11. Rico
Rico
Alex and Dom look at me like they’ve just won the lottery of blackmail material, their eyes lighting up as they read Allie’s list of demands for our marriage contract.
If Allie had sprouted wings and breathed fire during the meeting, it would’ve been less surprising than the barrage of conditions she threw at us.
And yet, it wasn’t her sudden transformation into a demon queen that threw me.
No, it was the way my body betrayed me—my cock hard as steel at her little power play.
Unideal reaction.
"Jesus," Dom chuckles, holding the paper like it’s the funniest thing he’s read in years. "No therapists? How the hell did she find out about that?"
"Marco," I say flatly, already plotting how to make him pay for that little betrayal.
Marco knew exactly what he was doing when he mentioned therapy, like a cat batting at a mouse just to see what happens.
He knew damn well I wasn’t cheating—technically.
Therapy, in my world, has always been code for scheduled, no-strings sex with a woman who gets it.
No feelings, no foreplay, no pillow talk. Just clinical, detached efficiency.
My weekly 15-minute sessions were part of my survival strategy.
Some people meditate, others take up yoga.
I have a standing appointment with a woman whose last name I don’t care to know.
There’s no kissing, no undressing. Scheduled and controlled, like everything else in my life. No complications. No emotions. No mess.
But now, thanks to Marco, Allie wants it all—complete fidelity, no loopholes. Cute.
Alex’s shoulders shake with laughter. "Man, you’re really in it now.
So when’s your last session?" He practically spits out the word "session," mocking the ridiculous euphemism my family has embraced for years. God forbid anyone in this family just say what it is: I’ve been banging an escort once a week for years.
"Tomorrow," I say, running a hand down my face. "I’ll cancel it after that."
Dom smirks. "Sure you will. Going out with a bang?" He pauses, his eyes glinting with something far too amused for my liking. "Or no bang at all?"
I roll my eyes, refusing to dignify that with an answer.
My brothers have no boundaries, and yet somehow the words Rico fucks an escort can’t pass their lips without adding quotation marks or pretending it’s an alternative therapy.
The irony is astounding, considering our family’s habit of openly discussing everything from childbirth to favorite sexual positions at family dinners.
"She’s married anyway, right?" Dom asks, his tone turning slightly more serious.
"Yeah. Not that it matters. It’s over."
It’s not a lie. Ending it is logical. Allie wouldn’t understand—hell, I don’t expect her to.
My "therapy" was never about infidelity or affection. It was about control. Control over my needs, my desires, my dark corners that no one, least of all my wife, should ever have to see. Allie’s the kind of woman who expects hand-holding and confessions under the stars. She doesn’t need to know that my version of sex is cold, calculated, and devoid of anything resembling intimacy.
And now, I’m expected to figure out how to be a husband without relying on the only routine that’s kept me sane. Just me, my hand, and a lot of creative thinking is my bleak new future.
"You’re really not going to share a room or a bed? You just want her to what—holler when she’s ovulating?" Alex leans against the table, frowning down at the contract in front of him.
I shrug. They act like it’s a reckless move.
It’s not. It’s damage control. For her. For me.
For whatever’s left of my grip on reality.
Sharing a bed is a risk I don’t need to take—too much room for error.
She rolls over and touches me in her sleep?
Could be fine and I just flinch away, or I might swing first, wake second.
Hasn’t happened in a while. Not since I started keeping my stress levels in check.
But with what’s coming, I’d bet good money on a relapse.
From my research, she’ll ovulate once every 28 days (give or take).
Her fertility window is around five or six days, but the two golden days before ovulation and the day of are the jackpot.
That’s it. Two to three nights of hell every 28 days.
Manageable. I’ve survived on less sleep for worse reasons.
Eventually, once she realizes there’s no misunderstood prince buried beneath the layers of my dead exterior, she’ll stop asking me to share her bed. She’ll take what she needs and then let me retreat to my corner of the world. We’ll both be better for it. Trust me.
"Rico," Alex’s voice drops the usual mockery. He’s no longer grinning like a jackass. His eyes flick toward Jaxon, who takes the hint and steps out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
"What?" I snap, knowing damn well where this is heading. If he dares compare me to him or Dom again, I swear I’ll lose it. We are not the same. Never have been, never will be.
"You’re not just signing a contract. Yeah, you’ve got your terms laid out to keep everything under control, but you’re about to make a family.
You can’t control everything, Rico. How’s this gonna work when you have kids?
Are you gonna keep your wife in a guest room while raising your kids like roommates?
What are you gonna teach them about relationships?
That parents barely speak, sleep in separate beds, and interact only when absolutely necessary? "
I don’t see the issue with that way of thinking, but that doesn’t stop him from continuing with his lecture.
"When she gets pregnant, she’s gonna need help—support.
You can’t just hide in your office, tapping away at code while she figures it all out alone.
I don’t know her well, but she seemed nice.
Sweet, even. This setup? It’s gonna hurt her.
If you’re dead set on not having a real relationship, marry someone like Tori.
You know she’d be happy swiping your credit cards and living in different wings of the house. "
Tori? Absolutely not. That woman is one screw loose away from going full-blown apocalyptic crazy. She’s not raising my kids. Hell, she can barely raise her voice without it turning into a banshee-like wail that makes dogs howl. Seen it myself. I'm still traumatized.
"Allie knows what she’s getting into. She’s seen the demands." I nod toward the contract she might as well have lit on fire this morning.
"Seeing them and living them are two different things, Rico. What happens when she realizes the reality is ten times worse than what’s written on that paper? What if she’s unhappy?"
Then she can join the 99% of us in this world who aren’t happy, unlike these two unicorns sparkling across from me.
"I’ll make sure she works, follows her dreams, and has everything she needs to be happy."
Dom snorts under his breath, but leaves the lecture to Alex.
"Sure, Rico," Alex says, pushing off the table. "Just know, when this whole thing backfires and she’s either miserable or ready to stab you in your sleep, I get to say I told you so."
"Good," I deadpan. "You can have it engraved on my headstone."
He chuckles as he heads for the door. "I might just do that."