71. Allie
Allie
“So, you want to file for divorce?” Marco leans back in his chair, looking thoroughly unbothered, like I just told him I accidentally ran over his cat instead of dropping a bomb about ending my marriage.
The bass from the club on the other side of the doors vibrates under my chair, a nice little soundtrack to my utter humiliation.
I nod, exhaling slowly. “I know the whole reason you let me out of the Cosa Nostra was because I married Rico, and I understand if that means I have to go back, but I’m asking—begging—please don’t make me. I love my job. My restaurant. I don’t want to go back.”
Marco frowns, clearly unimpressed by my dramatics. “I’m not making you go back. I gave my word.”
“But I’m divorcing him. That was the deal, right?”
He stands, resting his hands on the desk before glancing at Vinnie. “Give us a minute.”
Vinnie pauses. Because while he is my bodyguard, he’s also my big brother in everything but blood, and Marco is… well, Marco. Which means Vinnie is probably deciding whether he needs to warn him with words or just brute force.
Marco raises an eyebrow, like he dares Vinnie to confront him. Vinnie doesn’t, but the slow, measured way he stands makes it clear he thought about it. Then, with a quick glance at me, he follows Marcello out; the door clicking shut behind them.
Marco exhales. "Do you know why I asked you to marry my cousin?”
I shake my head.
“I owe Rico a lot.” He doesn’t look at me as he wipes a hand over his jaw, staring at some invisible point past my shoulder.
“Literally my life.” Then his eyes snap back to mine, and for a second, it’s unsettling because they look so much like Rico’s—same intensity, same guarded darkness.
“I’m assuming no one’s told you what actually happened to him twenty-four years ago? ”
“No. Just that something happened. And he doesn’t talk about it.”
Marco lets out a low laugh—cold, humorless, and a little deranged.
“Yeah, something happened.” He leans back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the desk.
“And because you grew up in a family like mine, I think you can handle the truth. Well, most of it. Some of it, I’ll leave for Rico…
assuming he ever gets his head out of his ass and actually talks. ”
My stomach knots. That doesn’t sound promising.
“Twenty-four years ago, some men came looking for me. They wanted the son of Tony Bennetti. You probably know why.”
I do. Sadly. Because just like I was a valuable asset to my father, Marco was one of his. A bargaining chip, a target, a liability, depending on who you asked.
Marco waits for my nod, then continues. “Rico told them he was me. Took my place. Let them drag him off instead of me. He was gone for two days.” His jaw tightens. “And let’s just say Uncle Ricardo lost his mind.”
I shift in my seat, fingers in front of me.
“I’m not sure if you know this, but Ricardo was the original Don.
Didn’t want the life anymore after he had kids.
So, he handed it off to my father, who… well, thrived in that role.
And by thrived, I mean he gave zero fucks about what it meant for my childhood.
” Marco lets out another humorless laugh. “It was peachy. Good times.”
He stands and walks over to the bar cart in the corner, pouring himself a drink before glancing at me. “You drink whiskey?”
“Not really.”
“Yeah, well. You will now.” He slides a tumbler my way. “It helps numb the blow.”
I pick it up, take a sip, and immediately regret it. What fresh hell is this liquid? It burns all the way down, igniting a fire in my chest like I just swallowed a Molotov cocktail.
“Good, right?”
I glare at him, coughing into my sleeve. “It tastes like death.”
He takes his seat again, looking far too satisfied as he crosses his ankle over his knee and continues like he didn’t just casually drop a trauma nuke on me.
“Once those assholes realized Rico was actually Ricardo’s son, they panicked.” His lip curls. “But it was too late. They’d already beaten the shit out of him. Cut him up. Left him in an alley somewhere to die.”
My stomach twists vigorously.
“I’m sure you’ve seen the scars.”
I nod. Yeah. I’ve seen them. The ones he kept hidden from me for weeks. The ones I traced with my fingers in the dark, wondering how he got them.
“My pops and Uncle Ricardo found him. And let’s just say”—Marco’s expression darkens—“they handled it. The men who took Rico? Got it worse. Much worse. And I got a front-row seat to the execution as punishment.”
I blink. “Punishment?”
Marco swirls the whiskey in his glass. “For letting someone take my place. Someone who isn’t family.”
Silence hangs heavily between us.
I swallow, my throat raw from the whiskey and the pure horror of what I’m hearing.
Marco shrugs. “Before you ask—no, that’s not why I’m like this. I was already screwed long before that. My father made sure of it. Not like my pops was known for his sane life choices. My mother is one of them. But, this just sealed the deal.”
He takes another sip, watching me thoughtfully, waiting for something. Maybe for me to flinch. Or cry. Or freak out.
But I don’t.
Because I get it.
I might not have known exactly what happened to Rico before now, but I always knew something broke him. And hearing it… yeah. I can see why.
But it doesn’t change the fact that he broke me, too.
And there’s no fixing either of us.
“Why are you telling me this?” I take another sip of the whiskey, and this time, it slides down smoother, leaving hints of honey and oak on my tongue. Maybe once it numbs all your internal organs, you taste flavors instead of pure fire.
Marco watches me over the rim of his glass, his expression indecipherable. “Because you deserve to know.”
“Well, congrats.” I hold up my glass in a mock toast. “Mission accomplished. I feel awful. I love him, and I always knew he went through something. But it changes nothing.”
Marco shakes his head. “No, it doesn’t. See, my cousin refused to get help.
His parents spent three years dragging him to therapist after therapist, but he wouldn’t talk.
Not a single word. The first few years after it happened?
He didn’t speak at all. What little he says now?
” He huffs out a dry laugh. “That’s progress. If you can believe that shit.”
My stomach twists. Rico barely talks. If this is progress, what the hell was he like before?
“They gave him a break, tried again when he was seventeen. He still refused. By eighteen, he was old enough to say fuck off, and they stopped pushing. That’s when the whole family collectively called it the incident and pretend it never happened.
” Marco shakes his head like the entire concept is ludicrous—which, yeah, it is.
“Meanwhile, Rico stayed angry. Violent. He used to have outbursts. Bad ones. Especially that first year. He’d break stuff, break people, break himself. ”
I wince.
Marco flicks a finger toward his nose, which has clearly been broken more than once. “Let’s just say my cousin has honored me with a broken nose six times. Probably a seventh headed my way after he finds out I told you all this.”
I exhale through my nose, my grip tightening on my glass. “So, what am I supposed to do with all of this? Fix him?”
“No.” Marco’s index finger tracks the rim of his tumbler. “He refuses to get help. Which is where you came in.”
I take another sip. Substantial this time. And yup, still burns like liquid sin. But now it’s pooling in my stomach, warm and buttery, spreading through my limbs until my whole body feels loose and heavy. Vinnie might have to carry me to the car.
“Look,” Marco sighs. “When you came to me asking to leave the family, I looked into you. Watched you. You had a spine. You were secretly taking classes, rejecting your family’s wishes, basically flipping off the entire Cosa Nostra without saying a word.
Sassy, a little mouthy if I’m honest, but ideal for Rico.
He needed a wife. And some meek little creature who rolled over and took whatever he dished out wouldn't work. No, he needed someone who would push him, stand up to him, force him out of that shell he’s been hiding in for too long. ”
“Well,” I swirl my glass, watching the amber liquid coat the sides.
“I thought I did that.” Memories hit me like a sledgehammer.
The gallery opening he went to, the minuscule changes he made without admitting they were for me.
“But clearly, I was delusional. Turns out, I was just putting meaning behind things that meant nothing.”
“No, you got through to him. I saw him right before he moved you into his bedroom. For a man who doesn’t feel, he sure was feeling a lot that night.
I poked the bear—because let’s be honest, I’m not sane.
” He grins, that special grin with all sorts of Jack Nickolson vibes before he goes straight to serial killer—the one that makes me wonder if he’s two seconds away from pulling a knife out of thin air.
“Problem is, Rico felt like the more he let you in, the less control he had. And that’s when he lashed out. ”
“Yeah, I don’t consider cheating ‘lashing out’.”
“I don’t think he cheated on you.”
I glare at him. “Guess we’ll have to agree to disagree. Because I was there when he admitted it, and trust me, he was serious.”
Marco just tilts his head. Like I’m adorable for thinking that. “He also called you a thief.”
I freeze, glass halfway to my lips. “What?”
“You heard me.”
I set my glass down, my pulse ticking in my throat. “I stole nothing.”
Marco rolls his eyes. “Metaphorically, Allie. Though, from the one time I was at his house, there wasn’t much to steal.”
I squint at him. “And?”
“And I figured out what he meant.”
I cross my arms. “Do share, Sherlock.”
He leans forward. "You stole his control. You stole the quiet, comfortable, minimalist prison he called a home. You stole his ability to decide when and where things happened. And worst of all, you stole every single wall he put up so he wouldn’t have to feel anything.”
I stare at him, my throat narrowing.
“And that?” He points at me. “That scared the shit out of him.”
I push out of my chair, smoothing my skirt—the first real skirt I’ve worn in weeks. Like, what is this? Some subconscious attempt to reclaim who I used to be? Yeah, I'll examine the darker meaning of that one later.
“Well,” I say evenly, “I didn’t steal love. Or respect. Or honor. The three things I demand in a marriage.”
Marco nods. “As you should. Which is why you can stay out of the family. Though the Bennetti family? You know, the nosy, never-shut-the-fuck-up one? Yeah. No escaping them, so I can’t help you there.” He salutes me with his tumbler.
“Awesome.”
“Also. Your papa may have asked me if he could marry you off to Carlo Romano once the divorce is final.”
My stomach forcibly mutinies. “You better be joking.”
He waggles his brows.
I grab my glass and drain the rest in one burning gulp. “You got a lawyer or what?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Marco waves a dismissive hand. “He’ll call you tonight.”
I nod, gripping the chair. “Thank you, Marco.”
I turn for the door, already gripping the handle, when his voice stops me.
“Allie?”
I glance back, expecting another satirical comment. But Marco’s expression is unreadable.
“I really am sorry,” he says, and this time, there’s no teasing, no amusement, no Marco bullshit.
“I wanted this to work. You and Rico? I hoped you’d finally made him…
I don’t know. Happy. He doesn’t even realize he’s miserable.
But he is. And I thought—I really thought—you two would work.
I wanted that for him. And for you. I hate you got hurt. Truly.”
I am not about to cry in front of Marco Bennetti.
I swallow it down, nodding. “Yeah. Me too.”