40. Allie
Allie
He’s never done this before. Is he trying to change the terms now? Is this some new power move? A silent ‘checkmate, wife’ to counter my brilliant maneuver of removing the ovulation clause?
Look, I knew tweaking the sex terms was a risk. I wasn’t just skirting the language—I was straight-up rewriting it. But dinner? Dinner was Switzerland. Dinner was the one thing we had that didn’t involve me bent over a piece of furniture. Not that I minded that part, but still…dinner.
And now he wants to cancel it?
My mother always said the best way to a man’s heart was through his stomach.
Which is hilarious, considering she never cooked a meal in her life, thanks to Maria.
Also ironic, considering my parents’ respected each other in the way coworkers do when forced to share a cubicle for twenty-five years, but love? Attraction? Passion?
Yeah, no. If they made eye contact for too long, one of them would find an excuse to leave the room. It was all very please GTFO vibes, and I have yet to recover from witnessing it firsthand.
Still, whether my mother’s advice was legitimate, I had a strategy. Two-pronged.
One: Feed him.
Two: Fuck him.
It was simple, really. Food and sex—basic human needs, right? And while sex could just be sex, it still built intimacy. Partnership. And sometimes—if I was lucky—full sentences.
Not that I was trying to fall for him. I’m not that girl. But if I had to play dirty to break through to my husband, then fine. I’d make him food. I’d sleep with him. I’d casually flash him thigh and leave him wanting and craving all I could.
Except now, he’s canceling dinner, and my stomach twists.
I cross my arms, standing straighter to remind myself I do, in fact, have a spine and I will use it. “Rico, we have an agreement about dinners.”
“I'm aware.” He walks past me into the kitchen, his eyes scanning the pot of pasta like he’s considering flipping it straight into the trash.
“It’s ready now. You’re home. Let’s just eat.” My voice is calm, reasonable.
“No.”
I stare at him. That’s it. I’m one more one-word answer away from launching a physical assault directly at his balls. See how fast he can pop out a baby while icing his gonads.
The problem is, I enjoy his balls. I have a very complicated, very intimate relationship with them. I cannot confirm, nor deny, that I popped them into my mouth last week just to see the expression of what I swear was his version of pure "awe" on his face.
And that, dear reader, is something I learned at family cooking nights.
Not how to cook, obviously. No, that part was useless. But Violet—god bless my scandalous, zero-filter, probably-going-to-be-arrested-for-public-indecency sister-in-law—had a five-page spread in one of her romance books specifically about how to take a man in your mouth. Five pages.
Some of which made me tilt my head, turn the book sideways, and genuinely wonder how the hell…
Yeah. It was a lot.
And now here I am, armed with knowledge I should not have, dealing with a husband who won’t eat dinner but will rail me against a doorframe at 6 a.m. and then disappear.
I love Rico’s family. Truly. I love the two sisters I never had. But there’s only so much time I can spend with them before the existential crisis sets in.
Both are blissfully married. As in, the kind of married where their husbands worship the ground they walk on—so much so that if city regulations allowed it, I’m convinced these men would commission the streets to be plated in gold just so their wives' feet wouldn’t touch common pavement.
And then there’s me.
With my luck, Rico would just stamp “WALK HERE” into wet concrete outside the house and call it a day, as if I’d somehow get lost on the way to the mailbox.
And it wouldn’t be the first time he treated me as if I were a toddler lost in IKEA. The day he showed me how to use the dishwasher? Just a sharp finger jab and a clipped, “Press this.” Charming.
I’m getting antsy with all this free time.
Sure, I help Sienna at the gallery sometimes, and I visit Violet, where I juggle her lawlessness goblins—aka her children—while she works on her latest manuscript.
But it’s all just a cycle of filler content.
A mind-numbing loop where I exist on the periphery of everyone else’s beautiful, well-structured, joy-filled lives.
Because the one person I actually want to spend time with? The one person I want to have a conversation with? Doesn’t talk to me. At least, not outside of our very active sex life.
I told myself this was the price of my freedom. That this loveless, arranged marriage was a bargain. I got what I wanted—I was free from my past life. But what exactly did I gain? No job. No purpose. Just the same empty day on repeat.
Except for the mind-blowing orgasms.
So, I guess there’s that.
“Get your shoes.”
I blink, looking up from the kitchen counter, where I’ve been aggressively rearranging silverware because it's arrange them or stab him with them at this point.
“Meet me in the car in five.”
Then, he turns to go.
Something inside me snaps. Without thinking, I reach out and grab his arm.
His whole body stiffens, muscles locked up, and for a split second, I swear I see something flicker in his eyes. It’s not anger. No annoyance. Something else.
But just as fast as it appears, it’s gone.
He yanks in a deep breath, flexes his fingers open and closed, then shakes them out.
“Five minutes,” he repeats before retreating through the mudroom and into the garage.
I stare after him, confused, my pulse doing this annoying thing where it stutters. Then I exhale, annoyed with myself.
I cover the pasta, blow out the stupid candles I light at dinner every night—because apparently, I’m a pathetic romantic trying to boost the ambiance to my husband’s dinner routine—and head toward the garage.
Even the candles seem disappointed in me, weeping melted wax as if they understand their efforts were in vain.
I step into the garage, stopping short.
That’s not his car.
My gaze snaps between the sleek, all-black Tesla sedan sitting in the garage and Rico, who’s standing beside the open passenger door with the tolerance of a valet.
“You bought a car? Is this why you didn’t want to eat dinner?”
Rico follows my gaze, then looks back at me, unimpressed. “What? No.” He jerks his chin toward the open door. “Get in.”
Right. Super informative. So glad we cleared that up.
Still, I slide into the seat, inhaling the glorious scent of new car leather. “Well, it’s nice.”
Rico grunts.
Love our chats. Always so lively.
But my heart does this thing where it skips because I know—I know—I told him his Porsche was absurd before we got married. And now, he suddenly has a sedan? One that seats five?
Coincidence? Maybe.
I let myself hold on to that tiny spark of hope. Even if it’s foolish. Even if it’s pitiful.
Because right now, it’s all I’ve got.
“So…” I glance over at him. “If you didn’t drag me out here to show off your new ride, what exactly are we doing instead of eating the dinner I made?”
That’s when I feel it.
The impact of his gaze.
My entire body shudders. His eyes are hooded, dark, the amber depths dragging up my body, mentally peeling off my dress with agonizing slowness.
Holy hell.
He doesn’t talk much, but when he looks at me that way? My entire body turns into a human-sized fire hazard.
“You’ll see.”
Oh, for the love of—
Resigning myself to the fact that dragging information out of this man is as easy as negotiating with a spoon. “Fine. But what about Vinnie?”
Rico pulls out of the garage smoothly, not even glancing over.
“Don’t need a driver.”
“Yes, but he’s not your driver. He’s my bodyguard.”
Rico’s jaw flexes. “You don’t need a bodyguard when you’re with me.”
Debatable.
Instead of arguing—because I’ve learned that’s a game you never win with Rico—I lean back in my seat and let him drive.
I glance at the dashboard clock. 7:12 PM. Prime Manhattan traffic hour. Which means either we’re about to spend the next twenty minutes sitting in a vehicular nightmare, or my husband has a secret tunnel system I don’t know about. Knowing him, probably the latter.
It’s weird how my life has changed.
Vinnie still technically works for me, but he’s got a lot more freedom now.
He gets nights off. But does that stop him from stalking—I mean, monitoring—me like the overprotective human Labrador he is?
Absolutely not. I guarantee that somewhere, in the shadows, he’s lurking.
Probably sipping an espresso and watching through a sniper-grade lens just to make sure no one looks at me wrong.
Twelve years of being my oversized shadow. Hard habit to break.
And then there’s my family.
They still haven’t spoken to me.
Marco warned me that one of the hardest prices for leaving the Cosa Nostra was being shunned. I figured surely they’d come around. Eventually, they’d see I was happy and that I still loved them. But to them? I was a traitor.
I stopped calling. Stopped texting. And when Rico replaced my phone, I didn’t bother saving their numbers. No point in keeping ghosts in my contacts list.
The car slows, pulling up to a valet station in front of The Grand Harrington.
For a fleeting moment, my heart catapults straight into my throat.
Did he…book us a suite? For a romantic evening?
Woman, you are married to Rico Bennetti. Read that question back to yourself.
Then I snort. Out loud. Loud enough for Rico to turn and look at me just as the valet opens my door, one brow quirked like I’ve lost my damn mind.
I mean…
The fact that I even entertained the idea that my husband planned a romantic night means I’ve officially gone insane. Forget checking into the hotel—I need to check myself into Bellevue.
Rico rounds the car, handing his keys to the valet with a nod before—and here’s the part that really shocks me—grabbing my hand.
Willingly.
No flinch. No grimace. No look of sheer agony, as if touching me is the equivalent of sticking his hand into a blender.
Progress.