40. Allie #2
I look down at our hands. His is big, warm, and firm, wrapping around mine as if we’ve done this a thousand times. Which we haven’t.
Still, I’d be lying if I said my heart didn’t do a little skip.
I will not read into it.
Not at all.
We don’t walk into the main entrance of the hotel. Instead, Rico steers me down the sidewalk toward Via Napoli, a high-end Italian restaurant nestled into the side of The Grand Harrington.
The doorman opens the entrance for us, and the ma?tre d' straightens the moment he sees us.
"Mr. Bennetti. Mrs. Bennetti."
I almost snort again. Apparently, I’ve developed some kind of pig-like reaction to unfamiliar situations because I will never get used to being called that.
The ma?tre d’ fumbles with the menus, clearly intimidated by the sheer menace that is Rico’s resting murder face.
He doesn’t even hand us one. Instead, he immediately gestures for us to follow, weaving us through the maze of full tables, clinking glasses, and quiet conversations before leading us toward the private dining suites in the back.
Via Napoli isn’t just a premier Italian restaurant—it’s the premier restaurant. This place has guest chefs flown in from around the world, a waitlist so long you have to sacrifice your firstborn to get a table, and private dining rooms so exclusive they make the CIA’s secured files look accessible.
Most people have to book those suites months in advance. Some patrons pay a monthly fee just to guarantee a private table.
And then there are the Bennettis, who walk in and make entire dining rooms appear out of thin air.
I glance at Rico.
His face is unreadable.
When we reach the double cream-and-gold doors, Rico pushes them open without a word.
Inside, two men are already seated. One I recognize instantly—Jaxon, the attorney who once sat across from me and had the absolute pleasure of discussing my sex life in contractual terms. A true career highlight for him, I’m sure.
The other man looks familiar, but I can’t place him.
Blond hair styled in that I totally didn’t try, but also definitely did kind of way.
Tall, broad, sitting with the posture of a man who definitely irons his socks.
His suit is tailored so precisely it might as well be a second skin, and when he looks at me, his ice-blue eyes are completely unreadable.
Great. A blond version of Rico. Just what the world needed—more emotionally unreadable men with too much money.
“Mrs. Bennetti.” Jaxon stands and reaches for my hand, but the second our palms connect, he stops, clears his throat, and pulls back with a chuckle.
I don’t get it. Until I glance behind me.
Rico is staring at our hands, clearly debating whether committing homicide in a fine dining establishment is worth the cleanup.
Is he… jealous?
No, that would require him to give a crap. Clearly, this is just part of his no touching what’s mine philosophy. News flash, husband of mine—you don’t own me, and I will shake hands with whoever I damn well please.
In fact, I should hold on to Jaxon’s hand a little longer, just for fun.
But before I can properly antagonize my broody husband, Rico pulls out a chair for me.
I sit, half-expecting him to plop down as far away as possible, maybe even across the table, where he can ignore my existence more efficiently.
Nope. He sits directly next to me.
I turn to look at him, but his focus is locked on Jaxon.
Jaxon straightens the papers in a neat pile before him. “Right, well, Mrs. Bennetti, we’re here to discuss your wedding present from your husband.”
I freeze. Every muscle, nerve, and possibly a few internal organs go into full system shutdown.
Wedding present?
Wait. Was I supposed to get him something? Because if so, I definitely failed. What was I going to gift the man who has everything except a personality? A book on how to communicate using more than one-word answers? A hug? A soul?
The mystery blond man slides a folder across the table to Rico and stands, buttoning his suit with a smirk that could probably buy him out of a murder charge.
“All there. Signed, and the wire transfer was received.”
Then he turns to me, extends a hand, and the moment I slide mine into his, he kisses the top of my knuckles.
I glance at Rico, and then the mystery man gives a cartoon villain rivaling laugh.
“Yup,” he says, still grinning, “your brothers were right.”
And then he just… leaves. No name, no last words, just wiggles his fingers at Rico and waltzes out.
I lower my hand to the table, but Rico immediately snatches it, grabbing a napkin, and wiping it off.
Jaxon, to his credit, only barely suppresses his laughter behind a fist.
“Who was that?” I ask, still staring at my husband as he basically sanitizes my hand. If he had bleach I wouldn't be surprised to find my hand soaking in a bucket of it right now.
“Griffin Harrington,” Jaxon supplies.
Griffin Harrington.
Now I place him. The name is synonymous with power, wealth, and manicured levels of arrogance. His family practically owns half of Manhattan, their name attached to everything from high-end real estate to the kind of luxury hotels where the carpets are definitely softer than my sheets.
Jaxon nods toward the folder. “Your husband mentioned this was your favorite—”
Rico cuts him a look so sharp Jaxon immediately clears his throat, changes course, and adopts a more professional tone.
“What I meant to say,” Jaxon corrects smoothly, “is that your husband bought a restaurant for you. Griffin just finished signing over the property to Rico, who has now drawn up papers in your name. As of today, you are the official owner.”
“Owner? I know nothing about running a restaurant.”
Jaxon shrugs. “But you enjoy cooking, right?”
I nod.
“And you were in culinary school.”
I nod again, throat suddenly dry.
“Well, you’ll be taking over as executive chef. We’ll vet a manager to handle the administrative side, so you can focus on what you love—menu creation, kitchen operations, making this place yours.”
I glance at Rico, who still hasn’t looked at me. He’s scanning the papers in front of him, completely unbothered.
He bought me a restaurant.
My favorite restaurant.
First, the car. Now this.
I rant and ramble at dinner all the time, but I never thought he was listening. Clearly, he was.
But looking at his face? There’s no joy. No excitement.
He might as well have accidentally bought me a cat with his demeanor. And this restaurant—it wasn’t cheap. It had to have cost seven figures, minimum.
“But…I didn’t finish my culinary classes.”
Jaxon waves a hand. “We’ve secured someone to help with the transition.
The previous executive chef, Monroe, didn’t take kindly to new ownership.
He’s leaving in a week. But the sous chef, Kai Weston?
Prodigy. Self-taught. He’s been here longer than Monroe and is more than happy to help his new boss learn the ropes. ”
Jaxon stands. “How about I introduce you to the staff? You can start tomorrow with Kai.”
My own restaurant.
The words swirl in my head, tasting sweeter than anything I’ve ever cooked. I can almost see it—my kitchen, my name on the door, customers lining up just for a bite of something I created. Tables filled with people who chose to be there. Not because of a name attached to my family. Because of me.
My fingers trace over the sleek tablecloth in front of us, as the vision builds in my mind—my menu, my signature dishes, my future.
My throat tightens, but in a good way. Maybe, for once, I’m not just some obligation to Rico. Maybe this is him seeing me.
I turn to Rico, warmth spreading through my chest, a tiny ember finally flickering to life. “Thank you,” I say, voice softer than I meant it to be. A little breathless.
And for a second—just a second—he looks up from his stack of papers. Amber eyes meeting mine, sharp and unreadable, but there.
But then he speaks.
“No need. Don’t read into it, Pearlina. You needed a job. Something to do.”
The ember turns to ash before he’s even finished the sentence.
I swallow hard, nodding as if that didn’t just slice right through me, though my chest feels too tight to breathe properly. My fingers curl against the table to keep from shaking, nails digging into my palm and maybe if I press hard enough, I’ll feel something other than this hollow ache.
Of course, that’s all it is.
Not a dream. Not a gift.
Just something to get me out of his hair.
I force a smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. "Right. Something to do."
It's amazing how quickly I can be reminded of exactly who I married in just a few words.