24. Rico
Rico
They’re here. Not being dramatic, just stating the facts.
I clocked their arrival the second Violet and Sienna strolled up to my front door.
The doorbell camera caught every second—Violet’s eyes tightening, Sienna whispering something that made Violet’s grin falter.
I didn’t even need the audio to know they were about to rat me out.
My sisters are guaranteed to run to my brothers, and especially now that I’m married to a woman that they like.
Mistakes were made.
It took precisely forty-seven minutes for my brothers to storm into my office like I’d committed a federal crime. Impressive, considering it’s Sunday, and both of them have toddlers who treat sleep like a suggestion.
Alex, ever the overachiever, leads the charge, doing his best at making sure I’m aware he’s irked. Dom follows, silent but simmering, the twin rage dialed to homicidal levels. It’s like looking into a mirror, except the reflection actually gives a damn.
“Fast,” I remark, flicking the sticker over my watch face that blocks the time when I’m deep in work. “What’d you do, teleport?”
Alex’s jaw flexes. Dom just stares, his silence intenser than any lecture. Having a twin is like owning a horror movie doppelg?nger—seeing your own face twisted in fury is unsettling. Not as unsettling as when he’s happy, though.
I haven’t smiled like that in decades. Pretty sure my facial muscles atrophied sometime around the age of fourteen.
Alex crosses his arms, the posture of a man about to hand over a TED Talk titled Why My Younger Brother Is a Shitty Husband. “I got an interesting text from my wife this morning. Had to leave my boys, get dressed, and come kick your ass.”
Drama queen. Not my wife. No, I’m referring to my brother in front of me.
I blink at him. Once. Twice. Just enough to remind him I’m not biting. First, he can’t kick my ass and we both know it. Second, I doubt Violet’s text qualified as interesting by any metric I recognize.
“I left Allie a credit card. Told her to shop.” I don’t mention the Post-It note with my random fact of the day—something neither of these idiots knows about me. And I sure as hell don’t bring up last night. My marriage, contractual or not, is none of their business.
Alex’s brows lift, pure incredulity ingrained in every line of his sleep-deprived face. “You didn’t even have a wedding night?”
Well, shit. So much for keeping it my personal business.
“Not yet.”
Dom’s gaze hones, weighing. He’s quiet, but his silence demands answers like an interrogator flipping through evidence. Alex, predictably, goes for the jugular.
“You signed a damn contract, Rico.”
I lean back in my chair, unimpressed. “And I’ll fulfill it. When the timing’s right.”
Like when her body is primed to conceive. It’s not rocket science. One night. One attempt. No repeats necessary. Call me an optimist, but the thought of knocking her up on the first try sounds like efficiency at its finest.
I’m not stupid. I know if I touch her—really touch her—I’ll enjoy it. Too much. Already, she ignites something restless in me, like a live wire sparking beneath my skin. If one brush of her hand makes my gut twist, imagine what full contact would do.
And unlike my brothers, I don’t have the luxury of believing in happily ever after. I believe in results. And right now, my result involves keeping my wife at arm’s length until consummation is less about pleasure and more about purpose (as in knocking up said wife up).
Alex’s cuts in. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
"Rico, you have a marriage contract. You might not care that you tossed your wife's first wedding night out the window, but you signed a legally binding document.
A notarized contract about when you will and will not have sex.
Honestly, it's ridiculous. Who notarizes their sex life?
" He shudders like the concept substantially offends him, but again, he’s not me. So, he will never understand.
"It says we have to consummate," I reply, eyes glued to my screen. "Not when." Okay, so that argument, at this very moment, is feeling a tad weak. Especially with these two looming over me.
Dom, ever the voice of reason no one asked for, leans against my desk. "Isn't the wedding night implied?"
Implied.
Like common sense, good taste, and that marriage requires mutual enthusiasm. They’re not wrong, but they’re not right either. And I’m not inclined to split hairs with men who’ve been brainwashed by their wives into believing love is the answer to everything.
I lean forward, tapping the down arrow on my keyboard, scrolling through the security logs I was reviewing before Dumb and Dumber held an intervention.
Someone's been sniffing around our servers, and while my brothers are worried about my marital obligations, I’m more concerned about the hacker trying to break into our system, again, and booting him out before he can get through my first few protections in place. Priorities.
"I need to work now." I flick the sticker back over my watch face. I don’t track time unless it's being wasted (right now, a good example of that). And I’m not keen on watching the minutes crawl while I pretend to care about their lecture. My phone, face down on the desk, vibrates quietly. I don't check it. I already know what’s waiting—missed calls from these two, and probably a text or five from my wife, who I sincerely hope is out spending my money like it’s her life’s mission. God knows I don’t spend it.
Both of my brothers are glossy-spread billionaires.
Forbes cover boys with tailored suits that cost more than a used Honda and smiles engineered for photo ops.
I’m a billionaire by circumstance. Investing every spare cent, avoiding frivolous expenses, and employing the same cleaning lady for the past decade—a woman who charges twenty bucks an hour and doesn’t mind the fact my house is basically a glorified server room with a bed.
I should put Allie on cleaning duty. She can’t shop forever. Would save me a couple hundred a month.
"You realize Mama expects an update about you at dinner tonight, and if we don't have one, she expects to see you there?" Dom grits out, clearly fighting the urge to throttle me. "She assumes—no, she hopes—you and your wife will do what most newlyweds do all day."
What? Avoiding each other? Mission accomplished.
"Then I won’t go. Gives me time to work."
Simple. Efficient. Logical. And it means I don’t have to sit through Mama’s disappointed sighs while she side-eyes my now covered ring finger screams domesticated. Isn’t that suffering enough?
My brothers should thank me, really. Here I am, on a Sunday, making sure their precious merger with the Locke brothers doesn’t implode because some keyboard warrior thinks he can out-code me.
I’m half-tempted to leave a backdoor open, let the hacker waltz in, and nuke the whole deal.
But that would be too obvious, and while I enjoy provoking my brothers, I’m not masochistic enough to endure the fallout of that one.
"You're unbelievable," Alex mutters, running a hand through his hair like I've disturbed his moral compass.
"Tell me something I don’t know."
"Locke and his team will be here tomorrow," Dom reminds me, like I need another reason to regret waking up. "That means lawyers. California tans. Spray-on confidence."
"Great." I deadpan. "Just what this floor needs. More noise."
Our executive suite is usually a fortress of peace—just me, my brothers, and their assistants. I don’t have one. Never saw the point. If you need someone to schedule your life, you’ve already lost jurisdiction over it.
Dom strolls over, plopping his ass right on my desk. Because, apparently, boundaries are just a suggestion now.
How many times have these two idiots invaded my office since I got engaged? I used to enjoy peace. Silence. The comforting hum of servers and the click of my keyboard. Now, thanks to one wedding and a legally binding sex clause, my office has turned into a family lounge.
The platinum band on my left hand catches the light, tormenting me like a middle finger from the universe.
Marriage isn’t just a commitment—it's an open invitation for unsolicited opinions and familial micromanagement. The Married Men’s Club.
Perks include nagging brothers, a mother who's suddenly more invested in my social calendar, and a wife who takes up too much space for such a small person.
Dom leans in, purposefully blocking my view of the monitor. "You know I’m telling Mama tonight that you’ve been here all night, right? Checked the logs. You clocked in last night and never left."
I recline in my chair, scrutinizing his face. Alex bluffs like a Wall Street broker—fast, loose, and mostly bullshit. Dom? He’s a wild card, but he has a tell when he's serious. Right now? He’s beaming.
"You wouldn’t."
He grins wider and I hate him just a little. "Try me."
My stomach drops. The bastard absolutely would.
"Fine." I snap the word out, like surrendering hurts my throat because it fucking does. "I’ll go home."
Satisfied, Dom leans back and—because he’s a certified menace—yanks the power cord from my monitor. If he didn’t share my DNA, I’d throw him out the window.
"Not good enough." He flicks his chin toward Alex, who’s still lounging against the doorframe, bored and ready to go back to his domestic paradise. "You’ll go home now, do the deed—" He pauses for dramatic effect, looking back at our older brother.
Alex waves him on. Did they rehearse this shit? I’d bet this month’s salary they did.
"—and spend the entire day with your wife." Dom finishes and I die a little inside.