14. Rico
Rico
Fuck.
I wasn’t avoiding her specifically. I avoid all people. It’s a full-time job. But if we’re being honest—and we are, because lying to myself would be redundant—I’ve made an extra effort to sidestep Allie De Luca like she’s a landmine with a countdown timer.
Not because I care. No, that would imply feelings, and I don’t do those. It’s just that every time she’s within a ten-foot radius, my body—traitorous and downright stupid—reacts in ways I have no interest in analyzing.
A single glance, a stray thought, and suddenly, I’m experiencing foreign sensations, like tingling and shuddering. Not exactly a symptom of repulsion, which is exactly the problem.
So, I’ve chosen the reasonable solution: avoidance. Until my body regains its senses and remembers that I am, in fact, not interested, she needs to stay the hell out of my airspace.
She doesn’t know my past, and my family hasn’t told her.
They never do. It’s one of those unspoken rules—like never asking Nonna how much wine she’s had or questioning Alex’s life choices when he broke it off with Violet.
We refer to it as "the incident," then promptly move on to happier topics, like real estate acquisitions, and why Luca should never be allowed near the kitchen.
But then I touched her. By accident. Instinct. And the look on her face when I recoiled made me want to kick my own teeth in. I rarely regret how people react to me—it’s a survival tactic—but the flash of hurt in her eyes made me, ever-so-briefly, feel like an epic ass.
Now I have to at least pretend to be pleasant so she doesn’t run before we make it to the altar.
Then again, maybe I should let her go. Maybe she should reconsider.
I am who I am, and there’s zero chance I’m changing, and this woman has that flicker of hope that she could be the one to change what will never bend.
Alex suggested I marry Tori instead. She’s batshit crazy enough to say yes without me having to fake a personality to coax her down the aisle.
Just flash a black Amex, and she’d be picking out napkin colors before I could blink.
But the thought of sharing a bed with Tori Valencia?
Yeah, no. Some crazy women have that appeal—the kind that makes you overlook the insanity because the sex is worth the psychiatric bills.
Tori isn’t one of them. She’s all lunatic, no reward.
And now my fiancée is crying.
I don’t handle crying adults. Babies, sure.
They have an excuse—they’re helpless. Adults?
No idea. Normally, I’d walk away, but we’re trapped in this fucking elevator with six floors to go and an entire evening ahead, where my family will look at me like I’ve joined the circus because I’m voluntarily showing up to this rehearsal.
For her.
So, I do the only thing I can think of. I grab her hand, lacing my fingers through hers.
Her skin is soft, her hand warm, and the contact sends an unwelcomed jolt right up my forearm.
I clench my free hand into a fist, flexing and releasing, forcing myself to stay in control.
I’ve never held an adult’s hand. My nieces and nephews little sticky hands?
Sure. But not a silky, warm hand like hers.
You have to touch her, you jackass. She’s your fucking wife. Besides, the contract literally says to hold her hand in public. Quit being a coward and deal with it.
Her body stiffens, her fingers lying limp in mine, and I can’t decide if she’s trying not to flinch or waiting for me to let go. I give her hand a light squeeze, inhaling slowly, steadying myself even as my chest tightens.
She’s alive. I’m barely breathing.
And I need to figure out why the hell that bothers me.
“I’m taking you to rehearsal.” I say for no other reason than to fill the silence. Again, not something I normally do, but here I am holding hands and speaking to someone I would rather be at least three states apart from.
The elevator doors slide open, Vinnie standing there like a human roadblock. His gaze immediately drops to where my hand is wrapped around Allie’s. Yeah, I get it. I’m surprised too. Desperate times and measures and all that bullshit going on.
She tries to pull away, but I tighten my grip and tug her back. Her hazel eyes dart between our hands and my face, searching for an answer. For once, she doesn’t seem to have one. Interesting. If this is all it takes to shut her up, I might start holding her hand every minute.
“Uh… I suppose we’re ready to go?” Vinnie’s looking at her when he says it, not me. Like I’ve got her on some kind of hostage transport, and he’s waiting for the signal to take me out and stage a rescue.
Vinnie, much like his brother, is a beast in human form—massive, dark-haired, built like he was sculpted in a war zone. But unlike his brother, he only offers smiles to one person, and it’s not me.
Allie starts toward him, but I tug her back. “You’re riding with me.”
Those wide, Bambi eyes squint while she’s trying to decode some hidden agenda. Good luck with that, Princess. I’ve spent years ensuring people only see what I allow them to, and what I allow is nothing.
“Riding with you?” Her enthusiasm is what you'd expect if I offered her a seat on a roller coaster built by a drunk contractor. Can’t tell if she’s horrified or intrigued, and I’m not invested enough to find out.
“Yes. My car’s out front.”
“You drive?”
I nod.
“Vinnie will follow.”
She stops short, tries to yank her hand away again. Tiny little thing, as if my hand doesn’t swallow her fingers entirely. I don’t let go. Does she not get that I’m making a point here? Jesus.
“Vinnie goes with me,” she argues.
“Only two seats.”
Her head tilts, baring the long, delicate line of her throat. Would she like my hand there? Or would she knee me straight in the balls? My money’s on the balls. This one may be a princess, but she’s no pushover.
Hell, she requested to leave the Cosa Nostra. That alone gives her more balls than ninety percent of the men still loyal to it. Maybe even ninety-five.
“How do you plan to take our kids around in a two-seater car?”
I’ll worry about our metaphorical kids and the logistics of driving them as soon as you’re knocked up. I shrug.
I glance at my watch and grunt.
I should be anywhere but here. Preferably in my office, hunting down the hacker who’s fucked with me like an irritating mosquito that won’t die.
Instead, I’m about to waste an entire evening surrounded by people, pretending to give a shit about a rehearsal for a wedding that feels about as real as my interest in socializing.
We’re going to be late. Late to something I already don’t want to attend.
“Let’s go.” I tug her toward the door where the doorman holds it open for us. I nod as we pass through and kick myself. I never nod. I just don’t give a shit to bother with it, and here I am nodding. What’s next? A “thanks man,” with a shoulder pat for good measure?
Vinnie gives us both a once-over. Not because he’s worried I’ll hurt her.
He trusts me about as much as I trust the general population—not at all.
No, he trusts his brother’s opinion of me.
Antonio has been my older brother’s shadow for years, and we all knew he had a younger brother in the Cosa Nostra, but I never thought it would come full circle like this.
Vinnie, out of the mafia, now playing watchdog for my soon-to-be wife.
Open the door for her like Mama taught you. Even if you think it’s stupid.
I yank the passenger door open, and those wide, curious eyes blink up at me.
Yeah, I know. Didn’t expect me to do it.
Her instincts are correct—I don’t normally.
Women want equality in every way unless it comes to opening doors or carrying groceries.
The equal opportunity act mysteriously expires in those moments.
Yes, I'm that much of an asshole, but at least I admit it, unlike 99. 9% of the male population.
She slides in without a word, the city lights catching the amber flecks in her irises. Green and gold and brown—pearlescent, almost. A rare beauty, pure and untarnished.
Pearlina.
I nod at Vinnie, who looks like he’d rather chew glass than leave her alone with me, but he still gets into his black sedan rental.
I round the car and slide into the driver’s seat.
My car is a sanctuary—one of the few places I think clearly. You have no choice when you’re stuck in Manhattan traffic for hours. It's think or develop a savage urge to commit vehicular manslaughter.
Checking my watch again, I exhale sharply. Five minutes late. Unacceptable.
I start the Porsche, letting the purr of the engine settle in my chest. My grip tightens on the steering wheel as I inhale a slow, measured breath before pulling into traffic.
Allie sits stiffly beside me, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles go bone-white. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at me. The silence stretches, and I try to convince myself I like it.
I don’t.
Not because I want to hear her voice, but because silence lets my mind wander. And my mind? Not a safe place to be.
I flick on the sound system. The fast, erratic rhythm of a piano solo floods the car.
Not that flowery classical bullshit that sounds like a lullaby—this is the piano playing that belongs to a man with a death wish, pounding the keys like he's on a caffeine overdose or in the middle of an existential crisis. Chaotic. Angry. Perfect.
I don’t turn to look at her, but I feel the weight of her stare burning into the side of my face.
Yeah, I get it. Not what she expected.
Her expression flickers with something I can’t place. But what sticks with me is that the moment I let go of her hand, my fingers didn’t immediately flex and unclench the way they usually do after touching someone.
Instead, my palm felt empty. Cold.
And for a split second—one I refuse to analyze—I wanted it back.