52. Rico
Rico
There’s a loud crash—sharp, jarring, muffled slightly by my noise-canceling headphones. Then hands—multiple—grip my arms, shoving me upright. They yanked my headphones off, and instantly, the blissful white noise replaced by a disorganized chorus of Italian curses.
I blink, slowly peeling my eyes open, and what greets me is nothing short of a horror scene.
Mama stands over my desk, fury transmitting off her petite frame. Nonna is right next to her, clutching her rosary and likely praying for my soul. And just when I think this fever dream can’t get worse, my gaze shifts past them to find my entire family crammed into my office.
Cousins. Siblings. My father. Even my sisters, who I’m fairly certain only show up when they can capitalize on my suffering.
“What the hell? Who died?” My voice is like sandpaper scraping against my throat.
Did I fall asleep?
Between spending my nights wearing my wife out—because apparently, my solution to every problem is to make sure she’s too exhausted to start any more shit—and waking up at the asscrack of dawn to stay one step ahead of Smurfie, I haven’t exactly been resting.
Smurfie. That keyboard-toting little shit.
I’m out here battling an IT gremlin who probably lives in his mother’s basement, existing solely on Mountain Dew and Takis.
“You will soon,” Mama bites out, her accent thick with bitterness as she turns to my father. “You talk to him before I break his face.”
She storms out, my cousins trailing behind her while she curses threats in all three of her languages. Not going to lie, my balls have wormed their way up into my stomach quivering at the idea.
I squint at my screen. Every blink might as well drag a Brillo pad over my corneas. My screens are too bright. My office lights? Too sharp. Even my existence is too much effort right now.
“What time is it?” I reach for my phone, ignoring the shrill ringing in my skull. No clocks on my monitors—perfect. I check my notifications, and… Jesus.
Dozens of missed calls.
Sixty-two unread messages.
And not a single one from my wife.
That’s when I see it. The time.
11:29 pm.
“Rico,” my father starts, his voice eerily calm, which is oddly more unsettling than Mama’s fury. “You worked? You stayed at work?”
He says it as if I haven’t spent my entire life doing exactly this.
“I fell asleep waiting on my checks. Why is everyone acting like I just—”
Then it hits me.
Shit.
I fumble with my phone, scrolling through my texts.
Nothing from Allie.
Not a single message.
Just the one sent by me at noon. Twelve hours ago.
Rico: I will be there.
I scour a hand over my face. “I fell asleep.”
I’m not sure who I’m talking to—the room full of judgmental relatives or the cruel, merciless God above—but it’s the truth. I fell asleep.
“No, you fucked up,” a voice snaps, and my head jerks up just in time to see Sienna standing there, arms folded, blue eyes blazing.
Oh, shit.
Little Miss Sunshine and Rainbows just swore at me. The woman who says sugar snaps instead of shit. The woman who refuses to utter the word fuck and instead will say fudge noodles.
The entire room falls silent. Even my siblings, who thrive on my downfall, look concerned.
“I believe what my wife is trying to say,” Dom interjects, placing a hand on her shoulder like he’s handling a wild animal and I am hoping someone is armed with a tranquilizer dart just in case, “is that you didn’t show up to Allie’s debut.”
Then he looks around. “Can you all give us a minute?”
Sienna doesn’t move.
“I’m not done with him,” her voice a low growl.
Dom leans down, murmurs something in her ear, and she huffs, shooting me one last death glare before storming out.
And just when I think I can breathe, I turn and find another set of murderous eyes trained on me.
Violet.
She just tsks—a simple, condescending little sound that somehow hurts worse. Then she walks out.
I sit there, staring at the door, feeling the weight of my stupidity smother me.
I didn’t just fuck up.
I really fucked up.
Alex and Dom step into the office, followed by Marco, who closes the door with the comic finality of a mob hit. The space is compact, but now it feels like a coffin, one I’m being sealed into with three judgmental pricks looming over me.
Marco, who doesn’t go anywhere unless it involves violence or high-end liquor, is the first to make eye contact. “You went?” If there’s one person I expected to dodge an event with a carefully crafted excuse, it was him.
“Of course.” His tone is dry, unimpressed. “That woman’s cooking—your wife’s fucking cooking—is amazing. I ate her food all the time when she crashed at my apartment. So, where the fuck were you?”
Considering they just found me unconscious at my desk, I feel no need to state the undeniable. But Dom and Alex? They’re staring at me as if I ran over their metaphorical dog.
“I fell asleep.”
I should call her. I have to call her. Even though I have literally never called my wife before. Not once. That realization alone makes me feel like an even bigger asshole than I already knew I was.
Wait.
“Where is Allie?” Because she’s not the type to sulk in a corner. No, my wife would kick down my office door, give me a lecture laced with profanity, and then—knowing her—leave a post-it note somewhere in my office reminding me exactly how and why I’m the worst.
Marco is clearly enjoying this too much. “We told her to go out and celebrate.”
I exhale, but he’s not done.
“With her team…” He pauses. “And Kai.”
The muscle in my jaw ticks. I hate that guy. I really, really do.
Not entirely sure if I mean Marco or Kai at this point. They both qualify.
Ignoring my cousin’s smug little sneer, I tap the call button on Allie’s contact, hating the fact that this is my first time calling my wife.
I always assumed the first time would be something mundane, like Hey, grab milk or I locked myself out.
Not I’m a bastard, and I fell asleep instead of showing up for your big night.
The phone rings.
And rings.
And rings.
Then goes to voicemail.
A cheerful voicemail. A voice I rarely hear from my wife, one that’s light, taunting—one that sure as fuck isn’t meant for me.
Hey, you’ve reached me! I’m busy right now, but leave a message, and I’ll call you back!
I lower my phone, staring at it, then look up at the three men waiting for me to confess the obvious.
“I fucked up.”
Marco snorts. “Oh, did you? I was just wondering.”
“Ya think?” Dom deadpans.
This next part is going to physically pain me, but I have no choice.
“What should I do?”
Alex doesn’t hesitate. “Go home.”
I frown. “Go home?”
“Yeah. Go home, be ready to grovel and beg when she gets back.”
Beg? Beg?
Absolutely not.
Why can’t I just go to her now? Preferably drag her away from Kai while I’m at it? I grind my molars together, and Alex, knowing exactly where my mind is going, cuts me off before I can even suggest it.
“She’s out.” He glances at his phone. “Vinnie is with her. He already checked in with Antonio. She’s laughing, having a good time. You’ve done enough harm. The last thing you need to do is crash her night and make it worse.”
I don’t like this. Not one bit. But my brother is right. If I show up, if I storm in and demand to talk to her, I’ll look even more like an asshole than I already do.
Marco shakes his head, scoffing. “If you were gonna fuck up this bad, you should’ve done it early on, man. Set expectations real low. Now? Now, you’ve gotta make an effort.”
The last thing I need is to turn into my brothers—men who willingly handed over their balls to their wives, gift-wrapped and all. I’m not begging. I’m not groveling.
I’ll apologize, sure. It was a mistake. I intended to leave work, go home, change, and go to the restaurant. I fell asleep. Partially her fault, really. If she wasn’t keeping me up at night with all the sex—
Yeah. That wouldn’t go over well. Probably best to keep that to myself.
“Fine.” I push back from my desk. “I’ll go home.”