7. Allie
Allie
The second we step inside, it’s clear that Marco’s family subscribes to the go big or go home school of home decor. Marble floors, towering ceilings, and a chandelier the size of a small spaceship hanging above us. Subtlety? Never heard of her.
“Welcome to the Bennetti madhouse,” Marco says, his voice syrupy smooth, with just enough bite to make me question his sobriety.
He waves us in like we’re contestants on a game show.
“The blushing bride-to-be,” he adds with a grin, eyeing my black dress.
“Dressed for a funeral, I see. Fitting, considering Rico’s personality. ”
I stare at him for a second, debating whether to respond or just let him think he’s clever.
I opt for the latter, adjusting my “death dress” and following him into the house, heels clicking against the marble with every step.
Vinnie stays close behind me like the human shadow he is, silent but observant.
Marco leads us through the glittering foyer and into a living room that is opulent and yet doesn’t have the stuffy vibes you’d expect, considering the grand entrance and all. The couches are plush, the lighting is low, and the air smells faintly of coffee.
It’s not until we step into the room that I notice the Bennetti family staring at me like I just crash-landed a spaceship in their living room.
All eyes are wide, on me, and blinking. I’m now rattling through reasons to feel self-conscious.
Is it my dress? Should I have worn something more conservative?
Were they expecting someone older? Younger? Skinnier?
Two older women sit primly on a couch, eyes sharp and assessing. Across from them, three men occupy another couch—two of them sporting matching smirks. And then there’s the third man sitting all broody and no facial expression.
“You must be Alessandra.” An older man stands up from an armchair heading toward me. His dark hair sports a few flecks of silver, and his amber eyes remind me a lot of Marco’s. Without a chance to answer him, he’s wrapping me in a hug.
Uh…what now? Hugging? From a stranger? My eyes dart to Vinnie for help, but the traitor is holding back a laugh, clearly enjoying the show.
“Pleasure to meet you,” I manage, my voice a little too high-pitched from the sheer awkwardness of being swallowed by this man’s overly enthusiastic embrace. I have not been introduced, but I’m going to assume this is Ricardo Bennetti.
“Ricardo, release the poor girl!” One woman on the couch scolds, swatting at his arm until he finally lets me go.
She steps in, immediately pulling me into another hug.
Her perfume wraps around me—something warm and floral, like lavender with a kick.
“I’m Cecilia,” she says, mid-hug, her voice a lilting blend of Italian and something else I can’t quite place.
When she pulls back, her hands grip my shoulders, holding me at arm’s length while she looks me up and down with the scrutiny of someone evaluating an antique vase at an auction.
“Well, you’re a pretty one! Marco didn’t mention you were so gorgeous.”
I blink, not really sure how to respond. “Uh…thank you, ma’am.”
“Mama,” she corrects with a tsk, waving me off. “‘Ma’am’ makes me feel ancient. Come, come.”
Before I can process what’s happening, she tugs me toward the couch. Marco gives me a thumbs-up and disappears with Vinnie to find drinks. Asshole.
Cecilia nudges me onto the couch next to another older woman. This one studies me, only she’s looking at me with the same intensity as a doctor about to deliver a diagnosis. Her eyes sweep from my face to my hips, and she nods in approval.
“Alessandra? Yes?” she asks, still giving me the once-over.
“Yes, but most people call me Allie.”
Her eyes light up. “Oh, I like that. Very pretty.” Before I can thank her, she continues her visual assessment plus narration this time.
“Excellent hips,” she declares to no one in particular. “Good for babies.”
I nearly choke on air. Babies? Did we just skip straight to my reproductive capabilities?
Cecilia nods in agreement as if my hips just passed some secret fertility test. My cheeks burn as I try to decide if I should say thank you or bolt for the door.
I glance at the three men on the couch. All three are tall, dark, and devastatingly gorgeous, but that’s where the similarities end.
One of them—sharp features, dark brown hair perfectly combed, and piercing blue eyes—grins at me like this is the most entertaining thing he’s seen all year. His eyes practically dance with amusement. I never realized eyes could dance and sparkle, but this man’s eyes do. He looks familiar. Why?
The other two are easily identical twins, but their vibes are anything but identical. One is warm and inviting, flashing a charming smile that feels genuine, like he’d help an old lady cross the street just because.
The other… well, he’s all sharp lines and blank stares, his amber eyes boring into me with an intensity that makes me think he'd more likely shove the old lady across the street. If human interaction were toxic, this man would take out the entire room.
Regardless, there is way too much hotness on one couch right now. It’s distracting. Even if one of them is looking at me with all the warmth of a January storm.
I clasp my hands in my lap, trying to ignore how awkward the silence is. It just hangs there, heavy and uncomfortable, like the world’s worst group interview.
“Mama,” the Blue-Eyed Man God speaks. “Don’t you think you should do the introductions before we pick out china patterns?” He turns to me, smiling, and I blush like a teenage girl.
“Oh! Gosh. I’m so sorry, dear. This whole situation has me a little… unprepared.”
You and me both, sista.
With a bright smile, she turns toward Blue Eyes. “This is Alexander, my oldest son. His wife is at home with their three boys. Triplets.”
Triplets? The man doesn’t look sleep-deprived enough to have three small humans running around or old enough to have the words “wife” and “kids” tied to him. Alexander stands, shakes my hand firmly, and flashes a grin that says welcome to the family, also sorry for your loss.
“And this,” Cecilia continues, pointing to one of the identical heartbreakers, “is Dominic. His wife is at home with their newborn twin girls and their son.”
So… apparently the Bennetti men specialize in mass-producing children. Good to know that my hips probably play a role in pushing out children in multiples, and my uterus is screaming to run. Stretch marks and a lot of long nights in my future.
Dominic steps forward, his handshake combined with his lips twisting in amusement, and a low whisper I swear sounds like “My condolences.”
By now, I’m bracing for the third act.
“And this,” Cecilia’s voice pitches up like we’re about to meet royalty, “is Enrico. Rico, where are your manners? Get up and meet your future bride.”
I gulp. Oh shit.
Rico, as it turns out, looks about as thrilled to meet me as I am to marry a stranger. I was prepared for a troll under a bridge—someone with bad teeth and a questionable cologne habit, considering he needed help to find a bride.
But this man? He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair and eyes that gleam like molten amber.
He’s stupidly handsome in that brooding antihero with secrets kind of way.
The kind of hot that makes your body betray you on sight.
Suddenly, it’s a sauna in here, and my internal temperature is creeping toward full meltdown.
How on earth does this man need an arranged marriage?
He stands, gives me a slow, dead-eyed nod—like we’re strangers passing on the street—and sits back down. That’s it. Not a word. Not even a hey, welcome to this weird new life we’re about to share. I’m starting to see why finding a wife himself is not easy.
Cecilia beams as if his silence is perfectly acceptable. “Rico’s always been a man of few words.”
Oh, fantastic. My new husband might actually be a statue. Maybe he’s one of those blinks once for yes, twice for no types. This should be fun.
“Let’s go eat.” Cecilia pats my thigh and nudges me to stand. “Break the ice while we break bread.”
Pretty sure no amount of bread—or wine—can fix this level of awkwardness, but I nod and follow her lead.
Nonna, the tiny but mighty older woman from the couch, links her arm with mine. Her grip is surprisingly strong for someone who looks like she spends her days knitting doilies. “I’m so happy you agreed to this, my dear.” She pats my arm affectionately.
I glance at Marco, who casually salutes me with his glass of liquor. Is he saluting my new future or downfall?
Nonna keeps walking and talking as we go. “Rico has always had trouble meeting people, especially women. But you are so pretty. So much more than we expected.”
More than they expected? What did they expect? A swamp creature? A gargoyle?
Rico’s amber eyes are locked on me as I make my way into the dining room. Dominic leans over, mutters something to him, then rushes around the table to pull out a chair for me, planting me directly across from my very own mute anti-social fiancé.
“Sorry,” Dominic murmurs as he pushes my chair in, and I can safely assume he’s apologizing since his brother made no effort to do so himself. I smooth out my dress, trying to keep my cool, but the second I look up, my eyes lock with Rico’s.
Nothing.
No smile. No frown. No spark of life. His face is a blank canvas, and I’m wondering if his vocal cords are part of some underground witness protection program.
Marco takes the other head of the table. I’m seated between Nonna and Ricardo—front and center in what is quickly turning into one of the more awkward dinner experiences of my life.
A housekeeper brings out dishes, and the table buzzes with light conversation—mostly Nonna drilling me like I’m a contestant on Jeopardy.
Only this one involves every personal fact about me.
My age? Do I read? Play piano? Apparently, Nonna knows all about the life of mafia princesses, but I feel like some regency era chaste doe on the "marriage mart.
" It’s like she watched Bridgerton on repeat but skipped the sexy parts with the Duke of Hastings.
Shame. That was some good eye candy to use when times were bleak.
And then it happens.
“And you are a virgin, too?” Nonna drops the question with the casual grace of a hand grenade.
Cue choking.
I nearly die on a rogue piece of rigatoni while Alexander chokes on his wine. Across the table, Vinnie unsuccessfully hides a laugh behind a cough, while Marco raises a brow looking at me with a you were warned eyebrow wiggle.
“Mama, now is not the time,” Ricardo says gently, throwing me an apologetic smile. The only smile I’ve seen so far, and it’s wasted on trying to smooth over his mother’s insanely inappropriate question.
“Well, why not? Rico needs to know if he’s getting himself a virgin bride or not.”
Who is this woman?
Horrified, I glance at Cecilia. She just sips her wine and waits, as if this is the most natural dinner topic in the world. My eyes dart to Marco, who—oh, look—knows I’m not a virgin and is enjoying watching me squirm.
“Maybe we can let them talk about that in private,” Alexander offers with an awkward smile, trying to salvage what little dignity I have left and I shoot out a silent thank you.
Nonna waves him off. “We’re all family here. So, you’re twenty-four? Never had a serious boyfriend?”
“No, I haven’t had any boyfriends,” I say, hoping this conversation dies faster than a bad first date. I would know. Been on plenty of those.
Technically true. I was forbidden from having relationships. God forbid a boy tried to hold my hand and accidentally steal my virtue. Heaven knows that would be catastrophic.
“So inexperienced then,” Nonna huffs, tapping her chin. “We’ll have to teach her some things.”
Teach me… things? Oh god. Do I look like I want to be taught things by a group of relatives I’ve just met?
I put my fork down, deciding food is now a choking hazard. Breathing feels risky enough.
“Apologies for my Nonna,” Dominic interjects, shooting his grandmother a look. “You’ll quickly learn that our family has no filter. We ask and answer questions people wouldn't normally discuss—especially at the dinner table with a complete stranger."
He smiles at me like we’re in this together.
Spoiler alert: We are not. Then his eyes flick to his brother, who’s still sitting there with his arms folded, eyes locked on me like he’s mentally categorizing my every reaction.
He hasn’t touched his food, but I’m guessing that’s because he’s too busy plotting how to survive this dinner without engaging in human conversation.
“So, is that a yes on the virgin thing?” Nonna blinks at me expectantly.
This woman is relentless.
And apparently, we are not dropping this topic.