13. Allie
Allie
I tap my pen against my notepad, staring at the latest crime scene that is my recipe.
Cocoa powder? Check. Still tastes like disappointment? Double check.
The list of ingredients before me is a war zone—crossed out, rewritten, rewritten again because it’s not right now matter what I try.
Maybe it’s time to wave the white flag.
Or maybe, just maybe, I’m not exactly in the right headspace to be testing new recipes.
Could have something to do with the fact that I’m getting married tomorrow.
Married. As in legally tied to another human being until death do us part, and if things keep going the way they are, that death part is looking real enticing.
His, not mine. I have things to do, places to see, people to meet.
None of which I would assume he has tucked under “life goals.”
Right now, I’m free. Kind of. Sure, I’m in the Don’s kitchen, but at least in here, I can pretend I have some semblance of control over my life.
Meanwhile, my future husband—the human embodiment of a walking Do Not Disturb sign—avoids me like I might literally carry The Black Death.
I haven’t even seen the house where I’ll be living. That little fun fact punched me right in the pride when Sienna—Dom’s wife, the actual personification of a Disney princess—tagged along while I shopped for bedroom furniture. For my bedroom. Singular. Not ours.
She frowned the entire time, and I knew why.
She kept asking—Why separate rooms?—and I couldn’t lie to her, not outright, so I danced around the topic.
Why they hadn’t told her this was an arranged marriage I’ll never know, but I would not break her heart.
She was too sweet and giddy about the fact Rico found a wife.
The real humiliation came when I went to pay, and they asked where to deliver it.
I had no answer. Not a clue. Didn’t even know my address.
So there I stood, my soul physically leaving my body, while Sienna—bless her sweet, all-knowing heart—stepped in and provided the address to my own future home.
Is this my future? A lifetime of playing twenty questions with myself because my husband won’t even text me back?
Oh yeah, let’s talk about that.
Rico, my dear fiancé, has yet to respond to a single message, including my very reasonable suggestion that we go to dinner before, you know, legally binding ourselves together for the rest of our natural-born lives.
To get to know each other.
To talk like normal people who are about to merge tax returns.
But no. Apparently, Rico has bigger things to do, like being a cryptid and communicating exclusively through short, passive-aggressive stares.
I can’t stop thinking about the vows. How we won’t even be saying our own. Just the standardized, paint-by-numbers wedding vows the priest will make us repeat.
We even rehearsed the wedding already. Without Rico.
His entire family didn’t look shocked. Not even a little. But the pity? Oh, the pity was real.
Each of them gave me the same tight-lipped smile, the kind that said, Sorry it’s like this, their eyes flickering with a sympathy I didn’t want or need as I walked down the aisle—practicing my wedding to a ghost—while Rico’s cousin stood in for him.
Tonight is the last rehearsal, but what’s left to rehearse? I’m marrying a man with all the warmth of a high-functioning Roomba. This wedding isn’t a romantic celebration—it’s a glorified business transaction with vows thrown in for legal purposes.
I planned everything down to the molecular level. My dream wedding, the picture-perfect event I always imagined.
As long as I mentally edit the reality of him out of my future, I can stomach this. I picture myself in a beautiful home, taking care of it how I want. Maybe working a job I actually enjoy. Having kids. Creating a life on my own terms.
It’s all perfect—until I remember I don’t get to do any of it solo. He’ll still be there in some form, lurking around the edges of my peace, the unwelcome spirit of a relative who refused to move on and now haunts the hallways muttering about duty and heir production.
And then there’s the part that’s been eating away at me, slowly eroding my resolve like the ocean chipping away at the cliffs. Mama isn’t here.
Not once has she shown up to help me pick a dress, argue over cake flavors, or offer unsolicited motherly wisdom I would pretend to ignore but secretly take to heart. The version of my wedding that lived in my head for years had her in it, and now, she’s not even taking my calls. Neither is Papa.
Not even Rico’s parents—who have the patience of saints, considering they raised him—could convince them to answer the phone.
I knew they’d be mad, but this? Their only daughter is getting married, and their response is radio silence? That’s cold. Even for Papa, a man who has spent most his life making legally questionable choices.
It makes everything feel even less real.
Not only do I not have my parents, but let’s be honest—my husband won’t really be a husband.
Violet, ever the optimist, keeps telling me Rico is a good guy, even if he doesn’t know how to show it.
Yeah. I’ll believe it when I see it, sista.
And then there’s Papa Ricardo’s generous six-month escape clause. “If you’re not happy, you have my blessing to divorce. I promise.”
Instead of relief, that statement hit like a brutal dose of reality.
Because let’s be honest—I won’t be happy in six months.
I’ll have my freedom from the Cosa Nostra. No longer Alessandra De Luca. No longer a pawn in my father’s power plays. I’ll be Alessandra Bennetti, a woman who can get a job, leave the house when she wants, make real friends.
But will I be happy?
No.
I scratch out the latest failed addition to my recipe and shove the notepad aside.
The clock reminds me I have an hour before I need to be at the church. A gorgeous church, white and grand, complete with towering pillars and breathtaking stained glass. The reception will be just as stunning. The wedding of my dreams.
Except for the minor detail that I’d rather have a root canal without anesthesia than actually go through with it.
A knock at the front door pulls me from my downward spiral, and I already know who it is—Violet.
Over the past few weeks, I’ve grown close to both her and Sienna, two of the few people who haven’t looked at me with pity eyes while trying to convince me that Rico’s behavior isn’t personal—it’s just him.
Great. So I’m marrying a man-shaped glitch in the Matrix.
Violet offered to go with me to the rehearsal tonight, probably because she’s seen the defeat on my face every time I send Rico an invitation, hoping he’ll actually show up this time.
He doesn’t.
So I go alone. Again.
I stand there like a loser, running through the motions while Rico’s cousin Eddie fills in for him because even attending the rehearsal is too much of a commitment for the man I’m about to marry.
I try not to let it get to me.
Just get through the wedding.
Get the job.
Things will get better, Allie.
That’s what I keep telling myself.
“One second, Vi!” I yell, scrambling to grab my clutch and dig through the black hole of my purse for my phone.
I don’t know why I bother checking. Seven messages.
Seven. And Rico hasn’t responded to a single one today or any day for that matter.
Not a thumbs-up, not a k, not even an emoji to mock me.
At this point, it’s on me. I’m like one of those tragic romance heroines who refuses to learn her lesson, clinging to hope when the very silent man she’s about to marry has made it abundantly clear that texting me back is not, nor will it ever be, on his to-do list.
With a deep sigh, I shove the phone back in my purse and make a beeline for the door, reveling in the fact that I’m wearing normal human clothing for once.
Goodbye designer dresses and ankle-snapping stilettos.
Hello, skinny jeans, cozy sweater, and flats that don’t make me contemplate sawing off my feet at the end of the day.
I fling the door open. “Sorry, I know I said I’d meet you downst—“
My words die a quick, unexpected death because the shoes in front of me are not Violet’s. Nope. Those are leather loafers. And they belong to someone far too tall and way too male.
My gaze travels upward in slow motion, like I’m in a horror movie realizing the call is coming from inside the house. And then—boom—all the air is violently ejected from my lungs.
Rico.
Standing at my door. In the flesh.
“What the—“ I blink. “Are you real? Or did I inhale too much cocoa powder earlier and now I’m hallucinating?”
I glance around the hallway, half-expecting a gotcha moment, like my life is some elaborate prank show and any second now a camera crew is going to pop out.
But no. It’s just Rico, standing there with his usual blank, emotionally bankrupt expression, scanning me from head to toe.
Great. If he actually spoke to me, he’d know I switched up my wardrobe weeks ago. But I don’t say that. What’s the point?
“What are you doing here?” I fold my arms, aiming for my best oh, now you acknowledge my existence? look.
His jaw tightens for half a second before relaxing. And then—is that a smile? No, it can’t be. But there’s something suspiciously close to one flickering on his lips. Like he’s trying, but it’s painful. Possibly life-threatening.
“Taking you to the rehearsal.”
I stare at him. Blink twice. “The rehearsal?”
The corners of his mouth twitch again. Okay, what the hell is happening? Rico Bennetti, trying to smile? If I had a bingo card for this engagement, I never would have marked this box.
“It’s in an hour,” he says, glancing at his watch, then back at me, looking confused. Which is ironic, because I am the one who should be confused. “Right?”
“Right.” I nod slowly, stepping out into the hall and closing the door behind me, still waiting for him to answer. “But why are you here?”
He tilts his head like I’m the one not making sense. “We’re getting married tomorrow.”