29. Rico #2
Sixteen hours a day I’ve been at this. Sixteen hours of chasing a ghost I can’t pin down, while everything else in my life spirals into anarchy I didn’t allow.
Wednesday nights used to be for therapy.
Now? They’re for takeout and whatever booze is closest to hand.
My fists ache from clenching—whether from stress, frustration, or the far less dignified reason: the endless, pathetic routine of jerking off in the shower like I’m sixteen just to relieve my morning erection.
And not the casual, roll over and forget it variety. No, this is the hostile takeover kind, courtesy of my wife—the woman currently infiltrating every inch of my life, my house, and the parts of my brain I used to keep untouched.
If I didn’t know exactly how she looks bent over my dining table, I might still stand a chance at sanity. But I do. I know too well. And every time I close my eyes, that image is there, carved into my skull like a brand I can't scrape off.
I’m halfway through my third beer, pretending to watch a game I haven’t followed for years—because what is the point of leisure when everything in your life is on fire—when there’s a knock on the door.
I groan. Because only two kinds of people knock on my door: my DoorDash delivery, which the app tells me is still trapped in the clutches of some poor, underpaid soul circling the block—and my brothers.
And Marco? He doesn’t knock. He waltzes right in armed with some smirk and a six-pack of opinions nobody asked for.
Honestly, I’m surprised he hasn’t handed out my door code to Dom and Alex just for fun.
I don’t check the cameras—I don’t need to. When I swing open the door, sure enough, there they are.
Alex, standing there like a smug bastard holding a bottle of scotch as though it’s a peace offering, and Dom, looking like he got mugged by parenthood. His tie’s loose, his shirt rumpled, and his hair? Jesus. His hair looks like a cautionary tale.
“The girls are teething,” Dom grits out, like that’s supposed to explain why he looks like death’s less attractive cousin.
Ah. Right. The joys of parenting. Not only do children rob you of sleep, but they also sprout tiny, razor-sharp daggers in their mouths to finish the job. Nothing like watching a grown man get broken by something that weighs less than a bowling ball.
I grunt—because why bother with words? They’d come in whether I invited them or not, so why waste the effort pretending I care? I step aside. Letting them in like this isn’t yet another reminder of how nothing in my life belongs to me anymore.
“Who’s winning?” Alex drops onto my leather couch, sprawling out like he’s reclaiming lost territory.
“No clue.” I grab three glasses from the cabinet—because God forbid we drink straight from the bottle—and settle back onto the couch, ignoring the way Alex takes up more space than any human being should.
I pour the scotch—my scotch now—and hand each of them a glass. Alex swirls the amber liquid like we’re at some upscale tasting event and not in my living room where they’ve crashed what was supposed to be my quiet night of isolation.
“So, how’s married life?” Alex asks, too casually, like he isn’t dying to watch me squirm.
It’s like being bitch-slapped by karma and then forced to stand in a spotlight while everyone watches. Every. Single. Day.
“Fine.” I down half my glass in one swallow, welcoming the burn as it slides down and coils in my gut. It’s the only warmth I’ve felt in days—well, outside of my wife’s body, but thinking about that leads down a road I’m not taking tonight.
“We figured we’d keep you company since the girls are at cooking night,” Alex adds, like they’re doing me a favor.
Right. Because I’m just so desperate for company these days.
I glance at the bottle, weighing how much of it I’d need to drink before their voices faded into background noise. Probably all of it. Maybe twice.
“Don’t let me stop you.” My voice is dry, letting them settle in while silently praying they leave before I run out of alcohol or patience—whichever hits empty first.
Cooking night. The Bennetti women’s sacred ritual of drinking wine like it’s a competitive sport and exchanging gossip. Allegedly about cooking, but let’s not kid ourselves—what they really serve up is unsolicited advice sprinkled with a heavy dose of judgment.
I can already hear Mama in my head, clear as glass and twice as cutting: “Rico, she’s your wife, not a phone you forget to charge until it’s at 1% and begging for attention.”
Dom makes himself right at home, throwing his feet up on the coffee table—the new one.
The one Allie bought because apparently my original glass and steel masterpiece was “cold and uninviting.” Now I’m the proud owner of a reclaimed wood monstrosity.
Maybe I can reclaim my sanity next. Wonder if HomeGoods has that in stock—aisle five, next to the “Live, Laugh, Love” signs.
“You enjoying the honeymoon phase?” Dom smirking like he’s waiting for me to admit I’ve been broken.
“Does it look like I am?”
Of course, that earns me the look. The we-know-you’re-screwed-and-we’re-here-for-it look they exchange like I’m not sitting right here, watching them mentally high-five. If only they knew my manic-pixie wife is slowly eroding my existence, one decorative pillow and scented candle at a time.
Dom grins, eyes glinting with the smugness only a married man with twins and Stockholm syndrome can muster. “How do you expect to knock her up if you’re not knocking her every chance you get?”
I blink at him, wondering if marriage really kills brain cells, or if Dom was always this stupid and I’ve only now noticed because he’s taken to dispensing advice like some bootleg Tony Robbins.
“We will when she’s ovulating.” The words drop like anvils,. Because if I say them flat enough, maybe my body will stop revolting.
Two sets of eyebrows shoot up in disbelief.
Dom looks like I just slapped him with a brick. “You’re seriously waiting for her ovulation window?”
“I’m efficient.” I take a slow sip of scotch, savoring the way it burns. Beer doesn’t cut it when you’re trapped in the emotional equivalent of a hostage situation, also known as marital bliss.
Alex shakes his head, knocking back his drink like he’s the one being tortured. “I figured you put that clause in the contract because you didn’t know better. Thought once you had sex, you’d realize you could have it every day—hell, multiple times a day—and toss that rule right out the window.”
“Well, you guessed wrong.”
Dom leans forward. “Did you at least consummate?” Like he’s asking whether I remembered to pay my taxes, not whether I’ve had sex with my wife.
I nod. One slow, deliberate jerk of my head.
“And it was...bad?” Alex prods, waiting for some story of catastrophic failure.
My jaw tightens. “It was fine.”
Fine. Right. Like calling a Bugatti “a decent car.” Like saying Mount Everest is a “mild incline.” No, it wasn’t fine.
It was mind-blowing. The kind of sex that rewires your synapses and makes you question why anyone ever bothers doing anything else.
It was so good that now, I can’t walk past my dining room table without getting half-hard and debating whether I should just eat my meals standing up for the rest of my life.
But I’m not about to admit that to these two idiots.
“Fine?” Dom echoes, incredulous. “You enjoy sex with your wife and you’ve only done it once?”
I nod again, fighting the part of me that wants to throw back the rest of my drink and pour another.
Because yes, I want to do it again. Hell, I want to do nothing but that. But letting her see that? Letting her know she’s gotten under my skin—into my bloodstream? Not an option.
“At least tell me you went a few rounds that night,” Alex says, almost pleading, like he needs to believe I’m not as broken as I feel.
I don’t answer.
“Jesus,” Dom mutters, rubbing a hand down his face. “I don’t know how you’re surviving. After the first time I slept with Sienna, I couldn’t stop. I’d sneak out of meetings just to get laid. I barely worked. Honestly, I’m surprised I didn’t get fired.”
Probably why you became a dad before you were ready, I think, glancing down at my phone as if salvation might be one tap away.
DoorDash is still crawling across town like my driver is powered by existential dread. Fantastic.
But then my eye catches something worse.
The calendar app.
A little red dot glaring at me like a smug bastard.
Thirteenth.
Ovulation day.
Of course, she didn’t say a word. Because she’s a menace—a beautiful, maddening thief of my peace and every shred of control I’ve worked so hard to maintain.
She’ll drop that bomb on me tomorrow over dinner. Probably in that soft, casual tone, like we’re discussing the weather. Pass the salt, Rico. Also, I’m ready to get knocked up.
I toss back the rest of my scotch, the burn doing nothing to erase the visual of her saying those words with that sweet smile and those eyes that already own me more than I’ll admit.