’t care. Marco doesn’t do boundaries or sanity.
Marco’s the Don of the New York Cosa Nostra, which technically makes him terrifying, but I’ve known him long enough to recognize that his crazy outweighs his scary by a solid 70 percent. I saved his ass years ago. He owes me.
Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop him from being Marco. He’s also somehow the only person who is close to me. Not my brothers. Nope. I make nice with the crazy one in the family. Not sure what that says about me.
Nothing good.
But Marco—aside from Papa—is the only one in the family who’s seen the darker side of humanity up close and personal.
The kind of shit that changes your internal wiring to see the world differently than those still sporting blinders.
I guess that makes us kindred spirits. We’ve both stared death in the face and flipped it the middle finger.
Dom pinches the bridge of his nose, already exasperated. “Rico, look. I get it. You hate dating, but do you really want to marry some stranger?”
Technically, she won’t be a stranger after I meet her tonight. Problem solved.
“Bennettis don’t do divorce,” Alex reminds me. “If you don’t like her, you’re still stuck with her.”
I glance at their wedding bands—Alex’s a classic gold, Dom’s some sleek black metal. They’ve got wives they love, kids they dote on, and they’re the epitome of domesticated. If you listen closely, you can almost hear the leash snap when their wives call.
“Oh, speaking of…” Marco reaches into his suit pocket and hands me a small black velvet box. “What? Like you’d buy one yourself? Open it, you moron.”
I tuck the box into my jeans pocket without bothering to look inside.
“Wow. Romantic,” Dom drawls.
“I mean, it’s Rico. Did you expect him to get on one knee? I’ll be impressed if he doesn’t chuck the box at her across the table and tell her to put it on,” Marco says, giving me a nudge.
I close my eyes, silently praying for patience. “How long?”
“Until she gets here or until you’re married? The marriage thing’s forever, you know. Death ‘til you part. Although… she might kill you once she realizes that’s her fastest way out.”
I arch a brow at him. So do Dom and Alex.
Mama and Nonna may be terrifying in their own right, but Violet—Alex’s wife—while pregnant was a walking horror show of hormones and death threats.
Even Marco learned to tread lightly and that crazy bastard cowers at nothing. Except for a hormonal woman apparently.
“What do you mean by that?” Dom asks.
Marco shrugs, completely unfazed. “None of you asked where I found this gem of a bride for this one.” He grins, thumbing in my direction like I’m some rare exhibit at a zoo.
“Do tell.” Alex crosses his arms, settling in.
“She’s in the Cosa Nostra,” Marco starts.
Both my brothers groan, but he raises a hand, silencing them.
“But she wants out. She asked me a while ago, and I was debating how to let her leave without causing waves. Then Nonna mentioned this situation,”—he twirls a finger around me—“and ta-da. An idea was born.”
I remember when I used to like my cousin. You know, two minutes ago. Life changes fast.
Alex pinches the bridge of his nose this time. “So, let me get this straight. You’re forcing some poor woman to marry our brother to escape the mafia?”
“Well… when you put it that way, I can see how it sounds bad.” Marco offers.
“And looks bad,” Dom deadpans.
“She wanted out. No money, no job, no family. This way, she gets security, and Rico’s problem is solved. Do you know who your mama was setting him up with if he didn’t produce someone on his own?”
The three of us exchange glances, mentally scrolling through every woman Mama’s mentioned in passing.
“Tori Valencia.”
We all shudder in unison. Tori Valencia makes Marco’s brand of crazy look like a mild case of road rage in rush-hour traffic.
“So…” Marco stretches the word out as he leans back into the sofa, the cushions groaning at the fact they are in use.
“You’re welcome. Because otherwise, your blushing bride and future mother of your children would have been Tori and her tics.
” Literally, the woman twitches when she’s angry.
It’s like watching a computer glitch in real-time.
“So, what’s the plan? Shake hands, hand her the engagement ring, and what?
What will her family say?” Alex is speaking to Marco, but his eyes are on me.
If he’s expecting some sort of reaction, even in this asinine situation, he’d be wrong.
I wouldn’t even catalog this as mildly irritating.
In fact, I’m seeing a light at the end of a rather dark and dreary tunnel.
“She can’t go back home after tonight. She’ll meet Rico, and if she agrees, I’ll put her in one of my properties until the wedding. I’ll let her papa know she left the family with my blessing to marry my cousin. They won’t challenge it, but if she goes home, they’ll likely lock her up.”
“This is ridiculous.” Alex glares my way. “Rico, talk to Papa. Hell, I can talk with him. Let’s buy some time. Give you a chance to find someone on your own. Not tie you to a woman who’s marrying you because you’re her only option.”
“Or yours,” Dom adds. “That’s not a marriage. It’s a business merger.”
It’s almost poetic how this setup is perfect for both of us. We’re here for the same reason: to sign a piece of paper and reap the mutual benefits of this little arrangement. No hearts. No flowers. No bullshit. Just a legally binding contract wrapped up in a designer wedding dress.
We don’t need love. Hell, we don’t even need to like each other.
We don’t have to share a bedroom, meals, or even oxygen for more than five minutes at a time.
I’ll knock her up—strictly business, no conversation required—and once the heir situation is handled, we can comfortably exist in mutual indifference.
Blissful, separate, yet entirely functional lives.
I like kids. I’ll raise mine, make sure they’re educated, respectful, and can throw a punch if necessary. The woman who helps me breed them can handle the rest. We won’t co-parent; we’ll co-exist. And if we play this right, we’ll barely have to speak.
Dom breaks into my mental planning session, looking far too concerned and likely sprouting another gray hair or three for me to admire and know I’m their cause. “You do realize you’ll have to talk to your wife, right?”
“Do I?” I deadpan.
He blinks, rubbing his temple. “Rico, marriage—even an arranged one—is a partnership. You’ll need to build some kind of relationship with her. You’re going to be raising children together. That requires communication. Decisions. Actual human interaction.”
Dom clearly believes this nonsense. He’s in love, so his version of marriage involves joint decisions, heartfelt conversations, and matching coffee mugs that say His and Hers.
Me? I believe marriage is a contract. An agreement between two consenting adults.
No emotions necessary. No speeches. And absolutely no talking if we can avoid it.
Played right, it’s a simple transaction.
I didn’t have to date, endure mind-numbing dinner conversations, or listen to a woman drone on about horoscopes or her third cousin’s gluten allergy.
I bagged myself a wife, and a guaranteed heir.
Efficient and to the point. Besides, my family will have no reason to lecture me on life choices, so I’ll finally have some sliver of peace.
“I’ll be fine,” I mutter before the two lovesick fools in front of me spout sonnets about the miracle of love. That speech traumatized me before, and I’m still recovering.
Alex leans back, rubbing his jaw. “A woman who’s okay with an arranged marriage… to Rico.” He winces. “No offense, but… did you tell her Rico doesn’t exactly love words?”
“Or human interaction in general?” Dom adds.
Marco grins, completely unfazed. “She’s aware that Rico’s… a bit closed off.”
Something tells me she’s not aware of the full extent of that statement. Like, at all.
Both of my brothers gape at Marco as if they just found out he’s harboring a fugitive. The woman could be fleeing a cult or plotting her own escape plan for all I care. Her backstory, personality, or even her name? Irrelevant.
Petty details, much like emotions, don’t matter.