36. Rico
Rico
I should’ve known. The second I walked out of the conference room, my brothers trailed after me, straight into my office—which, for the record, is still not large enough to accommodate two adults, let alone three.
But here we are. Them in my office, again, a place they never frequented until I joined the married club.
“You’re buying her a restaurant?” Alex asks, not even waiting for the door to shut behind him.
I sink into my chair, ignoring him as I pull up the isolated files I flagged during the meeting.
Time to dig through code and pray I find some little breadcrumb our hacker might’ve left behind.
A “fuck you” message, a signature, anything that proves they’re human and not some sentient AI sent to torment me.
Nothing. Nada. Just a sneaky fucker slipping through my defenses, ghost-level stealth.
I might admire the skill—if they weren’t the second reason my head feels primed for a demolition crew.
The first? Long dark hair, hazel eyes, and hips that sway with a sinful precision straight out of the devil’s playbook.
I’ve seen ballerinas with less poise than this hacker. Same energy, too—graceful, disciplined, and smug as hell.
“Earth to Rico.” Alex snaps his fingers in front of my face.
“What?”
Both of them stand there, arms crossed, matching suits. Men in Black should've recruited these two.
“She needs a job,” I mutter, eyes glued to my screen as I isolate the corrupted databases.
“You could’ve gotten her a job,” Alex fires back. “Paid off an owner to bump their head chef and slide her in. Hell, Marco has restaurants. He owes you.”
True…
“She wants to own one. And that restaurant is her favorite.”
Fuck. How do I know that? Why do I remember that? And, more importantly, why did I just tell my brothers?
“Her favorite,” Dom repeats slowly, savoring the words. His hand drags along his jaw, and the bastard’s already smiling. “So, instead of just getting her a job, you’re buying her favorite restaurant.”
“It’ll keep her from texting me all damn day with updates, checking on my day, and now, apparently, sending me on errands to pick up wine that ‘pairs perfectly with dinner.’ Why does dinner need to be an event?”
Silence. Just two pairs of eyes blinking at me.
“You’re buying a restaurant…for a break?” Dom asks.
“And you just said more in that single outburst than you have all day,” Alex adds, grinning like he’s uncovered the key to fixing my emotional incompetence. He would be wrong.
“Or week, really,” Dom chimes in.
My wife has officially stolen my ability to stay quiet. Thoughts that should stay locked in the prison of my mind keep slipping out, verbal jailbreaks happening in real-time, for the sole amusement of my idiot brothers.
I yank my phone from the desk, groaning. “I need to go.”
They don’t move. Still standing there, arms crossed, staring at me as if the third head I grew just started reciting poetry about emotions.
“Stop channeling Mama and your wives.” I point at both of them, fully aware my phone is one bad squeeze from turning to dust. “She’s bored.
She needs a distraction. Then she’ll leave me alone.
You got Sienna a gallery,” I jab a finger at Dom.
“And you,” I turn on Alex, “bought Violet God-knows-what.”
Fuck. Did it again. Explaining myself. Justifying decisions I shouldn’t have to justify.
My former self would have been horrified. Now? He’s rolling in his grave after my wife took his life while the zombie version of me buys my wife luxury real estate to avoid awkward dinner conversations.
They say marriage changes people. For the better, allegedly.
Bullshit. There’s nothing good about these changes.
The fact I’m not clenching my fists out of frustration worries me.
That was my coping mechanism. My stress relief.
Now, my wife has stolen that, too—along with my peace, my sleep, and my ability to think about anything that doesn’t involve her.
Give it a few more weeks, and I’ll end up the same as my brothers.
Dom and Alex folded in less than seven days.
I’d love to believe I’ve got more self-control than the two of them combined.
I can hold out. I just need more distance between myself and the curvy woman currently redecorating my house and rewriting our contract.
Because she’s getting through. That’s why she keeps texting, keeps talking, keeps reaching for me in her sleep—her hand landing on my thigh the other night, warm, soft, and far too intimate. I didn’t move. Blamed it on exhaustion. Told myself I physically couldn’t lift a muscle.
It wasn’t.
My wife has found my weakness, and it’s located inconveniently between my legs, controlling every decision I make.
Which is exactly why I’m buying this restaurant and enforcing a new plan: spend as little time with her as possible.
She thinks she’s winning. That she’s cracking the armor.
That’s why she keeps pushing—texting, cooking, touching.
The other night, she “accidentally” fell asleep on my chest. Bullshit.
That was a tactical maneuver, not unconscious affection.
I’m married to a woman running a long con, and somehow I’m halfway to signing over the deed to my soul—oh wait, you need one first to relinquish it, right?
No. I need to get ahead of her. Remove her from my immediate environment. Only then will I get my peace back.
Because here’s the thing about burglars: if you don’t stop them, they take everything.