41. Rico
Rico
“You bought her a restaurant instead of just asking Griffin to give her a job as head chef?”
Marco leans back in his chair, twirling his glass of whiskey and waiting for a punchline that isn't coming.
I don’t respond. Mostly because I refuse to validate his tone, but also because I’m currently occupying the worst office space known to man.
Of all places to summon me, he picked this. The strip club. His strip club.
Which means I’m now subjected to two of my least favorite activities:
Being in public.
Being in an office smaller than a broom closet while my cousin watches me for sport.
I sit, unimpressed, as music blares through the walls, men hoot as if it’s the first set of tits they’ve ever seen, and a stripper dressed in approximately three square inches of material giggles at some poor bastard who’s about to blow his rent money.
Marco, meanwhile, savors his drink, no doubt reveling in my discomfort. Only problem? I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
Not a flinch. Not a twitch. Not a single fuck given.
Even though, yes, I am two seconds away from yelling at the noise embracing my inner 80-year-old man on his front porch telling kids to get off his damn lawn.
Allie is at the restaurant. Her restaurant.
It’s her third day there, working closely with Kai Weston, the tattooed culinary prodigy who gladly took her under his wing.
I didn’t appreciate that word. Gladly.
The first time I walked into the kitchen and saw the guy—mid-twenties, too many tattoos, piercing green eyes, that smile that makes women coo and flutter their lashes—I had to physically unclench my fist.
I don’t have violent impulses that peak to the point they may become reality. My threshold for bullshit is higher than most (now). But the moment I saw his pretty-boy face, my brain flicked through all scenarios where my knuckles could introduce themselves to his jaw. Thoroughly.
I didn’t enjoy the reaction. Didn’t understand it.
I do now.
I wanted to punch him because I wanted to punch him. No deeper meaning. No over-analysis. Just a sudden and overwhelming desire to rearrange his face and, in the process, my own rapidly spiraling thoughts.
Besides, I got what I wanted out of this, right?
Peace. Quiet. Nights alone.
My phone no longer pings all day.
No good morning texts beyond a quick Don’t know how late I’ll be, don’t wait up.
No dinner updates. No annoying brief texts that used to buzz before I could fully process my day.
It’s perfect.
Except it’s not.
She doesn’t leave the restaurant until ten, sometimes eleven.
Not because I care. That would be… concerning.
And now, instead of me coming home to her sitting at the dining table with some half-hearted attempt to engage, she goes straight upstairs. Shower. Bed. Nothing.
And I should be relieved.
I should be fucking celebrating.
Instead, I did something pathetic last night.
I walked up to the second floor at one in the morning, thinking maybe she was waiting for me.
She wasn’t.
She was asleep. Eyes closed. Breathing soft and steady.
And I stood there, just watching.
Not because I miss her. I don’t miss her.
I miss the sex.
I miss her naked body beneath me, her legs wrapped around my waist, the way she—
No. Nope. No. Absolutely not.
I miss convenience. Routine.
That’s it.
So what’s the problem?
I got exactly what I wanted—my wife out of my daily existence and a one-way ticket to peace. We’re operating on opposite schedules, her bedroom might as well be in another time zone, and she’s too busy running her restaurant to pester me with her usual texts.
And yet.
Not even a thank you fuck for buying the place.
I don’t ask for much. A little gratitude in the form of legs wrapped around my waist or her mouth around my…
yeah…shouldn’t be a tall order. But no. I handed her the literal keys to her dream, and she rewarded me by disappearing.
Okay, so my delivery of said keys might be part of the reason there was no thank you blowjob, but still.
The real problem? I’m not done with her.
I should have washed her out of my system before giving her a reason to never be around me. The distance is making it worse. I should be free, and instead, I'm counting down the seconds to my next hit.
Marco clears his throat, dragging me out of the mental spiral I refuse to acknowledge.
I sip my drink, hating how it burns down my throat, but appreciating the fact that if I feel it, I am still alive. Barely. “She needed a job. I needed space.”
A lie so bold it should be printed on billboards.
I glance at my phone. A text from my wife at ten this morning.
Allie: Don’t wait up. It will be a late night until I get used to things around here.
I ignored it. Nothing new there.
Only this time, ignoring it annoyed me.
No. The text annoyed me.
No. I annoyed myself by feeling anything at all.
It’s simple, really. I need to get laid. That’s it. Biological necessity. Once I scratch the itch, all this bullshit in my head will straighten itself out.
Except I had a perfectly willing, absolutely addictive option. And now she’s gone.
Allie was glowing when she found out she owned the restaurant. She looked at me with so much damn joy that I wanted to personally kick myself in the balls.
So, naturally, I did what any self-respecting asshole would do—I dismissed it. Made sure she knew this wasn’t a romantic gesture. No hidden agenda. No deeper meaning. Just a convenient solution to my problem.
Her face fell so fast, and that itself should have felt as though I finally won.
It didn’t.
But it’s better this way.
Hope is a dangerous thing. It makes her assume there’s more. That I actually give a shit. That I want something from her beyond the contract we signed.
And that is where she’s wrong.
Right?
Marco leans forward, refilling my glass, some of the whiskey sloshing onto his desk. “I’m gonna call bullshit on that one.”
He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to. The bastard knows me too well.
I eye the drink, swirling it in my hand, and glance around his office. “Are you ever going to refurnish this shithole?”
Everything is metal. Rusted, dusty, scratched-up and grating on me. The sound of the chairs scraping against the concrete floor makes my teeth ache.
And I know why Marco chose concrete. It’s easier to bleach.
I also know why my body reacts to it.
The scrape of metal against concrete is too familiar. It tugs at things in my head I keep locked up, buried deep, suffocating under years of strategic denial.
Marco watches me, swirling his drink in a way that suggests he enjoys poking at my demons just to see what they do.
I mutter under my breath, “Stop it.”
“Can’t help myself.” His grin is lazy and infuriating.
Marcello shifts in the corner, ready to intervene if I decide to launch myself across the desk and deck Marco in the jaw.
To piss Marco off just as much, I pivot.
“Marcello,” I say, turning to him. “How’s Max?”
Marco’s smirk drops so fast I’d pay to see it on instant replay.
Marcello lights up. “Good, sir.” He clears his throat, eyes darting between us. “We’re doing fine.”
Marco mutters something dark under his breath, shooting me a look that says, Congratulations, you’ve successfully ruined my mood.
Good. Because mine was already fucked.
“Okay, want to play this game?” Marco leans forward on his desk. “Nice Tesla.”
I don’t react. Can’t a man be environmentally conscious? The car purchase means nothing.
“Time for a change,” I reply, taking a sip of my whiskey. As if I don’t buy new cars every few years. Since when did upgrading my vehicle become breaking news?
“Funny thing. I stopped by the restaurant the other day to see Allie. She was in the back with Kai Weston, going over the specials for the week. They seem… close.”
I barely blink. Clearly, my cousin forgets I lack the energy or patience for jealousy.
Possessiveness? Equally useless. My brothers have a caveman-esque obsession with their wives, practically growling at anyone who so much as breathes in their direction.
Me? I have better things to do than swing a metaphorical club at every idiot with functioning eyeballs.
She’s hot. Of course men are going to look.
And if they get too close, she can handle herself. I’m more than confident Allie could gouge out an eye—or hell, steal it if she really wanted.
“He’s showing her the restaurant. She takes over next week.” Marco’s good at needling, but I’m better at not giving a shit.
“Does showing her the restaurant require him to stand that close? His hand was on her lower back when they leaned over the menu. So close. Almost intimate. And those late nights… I assume your wife doesn’t come home at a decent hour anymore. But hey, you got your space, right?”
I stare at him, unimpressed.
“Kai’s a good-looking guy, too. Young. Successful. Up-and-comer in the culinary world. Shares similar passions as Allie.” His voice is all faux innocence, but he’s watching me closely, waiting for a tell. “They’ll make a great team.”
I know where he’s going with this, but for the record? I’d have to care about my wife for it to matter.
And I don’t.
Right?
I know everything about Kai Weston—his age, culinary background, fourth-grade spelling bee results if we want to get specific. As if I’d drop 1.3 million dollars on a business without thoroughly vetting every single employee.
“Your point?”
“Just observations. He’s single too, right?”
Subtlety was never one of his strengths.
And because the universe hates me, my phone pings with a message from Allie, right on cue.
Allie: We are staying after the dinner rush. I probably won’t be home until midnight, but Vinnie is here.
I grit my teeth.
Fourth night in a row.
Could I wait up for her? Yes. Will I? Absolutely fucking not.
I’m not that desperate for sex. Even if my body disagrees, and my mood has gone to shit because I apparently require daily physical contact now.
No. A few days without her will fix this. Reset the system. Get me back to once-a-week territory.
Whether I spent seven figures on peace and a biological reset is beside the point.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. She already knows I read the message. She doesn’t expect a response. She never does anymore.
And yet…
The itch to say something crawls beneath my skin.
Before I let myself become the idiot Marco is waiting for, I slide my phone into my pocket and push my glass toward my grinning cousin.
“Fill it to the top.”
“Sure. Might take the sting of jealousy away.”
I pick up the glass, exhale through my nose, and take a slow sip before muttering, “Go to hell.”
“Brother, in case you missed the memo, I am the devil, and we are in hell. Welcome to the underworld.”