10. Allie
Allie
I’m sitting at the conference table, the cold stone surface biting into my palms while I try to decipher the legal mumbo-jumbo spread out in front of me.
Words like “ equitable distribution,” “transmutation,” and “elective share” blur together, blending into one long-winded spell conjured by some evil law wizard.
The only phrase I halfway recognize is “full disclosure.” Lovely.
Full disclosure: I have no clue what I’m signing.
Vinnie sits in the corner scrolling on his phone like this whole marriage agreement situation is just another day for him.
Meanwhile, Marco sits beside me, officially playing the role of life coach in this brave new world I’m about to step into—unofficially, my guide out of mafia life and into whatever the hell this is.
Take the deal, Allie. Your freedom is calling, and it’s offering unlimited data and a clean slate.
“None of this makes sense,” I mutter to Marco, leaning over just enough to whisper.
I pointedly ignore Rico, who’s sitting across from me with his arms crossed, radiating nothing but glacial energy while Jaxon Wolfe—the Bennetti family’s lawyer and apparent overlord of everything legal—drones on about the agreement we’re about to sign.
“It will when I’m done explaining it,” Jaxon cuts in. He throws me a glare that gives me middle school flashbacks. “The purpose of today is to go over the details—non-negotiable items that protect both of you—then gather input for what you’d like to include in your marriage contract.”
“Marriage contract?” I blink. Isn’t I do the contract? You know, the vows, the priest, the whole till-death-do-us-part thing?
Jaxon’s lips twitch in what I’m guessing is supposed to be a smile, but it’s closer to a condescending smirk.
“Because this marriage is arranged, there’s a contract in addition to the prenup.
It outlines what’s expected from the marriage.
If either party violates the agreement, it allows for a clean break.
Compensation terms are already built into it. ”
Compensation? Wait—if we don’t follow the rules of this marriage, someone gets a payout? Interesting. But what happens if he doesn’t follow the rules? And compensation from where? I have exactly zero dollars, no assets, and a suitcase filled with designer clothes I can’t afford to dry-clean.
The closer I get to this arrangement, the further away from my dream of a loving husband, kids, and domestic bliss drifts. Instead, I’m stuck with him—the man who’s currently staring at me like I’m a bug pinned to a board for examination.
He doesn’t speak. Not to me, anyway. I’m not even sure I’ve heard him utter a full sentence since this whole circus started.
Just a series of grunts and half-snorts.
But I’ve seen him talk—to his brothers, to Marco.
Actual words. Short sentences, yes, but still.
So, he can talk. He just doesn’t waste words on me.
Right now, his side of the table is so cold I half-expect to see my breath when I exhale like we’re in some Arctic tundra.
How am I supposed to marry this man, let alone raise children with him? Children need warmth, laughter, and I’m pretty sure some actual human interaction. I’m not entirely sure he even knows how to smile, much less hold a conversation that doesn’t involve stony stares.
I stare at him. He stares back, completely blank.
This isn’t a fiancé.
It’s an iceberg in a dress shirt and jeans. A very attractive one, but rather than send heat throughout my body, I’m holding back shivers.
“Miss De Luca, do you need a minute?” Jaxon’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts, and I suddenly realize I’ve been locked in an intense staring contest with Rico.
I blink, shaking my head. “Nope, I’m good. Continue.”
“As I was explaining, I have Mr. Bennetti’s terms here, but I’ll need yours. These terms can be personal, including your preferences regarding marital relations.”
My face instantly catches fire. Did he just—?
“The marriage contract talks about…sex?”
The words come out strangled, like my throat just decided we’re done here and blocked any chance of oxygen. Am I hearing this right? There’s a legally binding sex clause in this contract?
I sneak a glance at Rico. No reaction. He’s sitting there, probably scheduling our sex life in his head with all the enthusiasm of a dental appointment.
Look, I’m not clueless. I know how sex works, thank you very much.
I’ve been there once—okay, once is generous—but it happened!
Still, how does one phrase that in a legally binding document?
Required to deliver orgasms on demand? I could totally get behind that clause.
But judging by his current I’m-dead-inside expression, I’m guessing he’s not exactly a passionate, rip-your-clothes-off kind of guy.
“This might help.” Jaxon slides a piece of paper across the table toward me. “These are Mr. Bennetti’s terms. We’ll draft the official contract once I have yours.”
I glanced at the paper, and my mouth hung open.
Term #1: Live with your husband.
Wow, what a privilege. I’m required to live with him. Great. But wait…
Term #2: You will have your own room.
Oh. Okay. So, not even the illusion of a normal marriage. Fabulous.
It keeps getting worse.
Term #3: Monitor ovulation and notify your husband accordingly for procreation purposes.
I’m sorry, notify him accordingly? Should I send a formal email? Maybe a Google calendar invite: Tuesday at 8 p.m.—Baby-Making Time. Please RSVP. Please click "yes," "no," or "maybe" if you will be attending.
The next few terms blur together—something about responsibly cutting back work hours when I get pregnant, a no-drugs clause (easy), and a responsible-alcohol-use clause (uh, might be trickier after today). But one thing stands out like a flashing neon sign: There’s nothing in here about fidelity.
Not a word.
My blood pressure spikes. I may not be a lawyer, but even I know that if it’s not in writing, it’s not enforceable. Translation: Rico Bennetti doesn’t give a damn about fidelity.
Nope. Over my cold, dead body. Or his.
I didn’t dodge an arranged marriage in the Cosa Nostra just to end up with a husband who views me as nothing more than a breeding machine while he plays out his real sex life elsewhere.
If this man thinks he’s getting away with some convenience marriage arrangement where I pop out heirs while he frolics in someone else’s bed, he’s got another thing coming.
I glance at Rico again. He's inching his chair back from the table as if I'm the carrier of some rash he can't risk catching.
“I have one stipulation already,” I say, trying to sound calm, even though my body is on fire.
My skin feels like it’s hosting a spontaneous bonfire, and my heart is doing a full percussion solo in my chest. If this is what they mean when they say your blood is boiling, I’m practically a human teapot.
I lock eyes with Rico. His expression doesn’t change—not even a flicker of curiosity or concern. Just that same unreadable mask he’s worn since the moment we met.
“There will be no extracurriculars,” I announce, feeling pretty damn proud of my fancy word choice.
Confidence, meet Allie. Please stick around. I’m going to need you.
“Extracurriculars?” Jaxon lifts a brow.
“No sex with anyone outside our marriage. It’s not in the contract, but if I’m expected to wave an ovulation flag every month, then I’m not sitting around while my husband waves his wiener at other women.”
Jaxon’s eyes dart from me to Rico, then to Marco.
The silence stretches, and the pit forming in my stomach grows bigger by the second.
Why does this feel like such a controversial request?
Shouldn’t fidelity be a given? Or…does Rico already have someone?
Is there a secret girlfriend waiting in the wings?
Am I going to be that wife—the placeholder while he keeps someone else on the side?
My pulse thunders in my ears as I wait. Rico’s dark eyes stay locked on mine, his face giving away absolutely nothing. But then, finally, he nods at Jaxon. Relief rushes through me—until Marco clears his throat.
“No therapists either,” Marco adds.
My head whips toward him. “Wait, what? Why no therapy?” I glance between Marco and Rico, their gazes locked in a silent, intense standoff. What is happening? Why is therapy a no-go? Therapy is great. It could even help this man learn to express more than a grunt or two.
“Yeah, Rico,” Marco drawls. “Why no therapists?” He tilts his head in that I’m about to stir some shit way that’s clearly designed to provoke a reaction, and surprisingly he does.
Rico’s jaw tightens, the muscle in his cheek feathering as he clenches his teeth hard enough that I half expect a molar to crack and skitter across the table. Rico still doesn’t speak, but Marco turns to me instead.
“It’s fine. I got it. Well, you see, my dear—”
“Fine. No therapists,” Rico interrupts, his eyes locking on mine for a fleeting second before turning to Jaxon. “No other partners, no therapists. Of any kind.”
My spidey senses tingle. I’ve never been to a therapist myself, but something tells me that Rico’s therapy sessions weren’t about working through whatever issues he has with guided breathing exercises.
“Okay then,” Jaxon scribbles a note on his legal pad with the same enthusiasm one might use while ordering a latte. “Anything else come to mind?”
“I can request anything I want?” I ask, tilting my head.
“Yes, and you should,” Jaxon replies, surprising me with his sudden tone of advocacy and the odd look he shoots toward Rico, as if he’s all in on me demanding more. “This is your marriage, too.”
My marriage. The words feel strange, like trying on shoes two sizes too small. Ideal marriage? Yeah, that ship sailed the minute I agreed to marry this statue. Still, if I’m stuck here, I might as well make some demands. Think of it as negotiation.
“Dinner together every night,” I say firmly.
The silence that follows is deafening. Rico’s eyes narrow, sending a frosty glare my way. But I don’t look at him. Nope. Best to avoid making eye contact when your husband-to-be looks like he’s mentally flipping through 101 ways to kill you with a spoon.
Besides, he may not find me attractive, but I’m not blind. The man is ridiculously good-looking. I’d rather not get lost in that right now. Confidence is a limited resource, and I need every drop.
Jaxon nods, scribbling furiously on his legal pad. Encouraged, I lean in, the heat of confidence filling my chest like a helium balloon. I’m floating now—might as well see how high I can go.
“And on the nights we… have sex,” I pause for dramatic effect, locking eyes with Rico, “you have to sleep in my bed. I’ll have my own room, fine, but I’m not going to be treated like some escort you toss a few bills at before you vanish into the night.”
Jaxon’s pen stills. “That might be a problem…” His gaze flicks toward Rico.
At least Mr. Stone Statue is no longer wearing his usual blank expression.
Nope. His jaw clenches so tight I’m pretty sure I can hear his molars screaming for mercy.
His eyes? Wolfish. Cold. Predatory. The kind of look that a normal person would run from, but a normal person wouldn’t be here negotiating marriage terms with a robot. So, there’s that.
I blink at him, refusing to back down. “Why would that be a problem?”
Marco taps a line on the paper in front of me, his finger practically burning a hole through the contract. I follow his gesture, rereading the clause I hadn’t fully absorbed earlier.
No touching or kissing.
I arch a brow. “So how exactly are we supposed to have sex if we can’t touch each other? Do we high-five from opposite sides of the bed and hope it counts?”
“Minimal touching,” Rico grits out, his voice as sharp as his cheekbones.
“Fine, then you can minimally touch me while you sleep on your side of the bed. Deal?” I fire back.
His lips press into a thin line, his eyes still locked on mine like we’re in a staring contest neither of us plans to lose. “Fine,” he bites out.
Jaxon clears his throat, clearly ready to move on, but I’m just getting started. The balloon is still rising, and I have plenty of air left.
“Once a week, you’re taking me out on an actual date,” I announce, my voice steady.
“Fine.” Rico’s voice is low and dangerous.
“And in public, you have to hold my hand.”
Jaxon’s brow lifts, the corner of his mouth twitching in what can only be described as barely concealed amusement. Clearly I’m making his day.
“Fine.”
Is he programmed? Like some human Siri, with preloaded responses? Because if I hear fine one more time, I’m going to throw something.
“Every morning,” I continue, “you have to tell me something about yourself. Something that isn’t work-related. And once a week, share a secret with me. Something only a wife would know about her husband. I’ll do the same.”
“Mr. Bennetti might need some time to consider these conditions.”
“Does Mr. Bennetti have a reset button?” I ask, cocking my head. Looking at the man who hasn’t so much as blinked at me. “Because I think he’s frozen and needs a reboot. Care to point me toward the reset button?”
Marco snorts, coughing to cover the laugh, while Rico remains as stoic as ever. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. I’m almost convinced the robot theory is closer to reality than I thought.
“One last thing,” I say, ignoring the looks from Jaxon and Marco.
“You,” I point directly at Rico, “are contractually obligated to spend time with me. Act like a real husband. Treat me like a wife.” That’s right. I used fancy legal terminology. In my defense, it was right there on the paper in front of me.
Jaxon leans forward, clearly entertained. “Care to specify what acting like a real husband entails?”
I shrug. “I’ll leave it open. Rico can work his way toward his comfort level. But I will not be some random breeding mare in his stable. He needs to show up and act like my partner, or you can take these contracts and—” I pull off my engagement ring and slap it down on the papers — “keep this.”
I push back my chair and stand, my pulse racing. Marco stands with me, buttoning his jacket as he glares at Rico.
Vinnie is already at the door, holding it open, but before I step through, I glance back at Rico, whose expression remains as blank as a sheet of paper. Jaxon still looks mildly entertained.
“When you’re ready to agree to my terms, come find me. Like a real man who wants a wife—not a uterus for hire.”
And with that, I walk out, holding in the trembles trying to shake my body, and hope that it comes off confident like I hold the power in this room.