Second Time, Mrs. Ricciardi

The pan hissed softly as the oil heated, the sharp scent of roughly crushed garlic already filling the kitchen before I realized I was humming. Fuck.

I stirred the arepa batter in the second pot, muttering Spanish profanity under my breath. “Idiota con Wi-Fi…”

My fingers moved fast, like they always do, multitasking between dodging hot oil and stabilizing my mood before a ten a.m. mafia wedding.

And because God apparently designed my life to stay a glamorous circle of hell, the sliding door opened with a soft whisper.

Then footsteps. Controlled. Elegant. Intimately familiar with the chaos inside my skull.

“Is there a reason you’re making breakfast like you’re feeding a platoon?” The voice was deep, flat, and infuriating.

Rafael Vittorio Ricciardi.

My husband.

Or, more accurately: the man God created with cold hands, an angel’s face, a sinner’s body, and a brain so perfectly engineered it should be displayed in a museum under Arrogance: A Human Specimen.

I didn’t turn around. I’d already survived an hour of Arsen and memes. I didn’t need a Colombian breakfast critique from a man who I knew damn well would sit down and inhale everything in under five minutes.

“Is there a reason you’re in the kitchen wearing a tux like a groom who got left at the altar?” I muttered, flipping an arepa without looking. “Or are you planning to enter a fashion competition with my fried eggs?”

“There’s an important event. Ten o’clock.”

“Oh. So I should spin wheat by hand and serve plain white oatmeal so I don’t offend the color of my husband’s eight-thousand-euro suit?” I flicked the spatula, flipping the arepa one-handed while the other reached for a plate. “Sorry, love. I’m just old Latin American money, not your family’s private chef.”

I heard his annoyed exhale.

It pulled a smile out of me instantly.

He hated me like this, I lived for it.

“I don’t understand why you always cook heavy food in the morning.”

“And I don’t understand why you always eat all of it even though you claim you don’t like it,” I shot back, finally turning around.

Fuck.

Three-piece tuxedo. Black tie. A watch screaming obscenely wealthy. I forgot how violently unfair he could look this early in the day. Dark hair slicked back, one rebellious lock falling onto his forehead, James Dean with sharper edges and a six-foot-two frame, anchored by a chest my head parked on far too often after rough sex. A jaw cut from sin. Cold gray eyes studying me like a calculus problem he resented having to solve.

He leaned his hip against the counter, silent. He’s just watching, and judging. As usual.

I turned back to the plate, arranging arepas, eggs, and slices of cheese. “If you want to starve at the party, be my guest. I’ll stare at your coffin in a black dress and the most expensive heels I can buy.”

“I think you already own all of that.”

“I do. But you know I love an excuse to shop.”

He scoffed. Almost a laugh, but Rafael Ricciardi didn’t laugh before eleven. And even then only if he was drunk or had just—well. You know.

The plate landed in front of his seat. I slid it toward him. “Don’t eat if you’re worried your stomach won’t be fit for delivering your corporate speech later. I hear Swiss investors are very sensitive to the smell of garlic.”

He sat. Silent. Picked up his fork.

One bite.

Then two.

Then a third, at the speed of a man who supposedly hated my cooking.

My mouth curved. “Careful. You’ll get addicted.”

“Already am,” he murmured, expressionless.

I froze for half a second. Looked up. “What?”

He didn’t look at me. Fourth bite. “Already addicted.”

Fuck.

I swallowed a laugh because that would’ve been deeply uncool, so I turned away and pretended to busy myself wiping the counter.

“To everything, actually.” He added it casually.

My heart stalled for a fraction of a second. I rolled my eyes, masking it. “Okay, now I definitely messed something up. You’re starting to talk like a human.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“I never have.”

He took another bite. I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching the man who had been my husband for one year and would be my lifelong enemy if God allowed it.

The tuxedo was flawless.

His face was lethal.

His mouth…

Still infuriating.

>…<

A little past eleven, the Milan sun had already climbed high enough to bleach the sky into something offensively perfect. The villa’s garden buzzed with rich people pretending to be relaxed. Sunglasses. Champagne flutes. Polished laughter that sounded rehearsed in front of a mirror.

I looped my arm through Rafael’s, my fingers hooking into fabric far too well-tailored for ordinary hands. His cologne drifted toward me every time we paused to greet another guest. Wood. Citrus. And something that felt like expensive heartbreak.

“I still don’t understand why this party is at eleven in the morning instead of at night,” I murmured beside him, smiling sweetly at an older woman with diamonds the size of mortal sins dangling from her ears. “It’s too bright. Hard to fake being nice when everyone can see your face clearly.”

“Wedding anniversary,” Rafael replied shortly. “They’re respectable people.”

I turned my head slightly, blinking up at him. “You know ‘respectable people’ usually don’t corner investors and make them sign contracts in the back of the room while smiling.”

The corner of his mouth shifted.

That was a Rafael smile.

We stopped in front of the elderly couple who were clearly hosting the event: Signor and Signora Bellini. He wore a gray suit, stomach slightly rounded but eyes still sharp. She stood beside him in a cream dress and classic pearls, elegance stitched into every line of her posture.

“Rafael.” Mrs. Bellini patted his shoulder warmly. “Grazie, you came.”

Rafael shook her husband’s hand, then bent slightly to kiss the back of her hand. The movement was automatic. Precise. Perfect. “Thank you for inviting us, Signor, Signora. Happy anniversary.”

I arranged my safest smile. Sweet. Polite. With a thin edge of venom at the tip. “Auguri, Signor, Signora. Thank you for making us wake up at seven on a Sunday.”

They laughed, assuming it was a joke.

Good. My sentences could mean anything, depending on how guilty someone felt.

“And this is…?” Mrs. Bellini lifted a brow, her gaze sweeping over my dress from neckline to heels.

“This is my wife,” Rafael said. “Arabella.”

I extended my hand. “Arabella Paloma Garcia,”

Signora Bellini’s touch was warm, her manicure flawless. She smiled. Then her smile flickered for a fraction of a second, something clicking behind her eyes.

“Arabella…” she repeated slowly, glancing at Rafael before looking back at me. Her head tilted slightly. “Oh,” she said, brows lifting in confusion. “I thought your wife was Alessandra.”

The silence that followed dropped between us like a champagne glass slipping off a table in slow motion.

Rafael stiffened almost imperceptibly. If I hadn’t spent one year studying his body language more intensely than I’ve ever studied an algorithm, I might have missed it.

But I didn’t. I saw the way his jaw tightened for a heartbeat. I felt his hand at the small of my back press slightly, then relax again as if nothing had happened.

Alessandra.

The name floated out like old perfume caught unexpectedly in a crowd. Familiar. Irritating. And honestly… expired in my mind.

His ex.

The golden girl from the past who the Ricciardi family had ultimately rejected as a wife.

When I first married Rafael, her name clung to every whisper. I knew they’d burned hot. I knew they’d ended cold. After that, she disappeared from the Ricciardi radar. And me? I had my own life to manage.

I’m not jealous. I just disliked being compared to ghosts.

I blinked slowly, resisting the urge to snort. “That’s fair,” I said lightly, smoothing my hand over Rafael’s arm as if we were the picture of harmony. “Alessandra was the beta version. I’m the upgraded release.”

Rafael let out a short breath, like he was suppressing a laugh and something darker at the same time. I could feel his stare against the side of my face, heavy and sharp, but I didn’t look at him. Let him choke on my phrasing.

Signora Bellini looked startled for half a second. Then she laughed. A real laugh, crinkling the corners of her eyes. “Young people these days,” she said, shaking her head gently and patting my hand. “You discuss marriage like it’s a phone application.”

“Easier to understand that way,” I replied with a small shrug.

“I’m glad you finally married, Rafael,” Signor Bellini cut in smoothly, as if the previous moment hadn’t happened. “The Ricciardi family needs a strong woman beside you. Like your mother.”

Rafael didn’t answer. The pull at the corner of his mouth was thin. I pretended to study the lake behind them instead, as though the sunlight scattering across the water was far more interesting than the reaction of the man standing at my side.

“She’s strong,” Rafael said calmly.

But the way he said the word made my heart thud once, heavy and deliberate.

“Sometimes too strong.”

“Thank you,” I replied lightly, turning to look at him now. “I take pride in being overqualified.”

Signora Bellini laughed again before a server appeared with a tray of drinks. We drifted into standard small talk. The weather. The lake. Her family’s business. A new energy project rumored to crown Air Italy the next king of the skies.

Meanwhile, in my head…

That one sentence from the elderly woman kept smoldering, slow and persistent, like incense smoke trapped in a closed room.

I thought your wife was Alessandra.

Logically, it made sense. The world is small. Gossip is smaller. Rich people have long memories for relationships that should’ve ended but never fully released their grip.

“Have you finished collecting members for the Alessandra fan club today,” I murmured into his ear as one investor walked away looking pleased after Rafael promised legal would call tomorrow, “or should I prepare to toss them into the lake one by one?”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“Someone just almost labeled me the side chick,” I replied. “I think my reaction was remarkably tame. I haven’t even started taking my earrings off.”

He glanced at me. “That’s your tame reaction?”

“Trust me, Rafael. You don’t want to see my feral version at someone else’s family event.” I took a sip of prosecco, letting the bubbles prickle my tongue. “But if you’re curious, we can practice at your family gatherings. I hear some of your relatives still think I’m just my father’s political tool.”

He didn’t answer for a few seconds. His face stayed neutral. Jaw relaxed. Eyes scanning the crowd. His hand at my back didn’t move, but I could feel its weight, like a deliberate reminder that I was here as part of us, not just me.

“Why are you offended?” he asked at last.

I let out a short laugh. “I’m not offended.”

“You scoffed.”

“I always scoff.”

“Louder than usual.”

“Your ears are too sensitive.”

“Your mouth is too honest.”

I turned fully toward him, meeting his gaze. “Rafael,” I said, smiling thinly, “if there’s ever a situation where a person is allowed to be offended, it’s when their wife gets compared to an ex. That feels… pretty reasonable. Even for someone as unbothered as me.”

His eyes dipped briefly to my mouth.

I saw it. Clearly.

Then they lifted back to mine. “I’m not the one comparing,” he said shortly. “They are.”

“Uh-huh.” I nodded slowly, looking at him like I believed him. “And you just stand there, pretty and silent, quietly enjoying the free drama.”

“I’m enjoying you,” he said flatly.

My heart stalled for a fraction of a second.

Again.

Fuck.

“I know,” I shot back quickly, burying whatever had stirred in my chest. “It’s hard not to enjoy a woman with legs this good.”