20. Rico
Rico
It’s official. Besides everything else this woman has done in the few weeks I’ve known her—and actively avoided her—she’s solidified that one assumption: she steals shit.
A gorgeous, cunning thief currently rewiring my internal circuits with the finesse of a world-class hacker.
And I can’t look away.
She stole my breath and refused to give it back.
Tiny pinpricks crawl up my spine, the familiar warning of overstimulation.
Too much eye contact. Too much exposure.
My nervous system waves the white flag, but she’s got me cornered.
Thief and kidnapper, apparently. Because I sure as hell can’t escape, and my lungs remain stubbornly empty.
I’m not blind.
I knew she was beautiful when we met. It’s hard to miss when every inch of her is perfect. But I blamed my sped up heart rate and blood pressure on the involuntary celibacy this marriage has shoved me into, not her specifically. It’s biology. A glitch in the system. Nothing more.
Then she stepped onto the aisle, and I immediately wondered how many engineers it took to glue her into that dress. No way something that fitted that smooth—that damn sparkly—isn’t held together by sheer willpower and industrial adhesive.
She moves like she holds the world. Chin up. Shoulders back. Striding toward her future with a confidence that makes the room shrink around her. Unfortunately, that future includes me.
Her dress is white. Obviously. Because this entire spectacle is built on traditions that hold about as much weight as a politician’s promise.
Worse, the fabric doesn’t just cling to her curves; it reveres them.
Soft, flowing lines interrupted by lace that snakes up her body like elegant armor.
Fitting. Can’t blame her for suiting up, considering she’s about to marry a monster.
Her dark hair is pinned back, but long, loose tendrils escape, curling around her face. And her eyes—hazel, intense, locked onto mine.
My pulse picks up. Faster. Louder. I know the fix—look away.
Stare at the wall behind her. Focus on the sea of bodies packed into the pews, all here to witness the Bennetti family’s latest business merger.
But I don’t. I hold her gaze like a drowning man clasping to driftwood.
Because the substitute is facing the reality crashing down around me.
Hazel like fall leaves that can’t decide if they’re clinging to summer or surrendering to fall.
Green like grass untouched by lawnmowers or drought.
Hazel like the aged pages of an antique book, fragile but enduring.
Gold like dusk, that fleeting moment when the sky forgets its color and hangs in limbo, caught between light and dark.
My fists clench and unclench, tendons straining as I attempt to override my inner malfunctioning. How long does this damn aisle have to be? Does no one else feel like we’ve slowed to half-speed?
Her lips press together, vacant expression betraying nothing. Is she seconds from a smirk or a scowl? Could go either way. But her eyes never leave mine, not even when Papa hands her over. My soon-to-be wife.
And she’s not scared of me.
Which is the best thing that could happen—or the worst.
Knowing my part—thanks to last night’s colossal waste of time disguised as a rehearsal—I extend my hand. Her gaze flicks down to it, brows pulling together like I’ve just offered her a live grenade.
Take it, Pearlina. As if telepathy works now. If it did, I’d be somewhere far from here in heavenly silence, not standing in a church with enough floral arrangements to prompt an allergy epidemic.
After what feels like a full five minutes, but is likely a few seconds, her fingers slide into mine.
Soft. Small. Like everything else about her—deceptively delicate, until you realize the core’s pure steel.
She glances up, meets my eyes for a beat, then flicks her gaze at the priest, already checking out of this moment.
I’m barely registering whatever poetic drivel Father Alberti’s spewing. The man’s practically glowing. Maybe he missed the memo that we’d both rather face a firing squad.
The vows start. Repetitive. Predictable. Words people toss around like confetti, pretending they’re more than air. Honor. Cherish. Forsake all others.
Empty, for most. But not for me. I don’t speak often, but when I do, I mean it. Efficiency of language. If I promise something, I will keep it. Which makes reciting these vows less absurd and more… binding.
Allie’s eyebrows creep higher with every word I echo, like she’s questioning my grasp of the English language—or my sanity. Both are fair assessments. Her lips part soft and plump, a shade of pink that looks more like temptation than makeup.
What the hell did she put on them? I’m seconds away from leaning in, biting that bottom lip, and seeing if it tastes as good as it looks. For a man who made his soon-to-be-wife sign an agreement on no kissing, I’m sure thinking about doing the opposite more than is necessary.
I tighten my grip on her hand, grounding myself in skin-on-skin reality.
She inhales calmly before her turn, and something sharp lodges itself into my chest. Not irritation—I know that intimately. Not anger, either. This is different. Heavier. As if someone stacked bricks on my ribcage while I wasn’t paying attention.
There’s a tightness in my throat, and my stomach feels like I swallowed a boulder. It’s just sitting there—heavy, immovable, and smug about it. I’m holding her hands, parroting vows I barely registered, while every nerve in my body paces like it knows something I don’t.
The logical part of my brain—what’s left of it—is already running diagnostics. Heart attack? No. Stroke? Unlikely. Emotional malfunction? Christ, let’s hope not.
Then I make the mistake of meeting her eyes.
She shifts, bracing for impact, and there it is—a flicker. Quick, but loud enough to drown out everything else. The weight in my chest doubles down, pressing like a debt collector who doesn’t take rain checks.
I should say something. Do something. But I just stand there, suffocating on a feeling I can’t name and already hate. And the worst part? She’s the reason for it, all wide-eyed innocence, utterly unaware she’s disabling me from the inside out.
She recites her vows, inhaling between each word like oxygen might be the only thing keeping her upright. When she stumbles over “forsaking all others,” my hand tightens around hers before my brain even catches up to my body. She gasps, eyes darting to mine, but she doesn’t let the pause stretch.
But why the hell did I do that? Comforting someone isn’t exactly my brand.
And yet, her nerves were so thick in the air they might as well have been secondhand smoke curling around me, dragging me under.
I squeezed her hand the same way I had last night, like muscle memory kicked in before common sense could hit the brakes.
Father Alberti’s voice yanks me out of my thoughts. “You may now kiss the bride.”
Right. Kiss. Wedding. Marriage. Shit.
Her eyes snap up to mine, wide but incomprehensible. Fear? No. Excitement? Please. The woman’s about as thrilled as someone volunteering to hand out flyers on the corner for minimum wage and twelve hours in the sweltering summer sun.
I step forward, one hand instinctively finding her waist while the other cups her jaw.
It’s such a cliché move that I almost laugh.
Where the hell did I pick this up? Certainly not from personal experience.
My usual MO involves an obligatory nod, and a strategically timed exit.
Maybe Violet’s books — which, for the record, I read purely to support my sister and for no other reason—taught me more than I ever wanted to know about seduction by proximity.
God help me if I’m subconsciously channeling one of her book boyfriends.
I pull her closer, my lips brushing against hers in the barely-there kiss meant to check a box and avoid any lawsuits. Done. Complete. We can move on now.
But we don’t.
Because the second our lips meet, something stalls out in my brain.
Heat licks up my spine, acute and searing like someone poured gasoline on my nerves and flicked a match.
Without thinking—because thinking would involve realizing how fucked this is—I tighten my grip and crush my mouth to hers.
A gasp escapes her, high and breathy, before I swallow it whole.
My lips move against hers, demanding, taking, consuming.
I angle her face, fingers threading into the silky strands at her nape, while my tongue sweeps across her lower lip.
And when she opens for me? Game over. Her tongue meets mine.
Not shy, not hesitant, but wild. She kisses like she fights—no holds barred, nothing left behind.
I don’t kiss women like this. Hell, I don’t kiss women at all, not outside the sterile obligated pecks on the cheek to my Mama and Nonna and literally no one else. But this? This is a fucking war. And I’m losing. Worse, I think I might be okay losing.
My cock hardens to the point of agony, pressing against the soft planes of her body. There’s no way she doesn’t feel it. No way she doesn’t realize exactly what she’s unleashed. Don’t worry, Pearlina. It’s a biological reaction. Chemistry, not poetry. Science, not sentiment. Nothing more.
The hoots, whistles, and scattered applause from the pews rip through my skull like a warning siren, shattering the moment.
I break the kiss fast, thumb already swiping the smudged lipstick from her swollen lips.
Her breathing’s ragged, chest heaving against mine, and I’m not doing much better.
My lungs burn, my pulse races, and I can’t tell if I’m lightheaded from the lack of oxygen or the fact that this woman, this thief, just stole every breath I had.
Selfish woman.
Father Alberti chuckles and the old bat offers some lame-ass joke to the crowd. I want to punch him. The man just witnessed a kiss that could set off a nuclear war and thinks it’s the perfect time to crack a joke. The crowd eats it up, laughter rippling through the pews.
But I’m not paying attention to the priest or the congregation.
My focus stays locked on Allie. Her eyes, wide and unblinking, remind me of someone waking from anesthesia, unsure if the world around them is real or just another hallucination.
One blink. Two. And just like that, the spell shatters.
Her cheeks flush, and she drops her gaze, severing the connection like she just realized she’d been kissing her cellmate, not her soulmate.
I grab her hand because that’s what I’m supposed to do. Husbandly duty and all. Together, we pivot toward the crowd, descending the altar steps in synchronized, robotic strides. March down the aisle. Smile. Wave. Pretend you’re not shackling yourself to someone out of pure necessity.
Next…photos. Of course, there would be photos.
Why wouldn’t my family want a glossy 8x10 reminder of their little matchmaking victory?
The perfect shot of the bride and groom, not beaming with joy, but looking like we just sealed a corporate merger neither of us wanted.
There’s no reception—small mercies—but there is a party at my parents’ estate.
Nothing says felicitations on your arranged marriage like a bunch of people getting day drunk while pretending they believe in love.
Outside, the limo waits, and the driver, ever the optimist, offers a cheerful “Congratulations!” like we didn’t just recite vows with all the warmth of a hostage video. I nod, resisting the urge to correct him: Condolences would be more appropriate.
Allie hesitates, the layers of tulle and chiffon swallowing her in a tragic bridal marshmallow.
She tries to maneuver into the car with dignity, but dignity died the moment we agreed to this charade.
I have to nudge—okay, shove—her inside, practically folding her into the seat while the skirt poofs up like a deflated parachute.
The door clicks shut. The car glides forward, and silence impregnates the space.
I crank the air conditioning, aim the vents at my face, and yank off my tie that's more of a noose than fashion accessory. Still, she says nothing. Just sits there, drowning in designer fabric, hands fighting with the layers from hell.
Somewhere between the altar and the limo, the thief returned what she stole—my breath.
I can finally inhale without feeling like my lungs are on strike.
Oxygen floods my system, and with it, clarity.
No more endorphin-induced haze. No more misfiring neurons.
Just cold, hard logic snapping back into place.
Until she lifts her hands to her hair.
One pin. Then another. And another. They drop to the floor, each one freeing another perfect curl from the intricate updo.
Long, dark strands stream down her back, cascading over bare shoulders and brushing against the neckline of her dress.
Her skin—silky, sun-kissed olive—gleams under the dim limo lights, every exposed inch caressed by strands that have no business being that seductive.
My cock hardens again, like it missed the memo that the show’s over.
I shift, adjusting myself with the casualness of a man deeply aware of how screwed he is. Look out the window. Quit staring at the problem, and the problem goes away. Basic logic.
But the problem isn’t the hair, or the dress, or that her mouth still looks kiss swollen and sinful.
The problem is my wife.
And thanks to a few well-rehearsed vows, I’m stuck with her until one of us dies. Judging by the way she steals my air without trying, I’m betting she’ll have me six feet under before our first anniversary.