Rise Of The Billionaire Son-in-law

The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly on Eastridge, turning the modest kitchen into a sweltering inferno. Marco Giordano stood over the stove, sweat trickling down his temples as he stirred the simmering tomato sauce. His worn apron, stained from years of cooking for a family that barely acknowledged his existence, clung to his lean frame.

The kitchen door burst open with a violence that made the pots rattle.

"There you are, you pathetic leech!" Rosa Lombardi's shrill voice cut through the air like a knife. She marched toward Marco, her expensive heels clicking against the tile floor, a manila envelope clutched in her manicured fingers. "Stop pretending to be useful and look at me when I'm talking to you!"

Marco didn't flinch. He'd learned long ago that reaction only fueled her fire. He turned down the heat and faced his mother-in-law, his expression carefully neutral.

"Sign these." Rosa thrust the envelope at his chest, forcing him to catch it. "Divorce papers. It's time you crawled back to whatever gutter you came from."

"Rosa, that's enough!" Salvatore Moretti's voice boomed from the doorway. The family patriarch, despite his age, still commanded respect. He stepped into the kitchen, his face flushed with anger. "Have you forgotten it was you who forced this marriage three years ago? When we were drowning in debt, when bankruptcy was knocking on our door, you were the one who insisted—"

"Don't you dare throw that in my face!" Rosa whirled on her husband. "I made a mistake trying to save this family by shackling our daughter to this parasite! Look at him—three years, and what has he contributed? Nothing! He can't even hold down a proper job!"

"I cook, I clean, I maintain this entire household—" Marco began quietly.

"Oh, how generous!" Rosa's laugh was cruel and mocking. "You do the work of a servant and expect gratitude? My daughter deserves a man, not a house pet who barely earns enough for bus fare!"

"Mother's right."

The soft voice froze everyone. Isabella Moretti descended the staircase like a vision, her long dark hair cascading over her shoulders, her designer dress hugging her perfect figure. She was beautiful—heartbreakingly so—but her eyes held nothing but ice when they landed on Marco.

She crossed the kitchen with the grace of a runway model, stopping just out of Marco's reach. "I want the divorce, Marco. I've wanted it for a long time."

Something flickered across Marco's face—pain, perhaps, or maybe just resignation. "Isabella—"

"Don't." She held up one elegant hand. "Do you know what the worst part of these three years has been? It's not that you're poor. It's not even that you're utterly useless." She paused, her lips curling into a bitter smile. "It's that you've never made me feel anything. Not once have you made me smile—genuinely smile. Not once have you shed a single tear over my problems or shown me you actually care."

"That's not true—"

"Isn't it?" Isabella's voice rose. "When I told you about my struggles, you just nodded. When I cried, you just stood there like a statue. You're emotionally bankrupt, Marco. You can't provide the life I deserve, the feelings I deserve, the future I deserve!"

Rosa nodded triumphantly. "Finally, my daughter sees sense! You're nothing but a burden, Marco Giordano. A worthless deadweight dragging our family down. Even the neighbors whisper about us—the prestigious Moretti family, reduced to housing a failure like you!"

Salvatore shook his head. "This is wrong, Rosa. The boy has done nothing to deserve—"

"Nothing? He's done nothing, period!" Rosa's face had turned an ugly shade of red. "Three years of feeding him, clothing him, giving him a roof over his useless head, and what do we have to show for it? Embarrassment! Shame!"

Marco's jaw tightened. He looked at Isabella, really looked at her, and something hard settled in his chest. When he spoke, his voice was quiet but carried an edge that made everyone pause.

"Three miscarriages, Isabella. You had three miscarriages in our marriage."

Isabella's face went pale. Rosa gasped. Salvatore's eyes widened.

"And not one of those children," Marco continued, his words deliberate and measured, "was mine."

The kitchen erupted.

"How dare you!" Rosa shrieked, lunging forward. Salvatore had to grab her arm to restrain her. "You disgusting liar! You're trying to smear my daughter's reputation because you know you're losing her!"

"Ask her about Richard Fontaine," Marco said calmly, his eyes never leaving Isabella's stricken face. "Or don't. It doesn't matter anymore."

Isabella's shock transformed into fury. "You—you—"

"ENOUGH!" Rosa's scream could probably be heard three houses down. "Get out! Get out of this house right now! How dare you speak such vile lies about my daughter! You're worse than a parasite—you're a disease!"

"I said Richard Fontaine." Marco's repetition of the name landed like a bomb.

Isabella stumbled backward, her hand flying to her mouth. Salvatore's face went ashen as understanding dawned. Rosa looked between her daughter and Marco, her expression contorted with rage and dawning horror.

"You have five minutes," Rosa hissed, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Five minutes to get your worthless belongings and leave this house. If you're still here after that, I'm calling the police and having you thrown out like the trash you are."

The sound of a powerful engine cut through the tension.

Everyone turned toward the window. A gleaming black Bentley Phantom—worth more than the entire Moretti house—was pulling into their modest driveway. The luxury vehicle looked impossibly out of place in their middle-class neighborhood.

The driver's door opened, and a woman stepped out.

She was breathtaking. Mid-twenties, with honey-blonde hair styled in an elegant updo, wearing a tailored cream suit that screamed money. Even her sunglasses probably cost more than Marco's entire wardrobe. She moved with the confidence of someone who'd never heard the word "no" in her entire life.

Rosa's anger evaporated, replaced by obsequious curiosity. She rushed toward the door. "Oh my! Can we help you, miss? Are you perhaps lost?"

The woman removed her sunglasses, revealing striking green eyes. She ignored Rosa entirely, her gaze sweeping past the family until it locked onto Marco.

"Dr. Marco Giordano?"

The kitchen went silent. Dr. Marco? Isabella's mouth fell open. Salvatore blinked in confusion. Rosa looked like she'd been slapped.

"Yes," Marco said simply.

The woman's shoulders sagged with visible relief. She crossed the distance between them in quick strides, her expensive perfume filling the small kitchen. "Thank God. I'm Jessica Messina. I've been searching for you everywhere—you're incredibly difficult to find, Doctor."

"Messina?" Salvatore breathed the name like a prayer. "As in the Messina family? One of the four great families?"

Jessica barely glanced at him. "Dr. Giordano, I need your help desperately. My grandmother—Eleanor Messina—she's dying. The best doctors in the country have examined her, and they all say the same thing: three months, maybe less. But I heard rumors about you, about your skills." Her voice cracked. "Please. I'll pay anything. Fifty million dollars if you can save her. I'll double it if you want. Just please, come with me now."

Fifty million dollars.

The number hung in the air like a nuclear blast. Rosa's face went through a spectacular journey of expressions—shock, disbelief, calculation, and finally, desperate greed.

"Marco has extraordinary medical skills?" Isabella's voice came out strangled. "That's impossible. He—he never—"

"Of course he does!" Rosa's transformation was instantaneous. She rushed to Marco's side, her earlier venom completely vanished. "My son-in-law is incredibly talented! We always knew he was special, didn't we, Salvatore?"

"Get away from me," Marco said coldly.

Rosa recoiled as if burned.

Marco looked at Isabella, and for the first time in three years, she saw something dangerous in his eyes. "You wanted to know why I never cried for you? Why I never smiled?" He picked up the divorce papers from the counter and signed them with a pen from his apron pocket. "It's because I stopped being your husband the moment I realized whose child you were carrying. We're done, Isabella."

"Marco, wait—" Isabella reached for him, panic flashing across her face.

"Don't touch me." His voice was ice. "You're the one who wanted this divorce. Congratulations. You're free."

He turned to Jessica Messina. "Let's go. Take me to your grandmother."

"Of course, Doctor." Jessica's face flooded with relief and hope.

As Marco walked toward the door, Rosa's desperation reached new heights. "Marco, sweetheart, let's not be hasty! We're family! Let me come with you—I can help! The Messina family, such prestigious people, we should present a united front—"

"Mrs. Lombardi," Jessica's voice could have frozen hell, "I came for Dr. Giordano. Not you. Not any of you."

But as the Bentley pulled away, another car started behind it. Then another. The Moretti family, shameless in their greed, followed the luxury vehicle like scavengers trailing a lion, hoping for scraps from whatever fortune awaited at the end of this unexpected journey.

Inside the Bentley, Jessica glanced at Marco's stoic profile. "Are you alright, Doctor?"

Marco stared straight ahead, watching his old life disappear in the side

mirror. "Drive faster, Miss Messina. Every second counts."