80. Rico
Rico
This is a stupid idea.
Which I have voiced. Repeatedly. To an audience that has no one listening to me.
“She doesn’t want me,” I growl, adjusting the cuff of my tuxedo—the same one I wore at our wedding.
A suit that once symbolized my winning the game of life.
Now? It feels like I’m suiting up for a slow, humiliating execution, courtesy of the woman who stole everything, including my dignity and soon my literal life with a very sharp, well-balanced butcher knife she has in that kitchen of hers.
Violet stands in front of me, hands clasped together like she’s watching a toddler tie his shoes for the first time.
I’m half expecting her to coo. She lives for this.
My misery. My downfall. The moment I went from the cold, untouchable enigma of the family to a love-sick idiot groveling for his wife.
God, I am my brothers. I have no self-respect left.
Who am I kidding? I lost that the moment Allie walked into my life. The woman has my balls, my heart, and probably my ability to make rational decisions. She’s like some master pickpocket, except instead of cash and jewelry, she swiped my entire soul without me even noticing.
“She doesn’t want me, Violet. Not yet. I'm not fixed enough. This is a bad idea.”
“Nooooo,” she singsongs, rocking on her heels. “She said you need to choose yourself, then her.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Therapy was a mistake. All it’s done is make people feel comfortable enough to spew their nonsense at me.
“That. Is. The. Same. Thing,” I grind out.
“No, it’s not,” she chirps, undeterred. “She said that you need to choose her.”
Are we all experiencing the same conversation?
I turn to Sienna, hoping for a rational human response, but she’s nodding so enthusiastically I’m convinced her head is about to pop off. “Yup. It’s true.”
“I want her. She doesn’t want me yet. Not until I'm new and fixed and shiny.” Not sure when the fuck that would be, considering I've been told by the Doc I have a lot of work to go.
“Ohhh, and when did you prove that to her?” Violet taps a finger on her lips, an expression so pompous I want to hurl myself into traffic. “Was it when you proposed?” She gasps dramatically. “Oh wait, you didn’t do that.”
I hate the sound of her laughter. That shit is straight out of a Disney villain’s playbook. I would know. I've watched enough of those hell sessions with my nephew.
“Was it when you responded to her text messages like she was a person?” She tilts her head. “Oh, right, didn’t do that either.”
“Or when you showed up at her debut night?”
Kai’s voice cuts through, and I scowl at him. He shrugs, leaning against the booth, arms crossed, gleaming.
“Stay out of this,” I warn.
“Hard to do, considering you need my help.”
I hate him.
“Maybe you’re the reason my wife left.”
It’s a cheap shot, but I’m desperate. Apparently, I’ve become some hybrid between a caveman and a lion—a territorial, snarling, irrational mess. And the worst part?
Lions are just big, oversized house cats, and you know what cats are? Pussies.
Not the fun kind.
Kai holds up a hand, and I grumble, already knowing what’s coming.
A countdown.
Why do people do this? As if I need a visual breakdown of their idiocy. Just give me the damn bullet points and be done with it.
He lifts a single finger. “First, she left because you told her you didn’t love her and, oh right, cheated on her.”
A second finger joins. I consider breaking it, but unfortunately, I still need him for my get my wife back mission, so I let it slide. For now.
“Second,” he continues, looking far too entertained for my liking, “your wife—despite being very attractive—does not possess the parts that interest me.”
I blink at his two outstretched fingers.
Well. I guess we can be best friends.
Fuck me, I’m Dom now.
When did that happen?
“We square?” Kai asks, looking far too pleased with himself.
We were best friends, but I cannot associate with someone who uses a shape to define a relationship.
I nod, clenching my teeth so hard my jaw might fracture.
I can punch him after I get my wife back. Priorities.
Even though Doc hasn’t cleared me to use a punching bag—because apparently, violence is not the answer—I have been assigned a different form of self-expression.
Journaling.
Yeah, that’s right. Writing my feelings and expanding on them like some emotionally maimed teenage girl. I have a leather-bound notebook and everything. All that’s missing is a pink fuzzy pen and a playlist of sad indie songs to really complete the aesthetic.
I’m still a man. I think. Therapy has blurred the lines. Testosterone? Unclear. Might’ve been replaced by pure estrogen at this point. I wouldn’t be shocked if I woke up one morning and found myself debating throw pillow arrangements.
“Are we clear on the plan?”
Violet’s voice yanks me back from my staring—which, unfortunately, was directed at Kai. The man who claims he has zero interest in my wife’s anatomy.
Which is a shame. Because I have seen it. Experienced it. Had an out-of-body, religious moment while inside it. Okay, maybe not religious, per se—I’d rather not get struck by lightning for blasphemy.
Note to self: check with Mama on candle supply. Preferably have her light an entire cathedral’s worth.
“It’s been three weeks, Vi. Maybe she’s moved on. Accepted the fact I'm too broken.”
“She hasn’t,” says the man who claims to be disinterested in vaginas. I ignore him.
“Rico, it’s been three weeks because, one—that custom ring took a while, and two…”
Oh, God. Here we go. Another countdown. If this entire night is going to be narrated in a list format, I’m out.
Okay, I’m not.
Because I’m pathetically whipped.
I need her back. I need her in my bed. Hell, I need her wrapped around me so tightly I can’t tell where she ends and I begin. I don’t even care if I become her emotional support human. She can drag me around like a damn security blanket if it means she’s mine again.
My dignity? Gone. My pride? Obliterated.
I think my manhood is currently tucked into the back pocket of her jeans.
She can keep it—so long as I get her.
Oh, how far you have fallen, my friend. There’s no saving you now.
“And if this backfires horribly, I can blame all of you?” I point at every single idiot in the room who had a hand in this disaster of a plan.
“Sure,” Violet says far too quickly.
I don’t trust her.
She’s shifty. She’s too smart. And she writes romance novels for a living.
Never trust a romance writer.
They will use everything you say as material.
Case in point: me.
You think this complete debacle will not end up in one of her books?
Yeah. You’d be wrong.
“So, can we get this over with?” Kai looks painfully bored.
I’d like to wipe that look off his face. Preferably with something soaked in disinfectant. Or my fist. Either works.
“Fine,” I grit out.
Violet is practically vibrating on her toes, her ridiculous twin-filled belly bouncing along for the ride.
Kai claps his hands together like he’s summoning a genie.
I could use three wishes right about now.
One: this entire situation disappears and my wife is magically home, forgiving and preferably naked.
Two: I’m buried inside said wife and never have to remove myself again.
Three: …honestly? Probably should leave one in the vault for emergencies.
“It’s showtime!” Sienna practically dances in place.
I exhale slowly, leveling them all with a look.
I should have asked my brothers for help.