38. Rico
Rico
Why the hell did I offer to let her ride with me?
I blame Mama. And Papa. And the two oxygen wasters I’m genetically obligated to call my brothers. All chirping the same bullshit about “spending more time with my wife,” as if giving an hour or more every night tangled doesn’t count.
But when I saw her standing there in those fuck-me skinny jeans—painted on and custom-tailored by Satan himself—and that loose, short-sleeved blouse, the neckline dipping just enough to tease rounded cleavage; I snapped.
My jaw clenched, my brain gave up on reciting rational thoughts, and before I could strangle the words, they clawed their way out: We can ride together.
Fucking idiot.
I should’ve swallowed broken glass instead. Would’ve been less painful than the heart-pounding regret that followed. Too late, though. Damage done.
To her credit, the look on Allie’s face was amusing. Eyes wide, mouth parting as if I’d just suggested we adopt a golden retriever and name it after her favorite Disney prince. For once, the woman who treats silence as a mortal sin actually had no words.
Didn’t even say a word when I opened the door for her, let her slide into the passenger seat, and passed her the tray of cannolis I was dying to eat—or, preferably, lick off her navel. Instead, she just sat there, stiff as a mannequin, observing me.
The silence was smothering. Not the comfortable, blessed kind I thrive in, but the-might-drive-us-into-oncoming-traffic-just-to-break-this kind. And since I had to operate a motor vehicle without crashing us into a lamppost, I focused on the road. On the weather. On anything but her.
Fall was creeping in. Thank fuck. The sticky hellscape known as summer in New York is akin to being slow-roasted in a garbage-scented sauna.
Humidity. Heat. Random downpours that don’t clean the streets just turn the stench into something worse.
It's as if the city is marinating itself in its own filth.
But fall? Crisp air. Fewer bodies obstructing sidewalks. A socially acceptable excuse to stay inside and avoid humanity. Only now do I realize staying inside means I will be around the woman next to me a lot more. Shit.
And then I made the mistake of looking at my wife.
Dark hair, loose over her shoulders, curled and effortless. Glossy enough to tempt my hand into wrapping around the strands and testing how tightly they’d coil in my fist. It’s fast — for the record.
Deep dark hair that could make a raven jealous.
Brown like the color of overpriced espresso minus the caffeine rush that would actually make it useful.
Molten like silky brown melted dark chocolate.
Like smooth, satiny, brown hair that wraps around my fingers perfectly, angling her back as I fuck… nope.
Apparently, my wife’s invasion isn’t limited to my personal space anymore. No, Allie’s now breached my thoughts—the one sanctuary I had left. My mental fortress, fortified with sarcasm, coding jargon, and the soothing hum of self-imposed isolation, now has her name spray-painted across the walls.
What’s next? My manhood? Pretty sure that went out the door the moment I muttered I do.
The silence between us festers, thick and suffocating. I flick on the stereo, letting low-fi beats fill the void. Instrumental. No vocals. Just a smooth, rhythmic sound designed for people who enjoy the illusion of peace without the inconvenience of human interaction. My kind of music.
Allie glances at me, brows tweaked in curiosity, probably wondering if my taste in music is as broken as my social skills. I ignore her. Easier to stare out the window, counting down the seconds until we reach my parents’ house and I can offload both her and my spiraling thoughts into someone else.
By the time we hit Greenwich, my stomach’s knotted tougher than a triple-sailor hitch.
I park, cut the engine, and get out without a word.
One door, two doors, and I’m hauling the cannoli tray out of her lap before she can blink.
It’s not chivalry. It’s logistics. She’s slow, and I hate wasted time.
“I can carry it.”
“I’ve got it.” The words leave my mouth without getting the green light, and my hand—betrayal of all betrayals—shoots out to clasp hers. Fingers lacing together like we’re some picture-perfect couple who hold hands because of feelings, not because I do not know what the fuck else to do with myself.
Her gaze drops to our intertwined fingers. She doesn’t pull away. I don’t let go. We’re both too headstrong to blink first.
The estate manager doesn’t even bother answering the door. He knows better. Small talk would’ve required me to engage with another human being, and I’d rather sandpaper my tongue.
“Rico! Allie!” Mama’s voice chirps from the sitting room—sunny and nauseating, the human equivalent of a motivational poster about tolerance. She rushes over, eyes zeroing in on our joined hands.
I don’t let go. In fact, I squeeze harder. Not out of affection. It’s reflex—automatic, the same way you flip someone off when they cut you off in traffic.
Mama plucks the tray from my hand, practically frothing. “Oh, Nonna’s going to love these. Better stash a few for yourself before she hoards them.”
“No worries,” Allie chirps, her voice syrupy sweet. “I made an extra tray at home.” She flicks a glance my way, those green-and-gold eyes gleaming with something dangerous.
Maybe she’ll use those extra cannolis to seduce, distract, or punish me. I don’t particularly care, as long as her plan ends with her naked and me licking pastry cream off places the FDA didn’t approve.
We step into the main living room, and I instantly regret everything.
Showing up first means facing my family without the buffer more bodies would serve.
I thrive in crowded rooms because, ironically; they make me unseen.
Arrive late, shake hands, nod through small talk, disappear. That’s the playbook.
Papa appears out of nowhere. I'm sure the scent of fresh cannolis and impending grandchildren has summoned him. His eyes flick between me and Allie, lingering on our hands before he plants both palms on her shoulders. If he could X-ray her uterus with sheer willpower, he would, and if he could, hopefully he could tell me I’ve succeeded so I can go back to my orderly life.
“Any news for us?” he asks, hopeful as a gambler betting his last chip.
Subtlety? Never heard of it. The Bennetti family operates on brute force—over sharing, emotional terrorism, and enough unsolicited advice to drive the most patient saint into a psychotic break.
“Allie made cannolis.” I drop her hand and head straight for the liquor on the kitchen counter. Tumbler. Bourbon. Full pour. No ice. Because watering down good alcohol is what idiots do. I’m already married—that’s enough bad decision-making for one lifetime.
Glass in hand, I grab a bottle of white wine, pour a generous glass, and walk it over to Allie. Her eyes narrow.
“What?”
She stares at the glass, then at me, head tilted in that way that makes her curls bounce. And I’m hard. Great. Nothing like attending family dinner with a semi.
“I didn’t think you knew what I drank.”
I didn’t. But I noticed she only ever finishes the fruity, frilly bullshit wine,that tastes like someone melted down a gummy bear and called it vintage. Without answering, I shove the glass into her hand and retreat from the scene of the crime.
Because that’s what this is. A fucking crime against my sanity.
Hope. That’s what she thinks this is. A glass of wine and a handhold, and suddenly we’re on the path to happily ever after.
That word alone should make bile rise. It usually does, along with every other phrase that implies commitment, vulnerability, and the willingness to share personal space.
But for her? The reaction flips. My insides warm, my chest tightens, and some traitorous part of me thaws.
My brothers aren’t here yet, probably drowning in diaper duty and snack negotiations, so I do the next best thing and stalk toward Marco, who’s lounging in an armchair. One leg draped over the other, drink in hand, eyes scanning the room for only hell knows what.
He clocks me instantly. “Ah, how’s married life, cousin?”
The question follows me everywhere. Do they expect my answer to change every few hours? Is there a pool going?
Torture. But not the marriage itself. No, that’s the real mind fuck. I don’t hate the marriage. I hate I don’t hate it.
I don’t bother answering. I grunt, sip my bourbon, and scan the room. Loud considering only half the family is here so far, and full of bouncing babies and people who actually enjoy human interaction. It’s hell. My version of purgatory. And then I see her.
Allie. Cornered by Eddie.
Eddie. The stand-in groom for my wedding rehearsal. The rehearsal for my wedding. I should feel nothing. Jealousy requires emotional investment, and I’m not invested. She’s a contract, not a conquest. But irritation simmers under my skin, anyway.
Eddie, with his lazy smile and IQ rivaling a ballpoint pen, leans in, saying something that makes her laugh.
The sound slices through the noise of the room, sharp and personal.
I don’t like it. I don’t like him. And I definitely don’t like the fact that my wife—my wife—is smiling at someone else like that.
Without a thought—because overthinking is how I usually avoid stupid decisions—I cross the room. Slide in behind Allie. Wrap an arm around her waist, and pull her flush against me. She stiffens, spine straight as a ruler, but she doesn’t tear away.
Eddie’s eyes flick to my hand on her hip, then back to my face. He forces a grin, but I see the hesitation. He might be dumb, but he’s not suicidal.
“Don’t let me interrupt,” I say, voice all barbed wire. I feel the shiver run down Allie’s spine, and my cock strains painfully against my jeans. Reason number 438 why denim beats slacks: better concealment. Not perfect, but better.
Eddie clears his throat, eyes darting between us. “We were just talking about Allie getting a job. I was telling her about the businesses your papa has. I’m sure he could get her something.”
I go still. His words clang in my head with alarm bells going off. My cousin, suggesting ways my wife could spend more time around him? Hard pass. I promised her freedom, not this kind of freedom. The kind that ends with me breaking Eddie’s nose. Again.
My grip tightens on her waist, just enough to remind her—and everyone else—exactly who she belongs to. As if they need a reminder. “I have other ideas.”
Eddie blinks. Processing. Not his strong suit.
I don’t elaborate. Just slide my hand lower, skimming the curve of Allie’s hip as I steer her away. His gaze drops to my hand—right where I want it—and his jaw ticks. He can look all he wants. I get to touch it all I want.
Because, yeah. Her tits are superb. They’re in my hands, my mouth, every damn night. Doesn’t mean Eddie—or anyone else—gets to enjoy the view.
“What ideas?” Allie peels my arm off her waist with two fingers. Fair. It’s not as if I’ve ever offered her anything resembling affection. I’ve perfected the art of touching her like it’s an inconvenience, unless I'm deep inside her.
Even if it’s not. It hasn’t been for weeks. And that realization ranks high on the list of problems I’m actively avoiding.
Shrugging off the irritation clawing at my insides—because God forbid, I admit her rejection stings—I sip my drink; the bourbon burning less than my pride. “You’ll see. Finalizing some details.”
Her eyes narrow, lips curving into a smile that precedes either an ingenious argument or an epic tantrum. “It’s a genuine job, right, Rico? Not some barefoot-and-pregnant fantasy where I’m chained to the sink, raising five kids and hand-washing your silk boxers.”
The worst part? That vision doesn’t sound half as horrifying as it should. Allie, barefoot and glowing, a baby on her hip, another tugging at her jeans. My pristine house turned into a war zone of toys, sticky handprints, and a loud, messy house.
Jesus. I need an exorcism.
“You’ll see,” I repeat, draining the last of my bourbon and turning on my heel before she can peel back any more layers I’m not ready to explain.
Marco watches me approach, his scotch swirling lazily in one hand while he lounges like the smug bastard he is.
Sunday dinners always follow the same rhythm: I avoid my wife while she laughs with Violet, Sienna, and my cousins.
Nonna corners her to conduct yet another inquisition about our progress toward filling the nursery.
And me? I spend the entire evening pretending I’m above the fray, when in reality, I’m suffocating in it.
“I see you’ve finally developed some of those feelings you swear don’t exist,” Marco drawls, tipping his head back to study the ceiling.
“What?” I snap, too sharp, too fast.
He grins, slow and wicked, and nods toward Allie. She’s across the room, head thrown back in laughter, dark hair cascading down her back in lustrous waves. She looks…happy. Someone without a care in the world.
She’s never laughed like that around me. Not once. And I hate it. Irrationally, unapologetically hate that someone else gets it.
“Then why,” Marco continues, sipping his drink with all the leisure of a man thoroughly delighted, “are you clenching your fists like you’re about to redecorate Nonna’s living room with Eddie’s face?”
I glance down. Sure enough, I've balled my hand so tight that the skin around my knuckles looks ready to split.
Raw and calloused. A testament to too many hours spent punching my frustrations into a boxing bag instead of saying them out loud, or at the very least connecting them with another person's face.
Marco’s smile morphs from amused to downright predatory.
“Just making sure she’s not uncomfortable.”
The lie tastes bitter, but it’s the finest I’ve got.
He laughs, low and knowing, then stands, draining the rest of his scotch before slapping a hand on my shoulder.
“I believe that’s referred to as giving a shit,” he says, leaning in until I can practically taste the peat and oak on his breath.
“And that,” he adds, jabbing a finger between my brows, “is called jealousy.”
I swat his hand away. It’s not jealousy. It’s diligence. Self-preservation. Making sure my wife doesn’t get too comfortable here—because comfort breeds expectations, and expectations lead to disappointment.
And I don’t do disappointment. Not for her. Not for anyone.
But if Marco sees it, the rest of my family will too. Worse, Allie might. And that’s the last thing I need—her mistaking this…whatever the hell it is…for progress.
With me, there is no evolution. No change. Just a contract, a clock ticking down, and a wife who’s already stolen too much.
Time to put some distance between us before she assumes I’m more invested.