18. Rico
Rico
“You’re unbelievable,” Alex mutters, fingers tracing the rim of his untouched drink like he’s debating whether to hurl it at my face. “A real, genuine prick.” My money is on him throwing it in another minute if his attitude doesn’t shift.
I glance up from my scotch, indifferent.
Tell me something I don’t know. Though, I didn’t expect name-calling to be part of the pre-wedding toast. Especially not when I’m already more enthusiastic about undergoing a root canal without anesthesia than standing at the altar, pretending this farce means something.
I fixate on the wall behind Alex—cream-colored, old, the kind of old that comes from slapping paint over outdated wallpaper during a botched budget reno.
Cream like the overpriced ribbons strangling every pew in the chapel. Cream like the espresso foam I drown in coffee to tolerate mornings. Cream like my sanity slowly curdling in the heat of this suffocating room.
I unball my fists, stretching stiff fingers, but the dull ache barely registers.
My nerves are taut, frayed like the ancient blue-and-yellow carpet underfoot.
It’s threadbare, patched in places with what looks like duct tape, like someone figured the groom’s waiting room didn’t deserve even basic dignity.
Probably the same genius who thought hanging six pictures of Baby Jesus and an ominously large wooden cross would soothe a man investigating every life choice that led him here.
The air is thick and stagnant, like the room itself is holding its breath, waiting to see if I’ll bolt.
One window, cracked and useless, leaks just enough light to make the dust motes dance.
Papa blocks the only exit, seated like a kingpin overseeing a hit, glass in hand, eyes sharp.
No fresh air, no escape. Just four walls, one exit, and the crushing weight of tradition and expectation.
Maybe this is God’s final exam. Stick the reluctant groom in a windowless box, surround him with judgmental relatives, and see if he cracks.
Will he bolt? Pass out? Stand there like a moron and go through with the vows?
I hate tests. But I always ace them. Though, in this case, I’m not sure which outcome counts as passing—marriage or escape?
Papa, Alex, and Marco consume the air circulating in this room from hell.
Dom left to make sure my bride hadn’t bailed.
Smart. If anyone was fleeing this circus, the odds were always on her.
Alex, though, has apparently appointed himself my personal morality officer, which is laughable coming from a man who once tried to convince me scotch counted as a balanced dinner back when we were younger and our issues didn’t involve brides and babies and family commitments.
He crosses his arms, leaning in like proximity will make me care. “I know what you’re doing, and I don’t like it.”
“Doing what?” I take another sip, overlooking the heat of Papa’s gaze from the corner.
“Giving that girl false hope. Holding her hand? Showing up for the rehearsal? You either grew a heart overnight—which means hell froze over and the apocalypse is likely—or you’re playing nice just to make sure she shows.”
Can’t fault his logic. Even Marco gave me the side-eye when I walked into the church last night.
They know me too well. A man who actively avoids human interaction voluntarily taking part in anything remotely social?
Absurd. And yet, there I was, standing beside my bride-to-be, pretending to be halfway decent while my brain screamed at me to get the fuck out.
Lines were crossed last night. Personal boundaries eliminated. I’d touched her—twice. Willingly. And not in the perfunctory, let’s-get-this-over-with way I’d planned. Her skin had been soft, warm, the touch that messes with your head. It made little sense, and I hated it.
I grit my teeth, jaw tightening as the memory creeps back. If holding her hand for ten minutes made my pulse spike like I’d run a marathon, what the hell would a week of marriage do? A month? Twenty-four hours already feels like a stretch.
When I left rehearsal last night, I spent an hour in my gym abusing the heavy punching bag until my knuckles split.
The skin’s raw today, irritated and tight.
Good. It should be. If I don’t exorcise the tension deliberately, it festers, rotting from the inside out until it explodes.
And explosions? They don’t end well—for me or anyone caught in the blast radius.
The worst part? Holding her hand wasn’t awful. It was almost comforting, like she thought we were on the same team. Only one issue: I don’t do teams. I prefer a functionally detached lifestyle.
Am I giving her hope? Enough to get her down the aisle? Absolutely. Does that make me a bastard? Probably. But survival isn’t about kindness. It’s about strategy. I needed her facing me, not the door. Mission accomplished.
“You just gonna flip the switch and go back to yourself tomorrow?” Alex drawls from the corner, arms folded like some brooding high school principal gearing up for a lecture.
That was the plan. Obviously.
“She knows who she’s marrying.” I don’t look up from my glass, swirling the amber liquid until it catches the light.
“She’s not stupid. The way she looked at me last night—like she wanted to throw that gaudy-ass engagement ring at my head—tells me she’s under no delusion this is love.
I gave her crumbs. Just enough to keep her from bolting.
That doesn’t mean I’m setting the table. ”
My options are limited. So are hers. This isn’t romance. It’s survival with a diamond band.
Dom strolls back into the room, grin fading the second he catches the hostility clotting the air. He clocks Alex’s scowl, my stretched-out sprawl on a couch older than me, and the unspoken challenge floating between us.
“How’s she holding up?” Alex asks, like I’m not sitting right here. Like it’s not my fiancée he’s checking on.
I should be the one asking. But I’m me. So, I don’t.
“Nervous,” Dom says, gaze snapping between us. “But she said she’d be ready.”
His words hang there, waiting for someone to catch them. Neither of us does.
“Problem?” Dom pushes, eyes narrowing.
“Yes,” I said deadpan, pushing off the sofa with all the energy of a man heading to his execution. “He’s wasting my last minutes of freedom.”
Alex doesn’t recoil. He’s spent years developing immunity to my bullshit.
“I’m making sure you understand what you’re walking into.
You’re not just tying yourself to someone.
She’s tying herself to you. She’s moving into your house tonight, Rico.
Your space. Your time? Gone. You’ll have someone to answer to.
Someone who—whether you love her—deserves your respect and protection. ”
My gaze slides past him to Marco, who’s lounging like an emperor, scotch in hand, pompous smile firmly in place. He salutes me with the glass. Asshole.
“You’re really selling this marriage thing,” I mutter, jaw tightening. “I won’t disrespect her.”
I might be a bastard, but I’m not heartless.
I’ll respect her. I’ll give her space, keep the house running like clockwork, and stay the hell out of her way.
But the reminder that she’ll be living under my roof, eating meals across from me, expecting a conversation, date nights—dates, for fuck’s sake—makes my skin itch.
I’ve never willingly gone on a date in my life. Every single one was Mama-orchestrated, fueled by elaborate guilt trips and cloaked threats about disappointing the family name. And now? Now I’m willingly signing up for a lifetime of them.
Sure, I conceded to her terms. Dinners together.
Weekly dates. Occasional, limited affection.
But agreeing doesn’t mean enjoying. And I never promised words.
She can fill the silence, talk until she’s blue in the face, and have entire debates with herself while I nod, maybe grunt, and certainly exist — even if it’s against my will.
Being a husband doesn’t require dialogue. It requires presence. I can do presence. Silent, detached, efficient. Like a ghost in my home. She wanted freedom. I wanted peace.
Let’s see which one of us suffocates first.
The fact that my brothers think indifference equals disrespect pisses me off.
I might not give two shits about anyone in the romantic sense, but I’m not a complete sociopath.
I don’t kick puppies or trip old ladies—two things I’m not entirely convinced Marco doesn’t do.
I’m just chronically selective about who gets access to the mess in my head.
But disrespecting a woman who voluntarily shackled herself to me? Not happening. I’m already miserable enough for both of us. No need to spread that shit around like glitter—impossible to clean up and aggravating as hell.
Marco winks from the corner, swirling his scotch and completely at ease as he grins like a smug bastard my way.
The man lives to poke bears. If he ever ends up in a zoo, he’ll be the boob dangling a raw steak through the bars, laughing his ass off when the bear inevitably swipes at him.
Like he’s doing now, daring me to lose my cool.
I won’t. My fists might be clenched tight enough to cut off circulation, but I won’t give him the pleasure of a broken jaw. He’d wear it like a badge of honor.
“Let me worry about my wife.” The word feels foreign, like trying on someone else’s clothes. Doesn’t itch, and doesn’t fit quite right, but it’s wearable. Functional.
There’s no immediate urge to vomit, which I suppose is a favorable sign.
It also doesn’t thaw my cold, dead heart. But I assume you need an actual working one for that first.
Alex scoffs, sharp and humorless. “You do that.” Three words, five million meanings, and I catch every damn one. His eyes, glacier-blue and equally wintry, drill into me, judgment wrapped up in brotherly concern. Or disappointment. Hard to tell with him.
Dom glances at his watch like the coward he is. “We should, uh, head out there?” He thumbs toward the door, already inching toward escape.
Papa’s faster. He’s at the door, hand on the handle, watching me like I’m a ticking bomb and he’s the poor bastard assigned to cut the wire. Every man in this room is staring at me, waiting for something—meltdown, revelation, spontaneous combustion. Take your pick.
My stomach churns. Not from nerves. From inevitability. Out there, behind that flimsy wooden door, is a crowd. Pews stuffed with family and acquaintances. Not friends. I don’t do those. Too much upkeep. Family’s exhausting enough, and I can’t opt out of that subscription.
Even through the closed door, the hum of conversation leaks in—laughter, soft chatter, the unmistakable buzz of people enjoying themselves. Must be nice. I glance at my glass, the whiskey inside now an amber memory. I down the last, welcoming the burn as it scorches its way down my throat.
It’s the only warmth I’ll feel today.
Pushing off the couch, I button my jacket, never breaking eye contact with Alex. Stare all you want, big bro. You won’t find a soul to judge in here.
He’s the first to look away. Victory, however small. I tuck it away, savoring it as I stride out the door and into my personal purgatory.
Father Alberti stands at the end of the aisle, decked out in his ceremonial robes, smiling like he’s about to baptize a baby, not officiate the union of two people with less chemistry than distilled water.
Behind him, a wedding planner's dream board seems to have mushroomed all over the altar—flowers, candles, and unnecessary fabric drape from every conceivable surface.
“Happy day for you, son,” Alberti beams.
I glance at him. We clearly have different definitions of happy.
Dom, Alex, and Marco fall into place beside me. Dom’s tense, Alex looks like he’s preparing a bullet point list on why I’m an asshole, and Marco—smug bastard—grins at the fact he’s here.
He’s in my wedding party and I’m the only one to grant him the honor. The family lunatic standing beside me, while my “normal” brothers watch like they’re attending a funeral. Fitting if you think about it.
The thing is, Marco gets it. He understands me better than they ever will. Probably because his moral compass broke years ago, and no one bothered to fix it.
Not sure what it says about me that the most unhinged man in the room is the one I trust most.
Probably nothing positive.