Rise Of The Billionaire Son-in-law

Chapter 5

The Messina estate's main foyer had transformed into an impromptu receiving area. Word of Signora Francesca's recovery had spread through the mansion like wildfire, and people kept arriving—family members, business associates, even staff members who'd served the matriarch for decades—all wanting to see the miracle for themselves.

Marco stood near the exit, ready to leave, but Dr. Chen blocked his path once again.

"Master Giordano, please reconsider." The elderly specialist's persistence bordered on desperation. "I'm not asking to learn the Nine Tiger Claw Needles—I know such techniques cannot be taught casually. But surely there are other aspects of your practice I could study? Basic principles? Diagnostic methods?"

"Dr. Chen—"

"I'll pay you. Name any price. I'll work for free—clean your clinic, organize your files, anything." Dr. Chen's voice cracked. "I've dedicated my entire life to traditional medicine, and in one afternoon, you've shown me how little I actually know. Please, don't let me die ignorant."

Marco sighed. "You're not ignorant. You're highly skilled in your field. But what I practice... it's not something I can explain in ways that would make sense to you. It requires experiences you haven't had, training that started before I could read, connections to concepts that Western medicine doesn't acknowledge."

"Then let me observe! I won't ask questions, won't interfere—"

"Edward, leave the man alone." Dr. Mitchell approached, looking thoroughly humbled. His earlier confidence had evaporated, replaced by genuine contrition. "Dr. Giordano, I owe you an apology. A significant one. I called you a fraud, doubted your methods, and nearly prevented you from saving Mrs. Messina's life. That was... unprofessional doesn't begin to cover it."

"Apology accepted," Marco said simply.

"Just like that?"

"You were protecting your patient based on the information you had. That's not wrong—it's good medicine. You just didn't have all the facts."

Dr. Mitchell shook his head in wonder. "You're remarkably gracious for someone we treated like a con artist. If our positions were reversed, I'd have rubbed this in our faces for hours."

"What would be the point?" Marco glanced toward the recovery room where Signora Francesca's laughter could be heard. "She's alive. That's what matters."

The mansion's front doors burst open with a crash that made everyone jump. Isabella stumbled in, her designer heels clicking frantically against marble. Rosa followed close behind, her face purple with rage.

"There he is!" Rosa's shriek echoed through the foyer. "The lying, cheating parasite!"

Security moved to intercept them, but Jessica emerged from a side corridor and waved them off. "Let them speak. I want to hear this."

Rosa advanced on Marco like a general leading a charge. "You think you can humiliate us? Abandon your family? Run off with some rich woman the second you get a chance?"

"We're divorced," Marco said calmly. "I don't have a family anymore. You made sure of that."

"Divorced?!" Rosa's laugh was shrill and mocking. "You signed some papers and suddenly you're free? You're still a worthless deadweight who lived off our charity for three years! You owe us everything!"

She grabbed something from her oversized purse—a cast iron frying pan, somehow—and hurled it at Marco's head with surprising force.

Marco's hand shot up, catching the pan effortlessly by the handle. He set it down on a nearby console table with a gentle clink.

The foyer went silent. Rosa stared at the pan, then at Marco, her mouth opening and closing like a fish.

"Where did you even get that?" Dr. Chen asked, bewildered.

"I came prepared to deal with this ungrateful leech," Rosa snarled, recovering her momentum. "You all think he's some kind of genius? He's a fraud! He probably bribed these doctors, staged this whole recovery! The woman was never really sick—it's all an elaborate con!"

"My grandmother was dying," Jessica said, her voice ice-cold. "I watched her decline for three months. Multiple specialists confirmed—"

"Specialists who are probably in on it!" Rosa jabbed a finger at Dr. Chen. "How much did he pay you to pretend? How much?"

Dr. Chen's face flushed with anger. "Madam, I have practiced medicine for forty years without a single blemish on my reputation. I will not stand here and be accused—"

Isabella pushed past her mother, her beautiful face twisted with an ugly mixture of jealousy and rage. She pointed at Jessica.

"Who is she, Marco? Your new sugar mama? Is that it?" Her voice rose hysterically. "We get divorced this morning, and by afternoon you're already shacking up with some rich bitch? You moved on fast!"

"Watch your mouth in my house," Jessica said dangerously.

"Oh, I bet you're watching something," Isabella spat. "Let me guess—he told you he's a brilliant doctor, a misunderstood genius? That's his game. He married me for money, and now he's trying to hook you! He's a parasite who latches onto wealthy women and bleeds them dry!"

Marco's expression didn't change, but something cold entered his eyes. "Isabella, I suggest you stop talking."

"Why? Because I'm telling the truth? Because I'm exposing your little scheme?" Isabella's laugh was bitter. "You never loved me. You never cared about our marriage. You were just waiting for a better opportunity, and the second it appeared, you abandoned me!"

"Abandoned you?" Marco's voice remained quiet, but it carried an edge that made several people step back. "You demanded a divorce. You told me I never made you smile, never cried for your problems, could never give you the life you deserve. Your words. Your decision."

"Because you're inadequate! You're weak! You're nothing!"

"And yet," Marco said softly, "I'm not the one who had three miscarriages carrying another man's children."

Isabella's face went white. Rosa gasped. Even Jessica looked shocked.

"How dare you bring that up—" Isabella's voice broke.

"You opened this door," Marco said. "Richard Fontaine. Your tennis instructor. The one you thought I didn't know about. I knew, Isabella. I knew about all of it. And I stayed quiet because I'm a doctor, and I understand that sometimes people make mistakes when they're unhappy."

"You're lying!" But Isabella's voice lacked conviction.

"I'm not. And deep down, you know I'm not." Marco turned toward the exit. "We're done here. Enjoy your freedom, Isabella. I'm sure Richard will make you very happy."

"You can't just walk away!" Rosa blocked his path, her face mottled with rage. "You're coming back to our house right now to collect your worthless belongings and leave! We want you gone—completely gone!"

"Fine," Marco agreed. "I do need to pick up my things."

"Good! We'll make sure you don't steal anything on your way out, you thieving rat!"

The drive to the Moretti house was tense and silent. Marco had reluctantly accepted a ride from one of the Messina drivers, while Isabella and Rosa followed in their own car. Jessica had insisted on coming along, her protective instincts clearly triggered by the confrontation.

The modest suburban home looked smaller somehow after the grandeur of the Messina estate. Marco approached the front door, but it burst open before he could reach it.

A man in his late twenties stormed out—tall, muscular, with the kind of pretty-boy features that probably made him popular with women. His expensive gym clothes and gold chains screamed new money and no taste. This was clearly Carlos Moretti, Isabella's younger brother.

"Well, well, well," Carlos drawled, cracking his knuckles. "The family parasite has come crawling back. What's wrong, Marco? Rich lady already kick you out?"

"I'm just here to collect my belongings," Marco said evenly.

"Your belongings?" Carlos laughed, a cruel sound that matched his mother's. "Everything in that house was paid for with Moretti money. That makes it Moretti property, you freeloading leech."

"My medical books, my personal items—"

"Bought with money you should have been earning but weren't!" Carlos stepped closer, using his height advantage to loom over Marco. "Mom's right—you're nothing but a tick that's been sucking our family dry for three years. You want your stuff? Fine. But everything you're wearing was purchased by us. So strip. Right here, right now."

Jessica moved forward. "You cannot be serious—"

"Stay out of this, lady," Carlos snarled. "This is family business."

"Strip naked in the street?" Marco's eyebrows rose. "That's your demand?"

"Every thread on your body was paid for with my family's money," Carlos said, his face flushing with vindictive pleasure. "You want to leave? You leave with exactly what you came with—nothing."

"Carlos, this is ridiculous—" Isabella started, but her mother cut her off.

"No, he's right!" Rosa pulled out her phone, already recording. "Strip, Marco! Show everyone what you really are—a naked beggar with nothing to his name!"

"You people are insane," Jessica said flatly.

"We're protecting what's ours!" Carlos reached out to grab Marco's collar. "Now strip, or I'll strip you my—"

His hand never made contact. Marco moved with shocking speed, catching Carlos's wrist and twisting. Carlos yelped and stumbled.

"Don't touch me," Marco said quietly.

"You little—" Carlos swung wildly with his other hand. Marco sidestepped easily, releasing the wrist. Carlos stumbled again, his face red with humiliation and rage.

"Carlos, stop—" Isabella tried to intervene.

"Shut up!" Carlos rounded on his sister. "This is your fault! You had to marry this worthless piece of garbage! You embarrassed our whole family!" He turned back to Marco, and suddenly there was a knife in his hand—a kitchen knife, the blade glinting in the afternoon sun. "You think you're somebody now? Because some rich bitch gave you attention? You're nothing! You'll always be nothing!"

"Put the knife down," Marco said.

"Make me!" Carlos lunged, the blade slashing toward Marco's chest.

What happened next occurred so fast that the observers could barely follow it. Marco twisted sideways, letting the knife slice through empty air. His hand shot out, striking Carlos's elbow with surgical precision. The knife clattered to the ground. Before Carlos could recover, Marco's palm struck his solar plexus—not hard enough to cause serious injury, but enough to drive the air from his lungs.

Carlos doubled over, gasping. But rage overcame sense. He straightened and charged again, swinging wild haymakers.

Marco sighed. His foot swept out, catching Carlos behind the knee. As the younger man fell forward, Marco's elbow came down on his back—again, precisely placed between two ribs.

There was a distinct crack.

Carlos hit the ground hard, screaming. "My ribs! You broke my ribs, you psycho!"

"Two ribs, actually," Marco said calmly, brushing off his sleeves. "Hairline fractures, not complete breaks. They'll heal in six weeks if you don't do anything stupid. Ice for the swelling, ibuprofen for pain. Try not to laugh or cough—it'll hurt."

"You attacked my son!" Rosa shrieked, her phone still recording. "Everyone saw it! You assaulted him! I'm calling the police! I'm pressing charges! You'll go to prison, you violent animal!"

"He pulled a knife on me," Marco pointed out. "That's assault with a deadly weapon. I defended myself. Your video will show that clearly."

Rosa's face went through several interesting color changes as she realized her recording actually captured Carlos attacking first.

Isabella stared at Marco like she'd never seen him before. "You... you never fought back before. When Carlos used to push you around, you just took it..."

"Because it wasn't worth the effort," Marco said. "And because I'm a doctor. I understand human anatomy very well—which means I know exactly how much damage I can do if I'm not careful. Your brother is lucky I was being careful."

He stepped past the whimpering Carlos and entered the house. Five minutes later, he emerged with a single duffel bag—containing medical books, a few photos, and personal items the Morettis couldn't claim as theirs.

"That's it?" Jessica asked.

"That's all I need," Marco said.

Rosa continued screaming threats about lawyers and police, but her voice had taken on a hysterical edge—the sound of someone who knew they'd lost but couldn't accept it.

Isabella stood frozen on the lawn, watching Marco walk away. For the first time since their marriage, she seemed to truly see him—not the useless house-husband she'd dismissed, but the man she'd never bothered to know.

"Marco," she called out, her voice small. "I... I didn't know..."

He paused, looking back over his shoulder. "You never asked."

Then he climbed into the Messina car and was gone, leaving behind a broken brother, a screaming mot

her-in-law, and an ex-wife finally realizing the magnitude of what she'd thrown away.