8. Rico
Rico
Dinner went as expected. Nonna prodding, poking, and extracting enough intel from my future wife that I didn’t have to lift a finger—let alone speak.
Age? Twenty-four. Preferred name? Allie.
Loves to cook, and wants to be a chef. Oh, and the cherry on top?
She might be a fucking virgin. So the first man she has sex with will be me.
I might prefer code to people, but I’m not a prick.
Well, not entirely. The idea of me being her first experience makes my stomach coil.
Now here I am, trapped in Papa’s study, alone, with my fiancée.
She’s perched on the couch, hands folded, while I’m sprawled in the armchair, making myself comfortable for however long they expect us to sit here.
Fifteen minutes drift by, blissfully uneventful.
She fidgets—smooths her dress, twists her fingers, glances at the clock, the bookshelves, the floor, and me — only when she thinks I’m not looking.
Meanwhile, I keep my eyes locked on the door, willing it to open.
I feel like a kid in timeout, waiting for someone to open it and ask if I’ve learned my lesson before I’m set free.
Marco had to pick a woman who ticked every box on Nonna’s dream-wife checklist. And to make matters worse?
She’s fucking hot. From the moment she walked into the house, all glowing skin and long legs with hair that belonged in some slow-motion shampoo commercial, I wanted to run.
Olive skin. High cheekbones. Full lips. Dangerous as hell.
She’s gorgeous and that sure as shit is going to make ignoring her a hell of a lot harder when she’s in my orbit.
It changes nothing, but now I have to train myself not to notice the way her dress hugs her curves, how her tits are the perfect handful, or that her face is annoyingly symmetrical. Huge hazel doe eyes that catch the light with gold and green flecks practically winking trouble.
One thing is for certain as she sits there, long toned legs crossed, I realize I might have to insist she wear floor-length skirts and turtlenecks.
Why couldn’t I get an ugly wife?
I don’t ask for much. Hell, I don’t ask for anything—mostly because I don’t talk to anyone long enough to make a request. So why the hell am I saddled with a wife I’m going to avoid staring at the rest of my miserable life?
Smoothing out her dress, Allie turns to me, doe eyes steady. “So, is there anything you want to know about me?”
Only if your uterus is functioning and how quickly I can toss a kid in there to get the world off my back (also known as Mama).
I have a feeling that very thought isn’t the best way to kick off a marriage.
Not that I have an alternative. I don’t do relationships.
My longest commitment is my Wednesday appointment with my therapist—fifteen minutes in, fifteen minutes out.
Get in, get off, get out. That’s my level of dedication, and there’s no relationship. It’s a contracted agreement.
“Nope.”
Her forced smile deflates, a slow collapse of bravado.
“I see.” She bites her bottom lip, tucking it beneath her teeth—and my cock twitches in betrayal. Traitor.
This interlude needs to end. Now.
Not only is it a monumental waste of time—time I should spend on something productive, basically anything other than what I'm doing right now would count—but this woman is eliciting a physical reaction from me. And that is unacceptable.
My body functions on logic. Cause and effect. I decide when and where it reacts. Yet here I am, experiencing a wholly unsanctioned physiological response—my dick stretching awake like a house cat after a long, indulgent nap, all because of her.
She turns toward me again, those absurdly big eyes locking onto mine like she has any right, and I make the rookie mistake of looking back.
Fuck. Me.
I need to get out of here. Immediately. Preferably before my self-control officially flushes itself down the toilet.
She lets out an exhale and her cheeks flush—scarlet, not pink—a reaction so immediate it makes me wonder how that breathy little exhale of hers would sound in other, less PG contexts. And just like that, I mentally kick myself in the proverbial balls for even entertaining the thought.
I don’t look at women like this. Ever. My mind isn’t a breeding ground for carnal distractions; it’s a well-oiled machine, efficient, pragmatic, entirely devoid of hormonal interference. And yet, with her in my breathing space, it’s like my subconscious has run a beta test using my body against me.
Unacceptable. Illogical. Infuriating.
Worse, I’m not exactly doing anything to stop it, am I? Not when I’m idly considering what those long legs would feel like wrapped around me. Odd, considering I’ve never entertained that particular geometry before.
Apparently, some things come naturally—like intrusive, thoroughly uninvited thoughts and an inconvenient desire to test just how flexible she really is.
“Listen, I know I’m not what you expected.
You probably figured you’d be marrying someone your age, not some spoiled, na?ve woman who’s never worked a day in her life.
” She swallows, eyes briefly shutting, and when they open again, they’re glossy.
Shit. If she cries, I’m out. “I was raised to be a trophy wife, someone to pop out heirs. I know this isn’t normal, and obviously neither of us want this, but maybe we could at least try to get to know each other.
Make it easier. It’s not like you’re oozing with a bunch of warm and fuzzies about this arrangement, but would it kill you to talk to me even a little? ”
Yes, actually. It would.
I scrub a hand down my face, silently cursing Marco. Speaking of that asshole, I reach into my pocket and pull out the black box I haven’t even bothered to look in. “Here.” I hold it out to her.
She blinks at it. “What is that?”
Really? The size of the box. The entire damn situation. Come on.
“A ring.” I wiggle my hand, and she plucks it from my palm.
I refocus on the door, willing it to swing open and for someone to announce my time is up. From the corner of my eye, I watch as she slowly opens the box, staring at whatever monstrosity Marco picked.
Does she not like it? Not that I give a shit.
She can replace it, buy ten if she wants.
As long as I don’t have to be involved. Knowing Marco, it’s probably gaudy as hell, something rivaling Sienna and Violet’s obnoxiously large rings—beacons warning any man within a ten-mile radius that they’re off the market.
"It's beautiful."
Her voice is soft, almost reverent, and it irritates me. I don't like the way it trails up my spine like a ghost of something I refuse to acknowledge.
"Did you pick it out yourself?"
"No."
She snaps the lid shut. "Yeah. Didn’t think so."
Not a mutter. Not under her breath. Direct.
Clear. Loud enough to make me reassess if having a wife with opinions she doesn’t mind voicing is a good idea.
I’m still undecided on whether I hate it or if it’s the only tolerable thing about this conversation.
My dick, apparently, has an opinion, because it twitches at the sass she wields, and freely might I add.
"Marco mentioned you're good with computers. That you work at the company you and your brothers started?"
Did Marco give her my entire life story? I hope so. It means I won’t have to sit through a tedious ‘get to know me’ session. I nod.
"I don't know much about computers. Wasn't allowed to use them much."
A snort escapes her, and she slaps a hand over her mouth like she's just giggled at a funeral. "Sorry."
I glance over. Is she laughing?
She’s trying to smother it, but her shoulders shake like she’s holding in something unholy. When she finally removes her hand, her eyes stay locked on the velvet box in her lap.
"It's just funny that I'm marrying a guy who works on computers all the time, and I barely know how to use my phone."
Christ. She’s joking, right? Because I sure as hell won’t be tech support.
"I know how to cook," she adds, perking up like this applies to my existence.
I internally groan. If she’s getting comfortable, she’ll keep talking. If Papa hears any conversation, he’ll assume we’re bonding and leave me in here longer. Which is ridiculous because I do not bond. I barely tolerate.
"Good," I say, but should have kept my mouth shut because now she’s still going.
I should shut this down, but I’m focused on how her laugh is like honey—smooth, warm, and entirely unnecessary for my survival.
And yet, I’m listening. Does she have some cheat code to my internal systems?
In this whopping thirty-minute torture session, this woman has already pulled out more physical and mental reactions from me than my brothers have in a month of poking at me. It can’t be a good sign.
"I always wanted to be a chef. Our housekeeper, Maria, used to let me help her when I was younger. I still cook when my parents aren’t home. But now that I’m older, I’m not allowed in the kitchen."
Great. So she can cook but probably doesn’t do dishes. Can’t use a phone. Likely has no concept of a dishwasher. What else am I going to have to teach her? God bless YouTube tutorials—I’ll send her the links and let her figure it out.
She exhales, long, and heavy, like she’s gearing up to make another point.
"That’s one of the reasons I’m leaving the family, you know.
I wanted to be something. Someone. I’ve been taking classes at the community college’s culinary school, though, so maybe I can get a job.
I can’t do that if I stay, or if I marry Carlo Romano like my father wants me to. "
Her voice trails off as the door handle flicks.
Papa steps inside, eyes bouncing between us. "How's it going in here?"
He's smiling, but his gaze is pinned on me, which means he's not pleased. Probably assuming I’ve been my usual anti-social self. He’s not wrong.
From my periphery, I see Allie glance at me before facing him. "Fine. I think we got to know each other a little better."
Yeah. In the last thirty-four minutes, I’ve learned she likes to cook, and wants to be a chef, but can’t use a phone or do dishes.
Not that I need her to. There’s only one part of her I need to function, and that hasn’t come up for discussion yet.
What's a good segue into asking if she can pop out a kid or two?
Papa grips the door handle tighter, his knuckles whitening. "Cecilia wanted to discuss some wedding details before you leave… that is if you decide you want to do this."
Oh, she gets a choice? Must be nice.
Then again, her options are me or going back to her father and Carlo fucking Romano.
Not sure I’m the better alternative. I might be emotionally unavailable, but Carlo Romano is a human hemorrhoid who thinks he’s a Sicilian god.
He comes to the boxing club where Marco and I spar, and the guy fights like a toddler throwing a tantrum.
Allie’s eyes flick to the black box, and Papa follows her gaze before turning his back on me.
Please, as if I went shopping for a ring.
I just hope part of the wedding planning includes her picking out her wedding band, because I am not lifting a damn finger for that.
My role here is to show up, mumble whatever vows Father Alberti recites, and not make the old man keel over at the sight of me getting married.
"Do I have to decide right now?"
My head snaps toward her. She has to think about it? She’d rather go back home and marry Carlo Romano? I may be as emotionally available as a concrete wall, but that guy is about as appealing as an expired can of Spam—dull, questionable, and guaranteed to give you regrets.
I unclench my fists, flexing my fingers, forcing them to stay loose. Apparently, the idea of her saying no stresses me out. Maybe because if she does, I’m stuck with Tori Valencia, and at that point, I’ll need witness protection.
“Of course you don’t.” Papa steps further into the room, his gaze burning into me. There’s a lecture brewing behind those eyes, and I will not like it. “It’s a lot to take in.” That’s an understatement. “But we’d like to know in a day or two.”
Allie nods and places the black velvet box on the coffee table. Watching her set it down makes my fists tighten again.
Black like the coffee that keeps me from committing homicide before noon. Black like my soul and tolerance for stupidity. Black like the screen of my phone when I ignore calls. Peaceful. Silent. Perfect.
“Let’s call it a night, yeah?” Papa says.
I’m on my feet before he finishes the sentence.
“Well, thank fuck for that.” I mumble, heading straight for the front door. No goodbyes. No pleasantries. I fish out my keys, climb into my Porsche, shift into drive, and peel out of the driveway.
I need distance between me and Alessandra De Luca. She’ll accept. Carlo Romano isn’t the better option.