9. Rico
Rico
I’m in my office—though calling it an office is generous. It’s a glorified cave. No windows, no clocks, no trace of the outside world. Just four walls, my screens, and the low hum of servers like a machine’s heartbeat.
Technically, this was a storage closet when we bought the building.
Now it’s my domain. Let them keep their glass-walled corner offices where sunlight streams in like it’s supposed to make them happy with all that vitamin D.
I’ll keep my cave. At least shadows don’t ask you to smile or make polite conversation.
It was two in the morning when I came in and who knows what time it is now, but I don’t care. I woke up wired, pissed off, and fully aware that sleep would be a lost cause. So, naturally, I came here—my sanctuary, where people don’t exist and problems are solved with code, not conversation.
The blue glow from the monitors casts sharp shadows across the room, washing over me like some twisted imitation of a halo. The irony isn’t lost on me.
For the last four hours, I’ve been tearing apart my code, dissecting how some hacker—a little digital parasite—bypassed my latest security update. He’s not even stealing anything. Just poking around like a kid testing the strength of an electric fence, and that somehow pisses me off more.
I don’t play games. I dismantle them.
But here I am, engaged in a game of hacker chess with some faceless idiot, while another far more aggravating problem worms her way under my skin—Allie fucking De Luca.
Somehow, she’s set up camp in the back of my mind, making herself comfortable. And the worst part? The idea that she might say no to this arranged marriage? Laughable. Yet, here I am, irritated that she might.
Apparently, I have an ego. How pedestrian of me.
Or maybe it’s my survival instincts kicking in. If she says no, I’m stuck with another bride—a woman so unhinged she’d marry my corpse just for the inheritance.
I crack my knuckles and dive back into the code, fingers flying over the keyboard like I’m trying to exorcise her from my brain one line at a time.
The click of the keys is sharp, relentless, echoing in the empty room.
Mechanical keyboard—blue switches. Maximum tactile response.
If I’m going to type my way into an early grave, I may as well enjoy the ride.
Somewhere in the background, white noise fills my headphones, drowning out reality. The only light in this cave is from my screens—cold, blue, and merciless. They say blue light ruins your circadian rhythm.
Sleep is for the weak. Or the dead. Not sure which category I’m inching closer to.
Then, warm yellow light pours in from the hallway, cutting through the darkness. I squint against it, hating how it stings my eyes—like acid poured into my skull.
A figure steps into the doorway, arms crossed, posture sharp and perfected. The tailored suit is overkill, especially at this hour. Who gets fully dressed in a three-piece suit at six a.m.? Psychopaths. Or, in my case, my brother.
With the way the light hits him, he could pass for an angel.
Except angels don’t haunt you at ungodly hours.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
His voice is a whip crack across my carefully constructed peace.
Doesn’t this guy have a life? I thought he stepped down from CEO to COO for work-life balance. Yet here he is, standing in my doorway. He should go live his balanced life and leave me the hell alone.
"Work," I mutter, waving vaguely at the glowing monitors, because what else would I be doing? Starting a knitting club?
The only reason this company thrives, literally, is because of me. Instead of hiring ten subpar coders, they get one world-class asshole who does all the updates, development, and security implementations while avoiding office birthday parties and mandatory happy hours.
Coding is my safe place. My fortress of solitude. Until now, when some troll of a hacker keeps tapping on my back door for shits and giggles—right in the middle of a merger talk with the Locke brothers.
And the Lockes? They won’t merge with a cybersecurity firm that has even a whiff of hacker baggage. Can’t blame them. A hacker worming around your systems isn’t exactly a worthwhile investment.
Not that I want the merger to happen. More employees mean more people to dodge in the hallways. More coders means I’ll lose control of my cave and—God help me—have to talk to people.
As if that isn’t bad enough, I’m also supposed to tie myself to a woman I barely know.
A sassy mouthed woman with hazel eyes and a disarming face.
Memorable enough, I had to jerk off this morning just to clear my head.
The first time I’ve ever done that. Ever.
Not even when I was a horny teenager with unlimited internet access.
Porn and my hand were never my thing. So what the hell is wrong with me that in my late thirties I’m now embracing it?
To top it off, my brother—Saint Alexander, the smug prick—kills my vibe by flipping on the overhead lights and my eyes nearly melt out of my head.
“Fuck!” I hiss, covering my eyes.
The door slams behind him, and when I crack one eye open, I see Alex leaning against it with his arms crossed, ready to settle in and lurk there until I grant him a minute of my time.
“What?” I ask without looking up, fingers already flying over the keyboard.
I lost half my weekend to a family dinner, sitting across from Allie De Luca, waiting to see if she’d agree to marry me.
Now I’m behind on everything, and I’m not in the mood for interruptions.
Let alone my big brother and one of his glorious lectures.
Alex pushes off the door and strolls over to me, oozing that confidence that he only puts off when he’s about to fuck up my day. He leans against my desk—my desk—and wiggles his ass on it just to piss me off further.
Then, because apparently his goal is to die today, he hooks his stupidly expensive shoe against the edge of my chair and pushes me back from the keyboard, yanking my headphones off with a sharp tug.
My older brother is dangerously close to earning himself a black eye.
“Fuck. Alex. What?” I drag the words out, already bored. Patience is a virtue, but I’m far from virtuous.
“Congratulations. That woman was crazy enough to agree to marry you,” Alex says, grinning like he just handed me a winning lottery ticket.
So, she agreed. Interesting. Though, let’s be honest—a woman willingly signing up to marry someone like me can only be so sane.
Sure, she seemed more put together than Tori Valencia (who twitches like a glitching robot when she’s pissed), but for all I know, Allie De Luca has skeletons in her closet.
Real ones. The kind that probably have names and unfortunate last breaths, considering her background and the fact she comes with a stamp of approval from Marco, our resident nut.
“She agreed?” I ask, shoving Alex’s polished shoe off my chair as I reach for my headphones. I don’t really expect an answer.
Before I can slip them back on, Alex smacks them out of my hand. We both watch in silence as they fly across the room, hit the wall, and land in the corner.
A normal human would be pissed. Maybe even throw a tantrum. I’m not normal.
I lean back in my chair, lacing my fingers behind my head. “Are we done here? Or are you planning to monologue on about a solid relationship?” If I had the ability, or care, I’d roll my eyes. But that’s more effort than what I’m willing to give.
“Are you really going through with this?” He acts as though he hasn’t seen how low the bar is for me.
I nod once, slow and deliberate. Cute that he thinks I have options.
“Papa called,” he frowns down at his Rolex. Meanwhile, I glance at the space on my screen where a clock should be. I turned them off months ago. Time is irrelevant. I work until I’m done, or until I get bored and move my operation to my home office.
Alex waits, probably hoping for a reaction. He gets nothing. I may have blinked, but that’s as generous as I’m willing to be. Part of me worries that blink was a twitch from the mounting stress in my life, but I’ll dissect that one later.
Finally, he sighs in defeat and slides off my desk.
I mentally note to disinfect it after he leaves.
Only coffee cups and keyboards on my desk.
Tom Ford wool-covered asses not allowed.
“You need to be in the conference room at ten. Wolfe will be there. So will your blushing bride. Time to go over the paperwork.”
Shit. I have to see her again?
The fewer times I see her, the better.
I need at least seventy-two hours—bare minimum—to reprogram my brain, to overwrite the way her scent clings to my lungs like a damn virus and the way she looked at me like she could see through every carefully constructed defense I’ve spent years building.
If I were a machine, I’d call it a system breach. One I can’t patch fast enough.
What I need is distance. Space to scrub her from my mind, to forget the shape of her mouth when she talks back, or the exact shade of her eyes when she stares me down.
Brown with flecks of gold like the color of old whiskey in a glass — smooth, dangerous and a reminder that things can look good but be dangerous. Brownish gold like a tarnished brass antique. Gold like the kind you find in flames, which are guaranteed to burn you if you get too close.
Clearly there’s a problem and I need time to figure out where it starts so I can make sure it ends. Seeing her only makes it worse.
Isn’t that the whole point of this arranged marriage? We don’t have to deal with each other until we’re forced to stand at the altar and mumble vows that tether us together like inmates in a chain gang.
Apparently, I was wrong. I don’t enjoy that feeling.