22. Allie
Allie
I slept in my husband’s bed.
Not our bed.
His.
The clock blinked 5:13 a.m. when I cracked my eyes open, the sun still deciding whether it gave enough of a damn to rise.
Rico’s side? Empty. What did I expect? Not rolling over to find him there peacefully asleep.
The man all but ghosted me the second we said I do, so why would he suddenly start practicing marital bliss now?
Slipping out from under the ridiculously crisp sheets—because God forbid a wrinkle exists in his cold, soulless sanctuary—I tiptoed into the hallway.
The house is silent, dark and eerily still, like its owner.
Even the air felt…indifferent. It's as if the walls had decided they were done trying to be lively and welcoming.
I peeked into the first door, half-expecting to catch him brooding in a corner. Nope. Home gym. If you could call it that. A weight bench, a rack of dumbbells organized by size, and a worn boxing bag hanging in the corner.
Closing the door, I moved to the next room.
Office. And by office, I mean a sad, cavernous space with a single desk, an ergonomic chair, and six oversized monitors mounted to the wall.
The whole thing resembled the control room of a spy movie more than a workspace.
The desk, though impressive, seemed swallowed by the sea of empty square footage—no plants, no pictures, not even a rogue pen.
Just screens and an almost eerie kind of silence.
Also, no Rico.
Back to the kitchen, then the living room.
Same minimalist aesthetic, though “aesthetic” might be giving him too much credit.
More prison chic than modern luxury. Sure, there was a center island, new appliances, and some exposed brick for that rustic touch, but not a single sign of life.
No mail stack. No rogue coffee mug from the morning before.
Just…emptiness. The kind of sterile, soulless setup you’d expect in a staged home—meant to impress, not to live in.
And the living room? Even colder. A large couch. Two matching armchairs. Glass coffee table with sharp metal edges, as if to say, Sit here, but don’t get comfortable. No blankets. No throw pillows. Not even a freaking candle. The man didn’t just dislike coziness—he’d declared war on it.
I sighed, about to retreat, when something caught my eye. The mantle. Among the brick veneer and sterile decor, there were—wait for it—picture frames. Actual, personal, non-stock-photo picture frames. I hadn’t noticed them last night in the darkness.
Curiosity piqued, I wandered over, heart doing a weird little lurch.
The first frame held a family photo, though calling it that barely did it justice.
The Bennettis didn’t take family pictures—they took crowd shots.
At least forty people were crammed into the frame, all dark hair, olive skin, and sharp features. Genetics obviously ran this family.
My eyes snagged on the familiar faces. Alex and Violet, looking annoyingly perfect.
Sienna, very pregnant, standing next to Dom, who held a small boy with the same amber eyes as his dad.
Marco stood off to the side, wearing his signature I’d rather be anywhere else expression.
And there, in the back, towering over the rest, was Rico.
Holding a baby.
Not just holding—cradling. The infant might as well have been made of spun sugar and dreams. His face was vacant, of course, because an emotional expression would probably send him into anaphylactic shock, but something about him had softened.
The intensity had been dialed down. He didn’t look miserable.
He didn’t look bored. He almost looked… content?
I snorted. Rico Bennetti. Content. Sure. Maybe the light hit his face just right, and I was mistaking shadows for sentiment. His “happy face” probably had the same energy as a DMV employee who just told you the system’s down—neutral bordering on hostile.
The other frames held more photos of kids—nieces, nephews, little Bennetti spawns grinning. A few pictures of his parents, all formal, as if they were posing for a classy couple’s calendar. But not a single photo of Rico alone. Not one shot of him outside that lone group picture.
Of course, the man probably believed cameras stole souls.
If that’s the case, the wedding photographer must’ve robbed him blind.
We stood through at least an hour of forced poses.
Poor guy looked ready to toss his camera into traffic by the end.
“Smile,” he’d gritted out more than once, willing my husband’s face to show a single emotion.
Try to look happy, they’d said.
Try to be happy, they’d meant.
I walk over to the three oversized windows in the living room and flick open the roller shades.
Sunlight streams in, golden and affectionate, stretching across the floor, reclaiming its territory.
The sky’s a swirl of buttery yellows and soft oranges, blending into streaks of pale blue.
The sunrise Instagram influencers would slap a motivational quote over and call it self-care.
I smirk, peering around the barren living room. I wonder how often—if ever—my husband opens these. My guess? Somewhere between never and when hell freezes over.
Fueled by pettiness and caffeine withdrawal, I make it my special mission to banish every shadow from the house.
Living room? Shades up. Foyer? Sunshine, baby.
Kitchen? Let there be light. Dining area?
Boom, it’s bright now. I stride down the hall into Rico’s cave of a bedroom and yank open the floor-to-ceiling window coverings too.
And that’s when I see it.
The backyard.
It’s perfectly manicured, the grass trimmed to an obnoxiously uniform length, as if he hired a lawn service with a clinical obsession for symmetry.
A massive concrete pad sits smack in the middle—empty, sterile, and about as inviting as a hospital waiting room.
No patio furniture, no fire pit, not even a sad little folding chair pretending to care.
Just wet concrete, glistening under the morning sun, probably courtesy of sprinklers on a timer because heaven forbid Rico actually enjoy something as simple as watering grass.
If backyards reflect personalities, my husband is officially labeled as vacant of joy.
I head back toward the kitchen, passing the mudroom. On a whim, I crack open the garage door and flick on the light. His car’s gone.
And with it, my last shred of patience.
Where the hell did he sleep?
The same slow, simmering rage from last night starts bubbling up again, red and prickly beneath my skin.
He could’ve slept at the office—fine, whatever, workaholic—but something tells me Rico doesn’t just work loopholes in contracts.
He lives for them. The man probably gets off on technicalities.
Which means there’s a chance he snuck off to see his so-called “therapist.”
Therapist. Right.
Violet practically choked on her words when she finally confirmed what that actually meant. My future sister-in-law, bless her heart, had winced and cringed her way through the confession, like telling me her brother frequented escorts was on par with announcing a terminal illness.
Should I be reassured I’m not the other woman? Sure. In theory. But knowing he preferred transactional intimacy over literally any human connection doesn’t exactly scream husband of the year.
Neither does going to work on your wedding night, but here we are.
Escorts aren't rare in the Cosa Nostra. They’re practically an accessory.
Most married men have an arrangement: wives for appearances, mistresses for pleasure, escorts for fillers.
Lavish apartments, unlimited credit cards, first-class flights to nowhere special—just in case their “employers” needed a little company.
They’re spoiled, pampered, and ready at a moment’s notice, legs spread and loyalty guaranteed—because emotional attachment isn’t part of the contract.
That’s the part that gnaws at me. Rico Bennetti has never formed a connection with anyone.
Not romantically, not emotionally, not even in a let’s be civil and tolerate each other’s existence way.
He’s set up for isolation, like one of those AI boyfriends TikTok keeps trying to sell me—except less chatty and way more broody.
And now he’s legally tied to me. In marriage. You know, the ultimate "let’s share every part of our lives" situation.
How is this supposed to work when my husband treats intimacy like a business takeover? He expects me to sign on the dotted line and keep my feelings locked up tighter than a Swiss bank account.
Once I’m sure Rico isn’t lurking in this sterile, serial-killer minimalist "home" of his, I make a beeline for the kitchen, eyes laser-focused on one thing: coffee. Survival comes first.
But my caffeine mission screeches to a halt when I spot what’s waiting on the counter.
A set of car keys, dealership tag still dangling—a pompous reminder that money solves everything.
And next to it? A shiny black Amex card, my name—Alessandra Bennetti—stamped across the front as if I’m some freshly gained luxury item.
A shiver snakes up my spine. You've just been bought and paid for, sweetheart.
Because that’s what this is, right? I’m no longer a De Luca pawn. Now I belong to one Bennetti.
I tap the card against the marble countertop, mulling it over.
Unlimited funds in the hands of an enraged wife? Bless his bitter, detached little heart.
I’m about to make this mausoleum look like Joanna Gaines got drunk on pumpkin spice lattes and went on a shopping spree. Throw pillows? Everywhere. A floral arrangement in every room? Yes, sir. The man will sneeze himself into submission before I’m done.
But then I see it. A pale blue Post-It, sitting innocently under all the wealth, the cherry on top of my rage sundae. I pluck it up, expecting—what? Directions to the nearest coffee shop? Maybe a list of things I’m not allowed to touch?
Instead, I get this gem:
Rico: Every Tuesday, I eat a grilled cheese sandwich for no other reason than it feels right.
I squint at the note.
I flip it over, fully expecting a punchline or, I don’t know, a secret code that will unlock his personality. But no. That’s it. No context, no explanation. Just a grilled cheese confession from my emotionally stunted husband.
And the kicker? There’s coffee already brewed in the pot.
What is this? Am I in some Twilight Zone marriage? He won’t talk to me, won’t touch me, but make sure I have coffee and a note like we’re part of some emotionally distant pen pal club?
I pour a cup, because caffeine is the only thing keeping me from lighting this place on fire, and lean over the counter, eyeing my new arsenal: a useless fact, a set of keys, and a credit card.
So this is his plan? Give me a car, a charge card, and a random fun fact while he ghosts me?
I glare at the note; the rage simmering under my skin, hotter than the coffee I now want to throw in his face.
Abandoning my cup, I march right back to his room, the T-shirt I stole from his closet swishing around my thighs.
I’m not about to drag my ass upstairs to unpack my things when I can pillage his wardrobe out of pure spite.
If he’s going to disappear on me, the least he can do is lose a shirt or two.
I grab my phone off his nightstand, unlock it only to find it opens directly to the Notes app. Naturally Rico is the man who communicates solely through passive-aggressive tech.
And there it is, waiting for me like the complacent little notification it is:
Rico: Take the card. Go shopping. Do whatever you want. I will not be home until dinner unless you miraculously decide to cancel it. The keys are for the new car. Vinnie will drive you. Don’t message me for permission to buy anything. We both know I won’t reply.
I ball the Post-It in my fist before I even realize it, steam practically building behind my eyes, cartoon-style fury loading for launch.
Stomping back into the kitchen, I yank open every drawer until I find a pen shoved in the back of the last one, buried as if the house itself avoids being too functional.
I slap his stupid note down on the counter, flip it over, and write my own "fact" in handwriting that is as chaotic as my emotions right now.
Allie: I will make grilled cheese on a Wednesday because mid-week cheese just hits better.
Petty? Absolutely. Immature? Without a doubt. But if he wants to toss out weird facts, I’m all in. I will match his level of ridiculousness and raise it.
Satisfied, I smooth out the note and slap it back on the counter where I found it. Then I march toward the stairs, muttering to myself the whole way.
“Stupid grilled cheese. Stupid husband. Stupid, emotionally unavailable, ridiculously hot, frustrating-as-hell husband.”
By the time I reach my room, I’m practically vibrating with anger. He wants to play games? Fine. Let’s play. Only I plan to win. And I’ll be eating my victory grilled cheese on a fucking Wednesday.