15. Allie
Allie
The moment Rico pulls up to the church, he sticks his hand in my face.
I blink at it. What is this supposed to be?
A high-five? A weird power move? A poorly executed magic trick?
Assuming it’s his caveman way of telling me to stay put, so I lean back in my seat and let him do…whatever this is. He jumps out, stalks around the front of the car like a man on a mission, then yanks my door open and—boom—there it is again.
The hand.
Silent. Insistent. Suspiciously polite.
What is this? A thing now? Are we suddenly a couple that holds hands in public? Because last I checked, the man gripping my fingers like a contractually obligated lover had spent the last three weeks ghosting me harder than a bad Tinder date.
I hesitate. His face is its usual blend of cold indifference, an emotionless wall of ‘fuck off’ energy, so I have zero clues about what’s happening here.
Fine. Two can play this game.
I slide my hand into his. It's no big deal.
Sure, I don't feel that jolt of something traitorous up my arm, and no, I will not think about what it means.
I have enough to decode this evening as it is.
The moment his fingers curl around mine, warm and strong, my stomach turns into a cage fight between a hundred caffeinated butterflies. I need a bouncer in there, stat.
But then—oh no—he doesn’t let go.
Instead, Rico shuts the door, locks the car, and keeps holding my hand like we’re a normal couple who do normal couple things. We are so far from normal it doesn’t share the same zip code as us. What’s his game?
I’m convinced I’m hallucinating. It’s not like I’ve gotten much sleep lately—thanks to him and the stress levels he’s cranked up times ten. So maybe this is my little crazy mirage, or I’m dreaming. I’d pinch myself, but my hand is occupied.
Just to test my reality, I decide to not hold back.
I don’t let my hand go all limp-noodle like in the elevator when he pulled that unexpected squeeze maneuver.
Nope. I engage. Give it a little flex. Rub my pointer finger across one of his, even if it’s making my skin ignite.
He doesn’t enjoy being touched. So why not see if he notices?
He does…and he still doesn’t let go.
What is happening?
I keep walking, but the man’s legs are the length of a commercial airliner’s runway, and I’m out here hustling just to keep up.
Three steps to his one. I might as well be power-walking.
If this were three weeks ago, I’d be sprinting in stilettos and praying my ankles didn’t file for divorce.
Flats? Best decision I’ve ever made. My feet, previously plotting a coup, have now called off their revolution.
Unfortunately, I seem to be faster clicking away in heels than running in ballet flats. Go figure.
We reach the stairs of the chapel, where we’re supposed to get married, and Vinnie is already lingering behind us, watching and waiting for whatever might leap out — like my fiance's personality.
And suddenly, it all hits me.
I’m standing outside a church, hand-in-hand with my fiancé, a man I’ve barely seen in the last three weeks, heard from even less, and exchanged fewer words with than my distant cousin in Italy—who, by the way, only calls once every two years.
And now, we’re supposed to stand in front of a priest and pretend like this whole thing isn’t absolutely absurd?
The urge to break into hysterical laughter is strong.
But I swallow it down because if I laugh, I might not stop.
Father Alberti stands at the door, looking every bit the part of a man pushing eighty—gray and white hair slicked back, sterling-gray eyes, and a face full of wrinkles that somehow glow when he smiles. Except right now, he’s not smiling.
Nope, the moment his gaze lands on Rico, his entire body stiffens like he just saw a ghost, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape.
“Rico…” he starts, but the sentence dies somewhere between his throat and the pearly gates.
It’s not fear. No, it’s shock. Pure, unfiltered Rico Bennetti is voluntarily at a church shock.
Welcome to my world, Father. No one knows how to handle it. Least of all me.
“I am glad you came, son.” His voice is gracious, full of sincerity, as he lifts a hand to pat Rico’s shoulder.
Rico jerks back rapidly, recoiling like he just got hit with a cattle prod. Father Alberti barely reacts, just gives him a knowing nod. “Apologies. I forget sometimes.”
“It’s fine,” Rico says, though his tone makes it clear it’s not.
My mind, however, is now a runaway train of questions. Why doesn’t he like to be touched? Trauma? A lifelong aversion to human interaction? Was he programmed this way, a mix of half-robot, half-statue, with just enough humanity to be annoyingly attractive?
Because let’s be clear, this whole brooding, cold, untouchable thing? Way too hot for my sanity. Then again, I’m thinking I’m not all that rational to begin with.
I always imagined my future husband would be adoring—whispering sweet nothings in my ear, bending over backward to treat me like a queen.
Instead, I’ve somehow ended up handcuffed (figuratively, not yet literally, but there’s still time) to a man who broods for sport, talks in monosyllables, and looks like he has an allergy to physical contact.
“Thank you for hosting us one more time,” I say to Father Alberti, who beams at me and then pats my cheek. Like I’m five. Like I’m some adorable little princess instead of a fully grown, tax-paying adult. Okay, so I’ve never paid taxes, but I also never had an income.
I ought to be agitated. But honestly? It’s more warmth than I’ve gotten from the man holding my hand, so I’ll take it.
Apparently, you can leave the Cosa Nostra, but you’ll still forever be treated like a delicate little mafia princess. Even by the neutral ones, like Father Alberti. Sure, he’s technically Switzerland, but let’s not pretend the “family’s” generous pockets did not n’t fund him.
The moment we step inside the chapel, I come to a sudden stop—so fast that Vinnie, who was walking right behind me, smacks into my back. Hard.
I let out a startled oomph, Vinnie’s arm instantly circling my waist to keep me from face-planting in the house of God. And Rico? Oh, he notices.
His hand tightens around mine, grip firm, gaze laser-focused on exactly where Vinnie is touching me.
A flicker of something—something sharp, something possessive—crosses his face before Vinnie mutters a quick, “My bad,” and lets go.
Jealousy? Doubtful. But a girl can fantasize.
The chapel is dead silent. And not in the holy, reverent kind of way.
His entire family is looking at him like he just grew a second head, which means this is not normal behavior for him.
But let’s not kid ourselves—he didn’t come for me.
Nope. This isn’t some grand romantic gesture.
He’s just making sure I don’t bolt before the wedding.
Probably caught wind that I’d been having second thoughts and slapped some metaphorical handcuffs on me in the form of showing up.
It will take better manipulation tactics than that.
I grew up in a world where you learned to exploit things in your favor by four.
The more significant worry here is Violet or Sienna definitely blabbed.
Never drink four glasses of wine and then tell your two newly minted best friends you might not go through with a wedding. Because one of them is married to his brother, and apparently, loose lips sink my plans.
Sure, I’ve entertained a few escape fantasies involving a stolen motorcycle, a fake passport, and a discreet relocation to a country where no one knows my name.
But after drafting an extensive pros and cons list—complete with a gray area column, because Violet swears by it (seriously, she used the same method to name her kids)—I concluded.
The pros? Freedom.
The cons? Being legally tied to a man who avoids me like I’m a telemarketer calling about his car’s extended warranty.
The gray area? That held the strength of a high-powered Dyson sucking up most of my list items. Which, frankly, was not helpful.
So, here I am. Marching toward a future that may or may not include a divorce, but at least it means I get out. And if Ricardo—er, Papa, because apparently, that’s what I’m expected to call him now—is serious about giving me an out after six months, then I have a safety net.
I don’t love Rico. I don’t even like him. Hard to like a man you barely know.
Favorite color? No clue. Food preferences? Who knows? Blood type? Well, in the Cosa Nostra, that’s kind of important since, you know, gunshot wounds happen. Not if, but when situations.
But one thing I know?
Rico Bennetti will never love me. And that’s a reality I need to get cozy with now.
“Rico!” Rico’s mother clutches her chest like she’s this close to fainting, then barrels through the small crowd and flings her arms around him like he’s been lost at sea for a decade.
And here’s the kicker: the man flinches.
Actually flinches. Like physical contact burns him, but he’s too polite (or dead inside) to yank himself away from his mother.
He barely returns the hug, one arm stiffly patting her back, while his other hand crushes mine in a grip so tight I’d like to remind him that bones are fragile.
Regardless, even though he’s incredibly uncomfortable, the man can and will hug. Under the ideal circumstances, at least.
Cecilia—whom I’ve also been told to only call Mama—pulls away, pressing a hand to her heart. “Right, sorry, Rico. I just got so excited when I saw you.”
Excited? Really? Is this man a rare sighting? Should we alert National Geographic?
It’s not just me. He avoids touching everyone.
And no one will tell me why.
Violet and Sienna swear it's something he has to tell me. That it’s not chatted about in the family. That I’ll understand when he’s ready to share.
Which is adorable, truly, because this man doesn’t share. He barely speaks. At this rate, I’ll learn his tragic backstory from a carrier pigeon before he voluntarily tells me himself.
And just like that, he drops my hand and walks off.
Not a single word.
Not an ounce of shock from me either while we are at it.
Violet and Sienna creep up beside me.
“Did you bribe him?” Violet whispers.
I snort. “Nope. I answered my door, expecting you, and boom, there he was.”
Which reminds me. “Where were you?”
“Alex told me you were riding with Rico, so we came alone.”
“Okay, no bribes,” she allows, “but, like… he doesn’t come to things. Wedding-related or otherwise.”
She winces, then promptly plasters on a smile like that somehow softens the truth, even if we both know there’s a high probability he doesn’t show tomorrow.
“Sorry! I just meant… he’s not really a family gathering kind of guy. But I promise he’ll be there tomorrow. I mean, he comes to family stuff, but not all of it. The kids' birthdays he never misses, but there are times he’s just…Rico. But for your wedding, he will be there. I promise.”
Only now her voice wobbles a little. And that wobble sparks one very troubling thought:
Is there a chance he won’t show up?
Am I about to be the bride who gets left at the altar by the silent man?
Oh, that would officially be rock bottom. No coming back from that one.
“But!” Violet chirps, chipper as ever, like a woman who did not just say my fiancé is a habitual no-show. “He came tonight! Sooo, progress, right?”
She pops her shoulders up, smiling—forcing it, if I had to guess—while her eyes dart between Rico and me like she’s trying to manifest good vibes.
Father Alberti shuffles up behind us, placing a cold, frail hand on my shoulder. “Ah, seems we’re all here.”
He moves between us, making his way toward Rico, who’s already deep in conversation with his brothers — again, only more evidence the bastard can talk. But…not to me.
“Let’s begin,” the priest announces, then fixes a pointed look at Rico, lips pressing into a thin line. “And remember, after tonight, no seeing your bride. It’s bad luck.”
Oh, please.
I barely hold back a snort, but thanks to years of being trained to be gracious and proper in public, I keep it bottled up.
Because let’s be real: Rico has zero plans of seeing me tonight, or any night after this, unless enforced.
Hell, I wouldn’t be shocked if someone has to tow him to the wedding tomorrow.
Because that’s what this is. A transaction. A deal.
I get my freedom.
He gets to please his parents with an inheritance bonus.
That’s it.
And that’s all it will ever be.