50. Rico
Rico
“Rico, let it go, dude.”
Dom is standing at the entrance of my office again, arms crossed and all judgy — as if he wasn't the same workaholic who used to survive on two hours of sleep and spite before he domesticated himself.
I don’t even bother looking up this time. “No.”
“You can work on it tomorrow.”
“I could. Or I could not let some basement-dwelling hacker breach my systems while you sip wine at my wife’s restaurant.”
That earns me a sharp exhale—Dom’s version of flipping me off—but he doesn’t leave. Just lingers.
If we were actually identical, that whole twin telepathy nonsense would tell him to sit his ass down and help me solve his merger crisis. But no, instead, he’s here doing his obnoxious fairy hovering routine.
I’ve been staring at this screen since four in the morning.
I should be exhausted—the kind of exhaustion that turns your brain to cement and makes your body move with all the grace of a rusted-out engine.
I should be clawing for caffeine and begging someone to hook an IV drip of espresso straight into my veins, but that would require talking and begging—two things I don't do.
But no.
I blame my wife.
Apparently, she steals my energy now too, because after fucking her into the mattress last night, I passed out. Dead. Slept straight through the night as if I'm some well-adjusted human being.
Unacceptable.
Worse? I forgot she was even there.
Then I woke up—somewhere between midnight and dawn—and there she was. Sprawled across my bed. Her braid half undone, lips parted, hogging my space.
A space thief, and I didn't not enjoy it. Can't say I'm enjoying this alternate side of me.
That should’ve been in the contract. I should’ve asked Marco before signing my life away if she was a closet clepto—because so far, the list keeps growing.
She even moved her crap into my closet. My perfectly organized, highly efficient closet. And now? It looks as if a boutique threw up in it. Clothes everywhere. Colors where colors shouldn’t be. Shoes taking up valuable real estate.
And the bathroom?
Kill me now.
Her shit is everywhere. Skincare, makeup, a curling iron. I don’t even know what half the bottles do, but I know I knocked one over this morning, and it leaked some kind of shimmering liquid that glittered. Glittered. I had to wash my hands three times to get it off.
And yet, instead of telling her to haul her ass back upstairs where she belongs, I don't.
Instead, I keep hoping she’ll finally tell me she’s pregnant so I can kick her out of my bed and reclaim my sanity.
This isn’t how this was supposed to go.
I should not be enjoying this.
I should not be watching her mouth while she talks just because I know how it looks.
I should not be thinking about the way she smells—honeysuckle and vanilla and fucking sin—when she’s not even in the room.
And yet, here I am.
What is wrong with me?
Besides, there’s something far more irritating than my wife right now—a feat I didn’t think possible.
The hacker.
The faceless, self-important little shit who’s screwed with our systems and introduces themselves as Blue.
Blue.
What kind of pretentious jackass chooses a color as their alias?
If you’re going to go that route, at least put some effort into it.
Something ominous. Blood Red. Phantom Black.
Rusted Soul Brown. Hell, even Decaying Corpse Green would show a little creativity.
But no. Just Blue—as if they’re trying to be cryptic, cool and failing spectacularly or he has a dark fantasy involving a Smurf.
Either way, he's a pain in my ass, regardless of his name.
Alex and Dom have been stuck fielding panicked calls from the board—ancient old geezers who wouldn’t know a firewall from a fire hazard—while I’ve been working ungodly hours with my skeleton crew, hunting down every backdoor this Smurf-lover boy keeps leaving open.
The rate I’ve been clenching and unclenching my fists hasn’t gone unnoticed. I’m positive that at some point, I’ll wake up to find them permanently balled up.
I can’t tell if it’s the hacker pissing me off or if it’s something deeper.
Something I’ve buried.
Something my wife has taken a sledgehammer to, breaking down walls I spent years fortifying.
Not. Good.
Dom still stands there, as if my ignoring him wasn't hint enough.
“You have Allie’s restaurant thing tonight. You’ll be there, right?”
Fuck.
The restaurant.
She’s only texted me about it a dozen times.
Left a note on the coffee pot. Brought it up in person.
And yet, I still pushed it to the back of my mind, because unlike my wife, I actually respect the terms of our agreement—which technically states she’s not allowed to discuss work with me. Not that she gives a shit.
I exhale through my nose. “I’ll be there.”
I may be an asshole, but even I know that missing my wife’s grand debut as a chef is a low I’m not willing to sink to.
Dom tilts his head. “Sienna and I are going straight from the office. I could have Elias grab your suit and bring it here so you can ride with us.”
I freeze mid-keystroke and stare at him.
Dom.
The brother who has never once in his life offered me a ride. Or to have his driver rummage through my closet.
All violations. All unacceptable. All major red flags.
Hard. Fucking. Pass.
“I’m fine.”
Besides, I rushed to the office the second I got an alert that Smurf Dick had attempted another breach.
So, I need to get home, shower, and change into one of three suits I own—because unlike the brother standing before me, I don’t have a personal stylist or a closet that resembles a high-end men’s boutique.
Dom’s wardrobe is disturbing.
Custom suits. Three dozen of them. Organized by color, season, and thread count.
Thread count.
I’ll be throwing on whatever suit is closest to the door, probably missing a tie, and hoping for the best.
At least Allie won’t care.
“Rico...”
I keep my eyes on the screen, fingers tapping impatiently on the keyboard as if the rhythmic clicking will somehow signal my disinterest in whatever urgent family matter Dom is here to lecture me about.
But when his looming presence doesn’t dissipate, I exhale sharply and—against my better judgment—look up.
“You can’t miss this.”
“I’m aware.” My voice is edged with an irritation that should send him running. It doesn’t. If anything, Dom looks encouraged. Clearly, he enjoys being a massive inconvenience in my day.
Without another word, I tug my headphones over my ears. If I’m lucky, he’ll take the hint and—
Knock. Knock.
The asshole actually knocks on my doorframe.
“You aren’t dragging this hacker situation out to…” He trails off, choosing his words carefully, and I have a feeling I won't appreciate what comes out next.
I arch a brow, waiting for him to grow a spine, and spit it out.
“…delay or possibly even ruin the merger?”
I blink at him. Seriously?
Do I hate the merger? With every fiber of my very being.
I’d rather go through a full-body wax (and that includes the undercarriage of my balls) than watch our family business get diluted by the corporate douchebaggery of the Locke brothers.
But would I sabotage the company I’ve dedicated my entire life to?
Not even on my worst day.
“You’re more than welcome to step in. Maybe have Cruz or Kaden or… whatever the fuck their names are, take over.”
“You really don’t know their names?”
“Why would I?” I type out another line of code. “I have no intentions of speaking to them. Ever.”
Dom pinches the bridge of his nose. “Look, I had to ask. It’s a convenient excuse to avoid your wife. And it gets you out of a merger we all know you hate.”
“I’m not a selfish prick.”
I don’t need to look up to know he’s rolling his eyes so hard he probably just gave himself a concussion.
“…I’m not that much of a selfish prick,” I amend.
“Better.” Dom taps his phone against his mouth—an action so repulsive I nearly gag.
The number of germs on a phone’s surface?
Seventeen thousand bacteria per square inch.
Yeah. I googled it. Yeah. I nearly dry-heaved when I read it.
Therefore, I keep industrial-strength sanitizing wipes in my pocket.
“If you must work, have someone else do it. There are other competent people here. You don’t have to do everything yourself.”
“But I am the only one with the skills for this.”
“Locke’s people are good. You’d know that if you, well… met them.”
Sure. Let me just schedule a meet-and-greet with my new colleagues right after I host a farewell party for the last shred of my freedom.
Before I can tell Dom exactly where he can shove his helpful little suggestion, my phone pings.
And then another ping.
And another.
One from Mama. One from Papa. One from Allie.
I stare at my screen, unimpressed.
Mama: Do not miss Allie’s restaurant opening. You are a husband now. You have to show up and support your wife.
Papa: You will be there tonight, right? Your Mama has threatened me in Spanish and Italian if you don’t. We all know what that means, and I will be the victim since you will run away faster than she can catch you.
Allie: I know you will read this, and not respond, but if you could please come tonight, it would mean the world to me.
My jaw tightens.
I tap on Allie’s message, scroll up to the very first text she ever sent me, and open the info tab.
194 messages.
Not a single one ever replied to. Every single one read.
We’ve been married for five weeks and two days.
I’m not counting.
But apparently, my wife has had my number for fifty-three days and has sent an average of 3.6 texts per day, still expecting a response.
And I never noticed…
Not until she slowed down her texting frequency.
I scroll back down, my thumb hesitating over the keyboard.
Then, before I can think too hard about it, I type.
Rico: I will be there.
I hit send.
Flip my phone to silent and turn it face down.
And then I get back to work.
My brothers think I’m dragging my feet with Smurf Man, but eradicating a hacker who actually knows what they’re doing takes time. If they understood even half of what I do, they’d know that. But they don’t. They assume I press a few keys, mutter some dark magic, and voilà—problem solved.
Idiots.
This isn’t some cut-rate movie where the hacker taps a keyboard three times and announces I’m in. No, it’s a war. A patient, calculated game of outmaneuvering someone who, unfortunately, is almost as good as me. Almost.
And that’s what I live for. The rush. The challenge. The electric thrill that hums in my veins when I finally take them down, when I watch them scramble, knowing I’ve outplayed them. That’s when I feel alive. It's all here—staring at a screen, locked in a battle only I can win.
This is my passion. My addiction. The one thing I excel at, the one thing that makes sense. And I’ll be damned if I let my brothers piss all over it with their baseless accusations. I’m not taking my time. I’m playing the long game. And when I strike?
It’s game over.