61. Rico
Rico
If someone were to compile a list of all the things my wife has stolen from me, we’d need an Excel spreadsheet, multiple tabs, and a dedicated forensic accountant to keep up.
Tonight is just another tally on the ever-growing list.
She’s stolen my time, considering I had every intention of coming home, eating one of the pre-prepped meals she obsessively stocks in the fridge like an overachieving housewife, and then losing myself in code.
Instead, I’ve been ambushed.
I should be at my desk right now, drowning in algorithms, keeping Smurf—or Blue or whatever the hell this hacker’s name is—from worming into my system again. But no. I’m here. Being dressed up like a damn show pony.
I slam the bedroom door behind me, fully embracing my inner toddler, and groan when I see the three-piece suit neatly laid out on the bed.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
I know this woman. She did this to piss me off.
She picked the vest on purpose. And the red tie?
Cute. But not happening. I’ll put on the jacket, the slacks, and that’s where I draw the line.
Ties are for men trying too hard, and vests are for people who think they’re auditioning for a Peaky Blinders reboot.
And yes, both my brothers wear the full ensemble. And yes, I judge them for it.
Grumbling every curse word in existence, I head into the shower, taking my sweet, sweet time.
If I have to suffer, so does she. Let her sit out there in that sinful dress, wondering if I’m going to make us late.
Then again, knowing Allie, she probably built in extra time just for this exact scenario.
She knows me too well, and I'm not a fan of that fact.
I should probably check the family text thread to see when this exhibit actually starts.
But the Bro Chat—the unnecessary and entirely insufferable group Dom created for us—moves faster than Wall Street on a trading day.
Scrolling through it would require actual effort, and frankly, I’m not in the mood.
Screw it. I shave, dragging the blade across my jaw with exaggerated slowness—not because I need to, but because I know it’ll piss her off. A glorious side bonus.
But if I’m being honest, as much as I don’t want to go, I owe her.
Even I can acknowledge that showing up for my sister while failing to show up for my wife was an ass-backward move. And maybe—maybe—this is a way to make up for it.
And if that means I get to rip that dress off of her later?
Then fine. I’ll suffer through one night of overpriced champagne and pretentious art-speak just to get her out of it.
Because that dress? It’s never seeing the light of day again.
The number of men I will have to punch (preferably eye gauge) for looking at her tonight already makes my fists itch.
I glance at my watch. Right on the forty-minute mark. I’ve been ready for fifteen, lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, contemplating all of my life choices that have led me to this exact moment.
When I step out of the room, Allie is leaning against the kitchen counter, nursing a glass of wine.
I pray it’s her first one.
One fun fact I’ve learned about my wife? When she drinks, she gets sleepy. Sleepy means less sex for me.
I’ve crunched the numbers. It’s a pattern.
Her hazel eyes widen the second she sees me, and for a moment, I’m enjoying the way she looks at me—like she might rip the suit off herself just to get to what’s underneath.
Then she ruins it.
“Wow.” She puts the glass down, sauntering toward me, and I tell myself—do not focus on how her hips move in that damn dress.
Do. Not. Focus.
Because if I notice it, every other red-blooded man at this event will too, and I have shit to do. Being bailed out of jail isn't part of the plan.
She stops in front of me, her hands smoothing down my suit, the warmth of her touch igniting something dangerous. My cock twitches, and I almost growl.
What the fuck is this woman’s control over my body?
I’ve researched. Deeply. There are no answers.
Okay, the answers I did find? I didn’t like.
I’m attracted to her. No shit.
I love her? Not a chance in hell. And for the record, how does love make you want to bend a woman over every available surface?
I have a sex addiction.
Or, more likely, she gave me one.
I suppose that’s just another thing she’s stolen from me.
My self-control.
If we were keeping score on how many things my wife had stolen from me, tonight would be another bold tally. Right up there with my peace of mind, my self-control, and the dignity I lost the day I let her move her crap into my room.
Now? She’s stolen my evening.
And my ability to avoid social interaction.
I should be at home, eating whatever she stocked in the fridge and not standing in a three-piece suit like I’ve just been prepped for a GQ spread I never asked to be part of.
And yet, here I am.
“You look amazing, Rico.” Her voice drips with something dangerously close to admiration, which I do not trust. Those hazel eyes, flecked with gold and green, scan me like she’s mentally undressing me, fingers playing with the lapels of my jacket.
Tempting. But if I let myself think about flipping her over my shoulder and letting her show me just how amazing I look, we won’t be making it to this art exhibit soon. Which isn't the worst idea…
“The only time I saw you in a suit was at our wedding.” She laughs. I can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing. Probably bad. Most things are when they involve me.
“Though, to be completely honest,” she continues, “I barely looked at you that day. I was too afraid.”
I tilt my head. Afraid? Of me?
“Why?”
She cocks her head at me like I just asked why people breathe air.
“Rico, you wanted to be there about as much as you want to go to this gallery exhibit. Not only were there people there, but you were tying yourself—” She stops herself, lips pressing together.
Go on, say it. Say the part where I tied myself to a woman I didn’t choose. That this was a deal, not a choice. Say it, so I can stop pretending I don’t already know.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she shakes her head. “Doesn’t matter.”
It should.
But I don’t press. That would require effort.
She exhales and smooths down her dress—a movement I shouldn’t be focusing on, but it’s hard not to when the fabric hugs her like a second skin. “Anyway, we should get going. Vinnie’s ready with the car.”
“You both look nice.”
Vinnie gives Allie one of those polite, borderline affectionate smiles he saves just for her. The second she slides into the backseat, that smile vanishes. Gone like it never existed.
Yeah, he hates me.
Not that I give a shit.
I could speculate on the why, but I don’t need to. I know.
He’s not exactly thrilled with how I’ve handled this whole marriage thing. Too bad for him. It’s my marriage, not his. And as long as he’s willing to do his job and throw himself in front of bullets or rogue psychopaths for my wife's safety, he can scowl at me all he wants.
Despite Manhattan’s prime traffic hour, we make it to The Gallery a lot faster than I’d like.
And that’s when I realize.
Vinnie pulled up to the entrance.
Right up to the red carpet.
The one with flashing cameras and reporters waiting like vultures.
I grip my fists—clench, hold, unclench, hold—trying to ignore the full-body panic setting in. I don’t do press. I don’t do crowds. Hell, I barely do people.
I don’t exist publicly. That’s Dom or Alex's world.
But now, standing here in a suit that feels too tight, next to a woman who commands attention with nothing but a glance, I feel like a target. Doesn't help my wife's dress is the color of a bulleye.
Vinnie hops out, circles to open the door, and I step out, buttoning my jacket. I hold out a hand for Allie because I'm not that much of a jackass, and cameras…
Her fingers slip into mine, soft but firm, and I hear the surprise in her voice when she whispers, “Thank you.”
Like I’m incapable of basic human decency. Fair assumption, but still.
The flashes come fast.
Retinas? Officially fried.
Allie, on the other hand, thrives in this. She smiles, confident and effortless.
Meanwhile, I am mentally composing my obituary.
The peace is short-lived.
“Dominic!”
A woman with an impractically perfect blonde bob—probably synthetic, because real hair doesn’t gleam like that—charges toward us, her designer heels clicking like gunshots against the pavement.
I keep walking.
Allie stops, tugging me with her.
Damn it.
“This is Enrico Bennetti,” she corrects, her voice polite but firm. “Dominic is his twin.”
The woman’s painted-on brows lift in shock. “Oh. You’re the other Bennetti.”
Fucking wonderful.
I love being called the other Bennetti.
It’s like being the consolation prize no one wanted.
Before I can snarl something sarcastic, she shifts her attention to Allie, scanning her from head to toe like she’s an art piece under auction.
“And who are you?”
My jaw clenches so hard I hear my teeth creak.
“Alessandra Bennetti,” my wife says smoothly, chin lifted. “Enrico’s wife.”
Alessandra Bennetti.
It’s not new information. I know this. I signed a contract. I wear a ring. I share a bed with her.
But hearing it like that—her name, attached to mine, in public—somehow makes it more real than the fact that she’s literally infiltrated every corner of my life.
“Oh, what a treat,” the blonde continues. “I had no idea the youngest Bennetti was married.”
Youngest.
Because, even though Dom and I are twins, somehow, I’m always the one they talk about like I’m the little brother following behind him like a lost puppy.
I’m a grown man. A grown man with an IQ that probably exceeds most of the people in this room, and definitely my fucking brothers. And yet, I know if I stay here a second longer, this woman will start talking to me like I’m twelve.
I lean down, murmur in Allie’s ear, “Let’s go.”
And, to my relief, she lets me.