17. Allie
Allie
I’m getting married today.
For most brides, this is supposed to be the most joyous day of their lives, right? They’re all giddy and glowing, leaping around like caffeinated bunnies, counting down the minutes until they can pledge eternal devotion to the love of their life—or at the very least, a man they like.
Me? I’ve thrown up three times and am well on my way to a fourth. At this rate, I’m losing more weight than a contestant on a survival show.
Violet, bless her, has somehow pinned my hair into a sophisticated updo despite my repeated sprints to the bathroom. Every time I move too fast, she curses under her breath, threatening to glue my curls in place if I mess them up one more time.
When I’m positive I have nothing left in my stomach, my so-called “bridal squad” forces me into my wedding gown.
My bridesmaids—my soon-to-be sisters, Sienna and Violet, and my soon-to-be cousins, Valeria, Gloria, and Alena—are all smiles and sunshine, chattering excitedly as if I’m actually marrying a man who wants to be married to me.
They’re sweet, welcoming, and warm. The exact opposite of my fiancé.
But hey, if he insists on keeping a ten-foot pole between us at all times, at least I’ll have them. That’s something. It’s just not a marriage.
“Here,” Gloria shoves a champagne flute in my hand, the bubbles rising like tiny cheerleaders tormenting me. “You’re gonna need liquid courage to make it down that aisle.”
She’s not mistaken. But unless this flute magically morphs into a full bottle of tequila, it won’t be sufficient.
I chew on my lip, staring at the glass, then look up at Violet. “Is my…Papa and Mama out there?”
Her ever-present smile falters. “Not yet,” she murmurs.
Not yet.
Which means they presumably aren’t coming.
I knew this might happen, but it still stings like hell. Papa was supposed to walk me down the aisle, but ever since I chose my future, they’ve all but disowned me.
I get it. I do.
Papa operates on a very simple rule—his daughters are his leverage, and I just burned my contract. The second I asked the Don for a way out, I secured my fate in his eyes.
I knew I was betraying him the moment I spoke the words.
But this betrayal? It started long before I had the nerve to ask.
I told Papa when I was twelve that I didn’t want to be a mafia princess. I wasn’t stupid—I knew the deal. I knew that the moment I turned of age, I’d be married off like a prized mare, my future locked in a handshake between men who’d never asked what I wanted.
And I played along. Because I thought I had to.
Until I realized I didn’t. Until I found the courage to ask for something different.
And here we are. I’m still walking down an aisle. Still sealing my fate with a ring.
Only instead of Carlo Romano—the greasy, leering substitute—I’m marrying Rico.
Rico, the man who barely looks at me, barely communicates with me, and yet somehow, is still the better option.
Freedom comes with a price tag, right? Well, here’s mine.
I chug the champagne, ignoring the way my stomach protests, like a tenant filing a formal complaint with management. No time for digestion concerns—if I’m going through with this wedding, I need something to take the edge off.
Rico was...nice yesterday. Sort of. He looked at me. Spoke in actual sentences. Touched me—granted, only in the way a doctor might check a pulse, but progress is progress.
And because I’m a nitwit with a heart that refuses to listen to reason, a flicker of hope keeps trying to bloom in my chest. Maybe once he’s forced to be around me—sharing a house, eating dinners together, suffering my presence during our mandatory weekly dates—he might thaw.
He agreed to my terms, after all. This means at some point, he thought about spending time with me and didn’t immediately burst into flames.
Progress. Right?
“I still can’t believe this is Rico’s wedding,” Valeria says, tipping back her fifth flute of champagne with an ease that makes me think she might be immune to alcohol.
I narrow my eyes. “Yeah, well, neither can he.”
Gloria adjusts the train of my gown, her fingers smoothing the endless fabric layers.
I still can’t believe I found the dress.
The ivory fabric cascades in soft, shimmering waves, catching the light every time I move.
The bodice hugs my figure perfectly, with lace appliques trailing like whispers across the fabric.
The subtle sweetheart neckline gives it that romantic fairytale touch.
Too bad the man waiting for me at the altar is less Prince Charming and more stoic cyborg with emotional Wi-Fi issues.
The skirt flows in delicate layers of silk chiffon and tulle, pooling at my feet like something straight out of a bridal fever dream. Tiny hand-sewn pearls and beads glisten like morning dew, and the whole dress sways when I move, a masterpiece of elegance.
It’s the dress.
But it’s not the wedding.
And I’d be a buffoon to pretend otherwise.
“You can still back out, you know.” Violet plants herself in front of me, grasping my hands like she’s about to stage an intervention. Which, honestly, she should have done three weeks ago.
I force a smile. “Nah. I already paid for the cake.” Okay, Rico did, but his money is my money in about twenty minutes, since that elegant marriage contract had a rather careless prenup — odd for a man with his wealth.
Her lips press into a flat line, and I don’t miss the way she studies me—like she’s analyzing an emotionally compromised heroine in one of her novels. Which, to be fair, she is.
She keeps pausing mid-conversation to jab a finger in the air, eyes going wide. “Wait! I need to add this to my notes. This is gold. How did I not think of this before?”
And then she rambles, typing at warp speed, already plotting how to turn my marital horror story into her next bestselling romance minus the horror.
Not sure how I feel about that one.
"Is he... mean?" The words choke out of me before I can stop them. They’ve been festering in the back of my mind since the moment I met Rico.
His entire family keeps their distance. No one touches him, and the man never smiles.
I have to know—am I walking into a life of silence, or something much worse?
I’ll walk down that aisle. I’ll marry him to get out of the Cosa Nostra. I’ll say I do to my freedom, not the man standing next to me. But I refuse to escape one prison, only to be locked in another.
Violet’s green eyes nearly swell out of her skull. “What?”
I hold her stare, refusing to let the question hang between us. “Is Rico mean? Will he hurt me?”
Silence.
The kind that makes my stomach turn, the champagne I just downed sloshing around like it’s looking for an exit.
These women didn’t grow up like I did—where husbands do beat their wives and the men around them turn a blind eye.
Marco Bennetti doesn’t tolerate it, but that doesn’t mean it never happens.
It just means no one snitches. No one tells him what he doesn’t want to hear.
Maybe Rico is the same. Maybe his family keeps their mouths shut because they don’t want to admit what he really is.
Because every time I’ve been in his presence, his hands clench into fists, so tight the skin turns bone-white, like he’s resisting the urge to snap something. Or someone.
Violet tightens her grip on my hands. Gloria stops fussing with my dress. The air clots with something unspoken, and the longer they all stare at each other, the more the panic builds, snaking up my throat.
“No,” Violet finally says, her voice tender as silk. “He’s not mean. He’s just… Rico.”
I blink. “What the hell does that mean?”
She looks at the others. Sienna gives me a strange look, as if I should already know the answer to this before asking. But she doesn’t seem to understand this is an arrangement, and I’m not about to correct her.
Finally, Violet sighs. “All I know is that there was an… incident when he was younger. Alex says it’s why he is the way he is, why the family doesn’t push him.
Except now.” She waves at my dress, at the room, at all of this, as if I needed a reminder that Rico is being forced into this just as much as I am.
“But they give him space because that’s what he needs, and he doesn’t enjoy being touched, so they make sure not to. ”
I open my mouth, about to ask how the hell am I supposed to consummate a marriage without touching my husband? But she keeps going.
“Rico’s been around my kids, and Sienna's. And he’s never been unkind.
He may not talk much, or at all, but he’s amazing with them.
I trust him with my children. They love Uncle Rico.
Swear he talks to them, though I think they mistake his grunts and occasional snorts for words.
” She giggles, then snorts, then stops, realizing now might not be the best time.
Gloria speaks up next. “He’s not mean. He’s just… detached. And he’s been that way since he was a kid. But I’ve never seen him violent. Outside of the boxing ring with his brothers and Marco, that is. So no, he won’t physically hurt you.”
Physically.
I don’t miss the significance.
“But he could still hurt me in other ways.”
Violet tugs on my hands, forcing me to look at her.
“What she means is that Rico might hurt you unintentionally. If you get attached to him. Because he’s not capable of feelings or emotions, at least not in the way you want him to be.
If you go into this expecting him to change, expecting him to love you back, you’re the one who’s going to end up hurt. ”
I didn’t quite picture my wedding day including a Will my husband hurt me? discussion, but here we are.
Still, I’m not stupid. I don’t plan to fall in love with a man who doesn’t want me. I know exactly what I’m signing up for.
And yet…
There’s this na?ve pinhole in my laboriously constructed walls.
A tiny, troubling speck that refuses to let me believe he’s as empty as they say.
Because for all his coldness, all his silence, he gave me something yesterday.
There’s a knock at the door—soft, hesitant, almost like the person on the other side knows they’re walking into a room full of estrogen-fueled nerves.
Dom steps inside, and I take a second to remind myself that no, this is not my almost-husband suddenly deciding to show up and be charming. Because that would require emotions and facial expressions, and we all know Rico doesn’t do either of those.
Dom? Smiles. Laughs. Uses actual words instead of terrifying blank stares. He’s basically a living alternate reality version of what my future husband could be if he wasn’t, well… Rico.
“You look beautiful, Allie.”
I don’t know if it’s the sincerity in his tone or the fact that, for once, a Bennetti man is looking at me with something other than indifference, but I nearly tear up. Instead, I keep it together and brandish a smile. “Thanks, Dom."
“You ladies ready to waltz down the aisle in fifteen?” He turns to Sienna, but his gaze flicks back to me. Everyone glances at me.
I don’t miss how they’re all collectively holding their breath, like I’m a spooked horse they’re trying not to startle.
And sure, I could make a run for it. Could yank up my dress, throw off my heels, and take off down the street like some runaway bride—except this isn’t a movie, and Julia Roberts isn’t here to help me figure out my life after I take off sneakers and all.
But here’s the thing: Rico is my ticket out.
And yesterday… he touched me.
A man who allegedly doesn’t like to be touched, who flinches when people get too close, held my hand.
It wasn’t much. It wasn’t love. Hell, it wasn’t even affection.
But it was something.
And maybe, just maybe, that something is worth walking down that aisle for.