Rise of the Mafia Boss(from most underated to most feared)

CHAPTER 2: Wife picking

Andrew knew Mrs. Ciaro was marrying off her daughters tonight. He had heard the whispers, seen the preparations, watched the most dangerous men in Boston arrive one by one in cars worth more than his entire existence. But still, a part of him doubted she would go against her husband's final words.

She wouldn't dare.

Would she?

Two years had passed since Mr. Ciaro took his last breath. Two years since Andrew was bound to Emilia in a marriage that felt more like a prison sentence. Two years of sleeping in separate rooms, living like strangers under the same roof, pretending the wedding ever meant anything.

And yet, Andrew remained.

Not because he wanted to. But because Mr. Ciaro's dying wish had chained him here.

---

*Two years ago. The family hospital.*

The room smelled of medicine and death. Mr. Ciaro lay in the bed, tubes running through his arms, his once-powerful frame now reduced to bones and yellowing skin. But his eyes—those eyes still carried the weight of a man who had ruled Boston's underworld with an iron fist.

His daughters stood in a line. Stacy, Sophia, Lily, and Emilia. Each one dressed in white, each one pretending not to notice their father was slipping away.

Mrs. Ciaro sat at his bedside, her hand gripping his, her face already calculating what came next.

Andrew stood at the back. Where he always stood. Invisible.

Mr. Ciaro had spent the last hour dividing his empire. Houses, cars, land, blood money from decades of drugs and violence. Each daughter received a fortune. His wife received the largest share—control of the Ciaro name, the businesses, the remaining connections.

Andrew received nothing.

No one expected otherwise. To the Ciaro family, he was a stray dog Mr. Ciaro had dragged home years ago. A boy with no family, no wealth, no name. They tolerated him because the Don demanded it. But they never accepted him.

Andrew wasn't expecting anything that day. He was already mentally preparing to slip out of the room when Mr. Ciaro's voice cut through the silence.

"Emilia."

His youngest daughter stepped forward. The favorite. The one who looked most like him, who carried his calm, his patience, his stillness. She stood at the foot of his bed, her face unreadable.

"Come closer," Mr. Ciaro said.

She did.

Then his eyes shifted to Andrew.

The room went quiet. Andrew felt the weight of every gaze turn toward him—confusion, disgust, suspicion. He had never been looked at by this family for anything other than errands and repairs.

Mr. Ciaro looked between his daughter and the boy he had taken in years ago. His breathing was shallow, but his voice remained firm.

"While I'm gone," he said, "Emilia will be married to Andrew."

The world stopped.

Stacy's jaw dropped. Sophia's hands flew to her mouth. Lily let out a sharp, breathless laugh—the kind that comes when you think you've misheard something impossible.

Mrs. Ciaro shot up from her chair. "What did you say?"

"You heard me."

"Are you insane?" Her voice cracked with fury. "You're marrying your daughter—your *favorite* daughter—to this? This nobody? This orphan you picked off the street? You know it is unusual to marry off your daughter to your son, right?"

"He's not my blood," Mr. Ciaro said calmly. "If I adopted him, he would share in the wealth. Wouldn't he?"

Mrs. Ciaro's face went pale. Then red. Her hands trembled at her sides.

Stacy stepped forward, her eyes wide. "Father, this is a joke. Tell me this is a joke."

"He's an electrician," Sophia added, her voice dripping with disbelief. "He fixes *wires*. You want Emilia to marry a handyman?"

Lily just stared at Andrew like she was seeing a cockroach that had somehow crawled onto the family table.

Only Emilia remained silent. Her face didn't change. Not a flicker of shock, not a trace of anger. She simply looked at her father, waiting.

Mr. Ciaro ignored his other daughters. His eyes were on Emilia now. Soft. Almost pleading.

"Emmy," he said, his voice low. "I'm dying. Soon, this family will be under attack. Enemies will rise. They will try to take everything—your mother, your sisters, the name we built." He paused, his chest heaving. "He is the one who will save this family." His weak finger pointed to Andrew.

Silence.

Andrew stood frozen. His heart pounded so hard he was sure everyone could hear it. Him? Save the Ciaro family? He couldn't even save his own parents. He watched them die from inside a closet while men with machetes turned the marble floor red.

What could he possibly save?

Emilia looked at Andrew for the first time that day. Her gaze was calm, measured. She studied him like she was reading a book she hadn't decided to open yet.

Then she turned back to her father.

"If this is your wish," she said quietly, "I will honor it."

Mrs. Ciaro screamed. Stacy and Sophia erupted in protest. Lily stormed out of the room.

But Emilia didn't move.

And Mr. Ciaro smiled—a tired, knowing smile—as if he had just placed the most important piece on a board no one else could see.

---

That night, they were married.

A quiet ceremony in the hospital chapel. No celebration. No joy. Just vows spoken between a dying man's daughter and the orphan he had rescued from a closet full of blood.

Two years later, the marriage remained unconsummated.

Emilia and Andrew shared a house but not a life. She was civil to him—more civil than her sisters, who treated him like furniture. But there was no warmth. No connection. Just two strangers bound by a dead man's words.

Andrew had learned to accept it. He stayed in his lane. Fixed what needed fixing. Kept his head down.

Tonight was no different.

---

The birthday party was a spectacle of excess. Chandeliers dripped gold light over Boston's most powerful criminals. Drug lords in tailored suits laughed with government officials who should have been arresting them. The music swelled, the champagne flowed, and everywhere Andrew looked, he saw enemies pretending to be friends.

He stood in the corner, as always. Invisible. Watching.

His eyes found Emilia across the room. She wore a deep green gown that hugged her figure without trying too hard. Her hair was pinned up, her neck bare of jewelry. While her sisters sparkled with diamonds and desperation, Emilia simply *was*—composed, elegant, untouched by the chaos around her.

Her sisters, meanwhile, were practically hunting.

Stacy, Sophia, and Lily had their eyes locked on one man all night.

Lesner.

Andrew had heard the name whispered through the house for weeks. Lesner was the new king. The most dangerous man in the city. His drug empire made the Ciaro family's old operations look like street-corner hustles. He had money, power, and the kind of reputation that made grown men cross the street when they saw him coming.

If anyone could restore the Ciaro family's protection, it was him.

And Mrs. Ciaro knew it.

The gift-giving had gone on for over an hour. Jewelry, cars, art, property—millions of dollars piled at the feet of the birthday woman. Lesner himself had donated the largest sum, a number that made the other guests whisper and stare.

Now the music lowered. The chatter died down.

Mrs. Ciaro stepped to the center of the room, microphone in hand, her gold gown catching the light. She looked like a queen surveying her kingdom.

"I want to thank everyone for coming tonight," she began, her voice smooth and practiced. "Your generosity has been overwhelming. But tonight is about more than my birthday."

She paused, letting the silence build.

"My husband left this family vulnerable when he passed. You all know it. I'm not ashamed to admit it. But a Ciaro woman does not beg. She adapts."

Her eyes swept the room, landing briefly on each of her daughters.

"Tonight, I am marrying off my daughters to the most powerful men in this city. To secure our name. To restore our protection. To ensure that what my husband built does not crumble."

A murmur rippled through the crowd. The daughters straightened. The men in the room began to watch with new interest.

Mrs. Ciaro smiled.

"And we will begin with the most distinguished guest among us."

She turned toward Lesner, who sat at a table near the front, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He was younger than Andrew expected—maybe mid-thirties—with sharp features and the kind of stillness that predators have when they're deciding whether to eat or play with their food.

"Mr. Lesner," Mrs. Ciaro said, "your generosity tonight has been unmatched. As a gesture of gratitude and partnership, I would like you to have the first choice. Pick your wife from my daughters."

The room held its breath.

Lesner took a slow sip of whiskey. His eyes moved across the three eldest daughters—Stacy, Sophia, Lily—who stood arranged like prizes behind their mother. Each of them wore their most dazzling smile. Each of them had spent the entire night trying to catch his attention.

Stacy flipped her hair. Sophia tilted her chin. Lily pressed her chest forward just slightly.

Lesner looked at them.

Then his gaze moved past them.

To Emilia.

She stood apart from her sisters, her expression neutral. No smile. No desperation. No hunger. She didn't lean in, didn't preen, didn't compete. She simply watched him with the same calm she gave everything—as if she were observing a passing storm from behind glass.

Lesner set down his whiskey.

He stood.

The room was silent.

He walked slowly across the floor, his footsteps deliberate, his eyes never leaving Emilia. He passed Stacy. Passed Sophia. Passed Lily. Their smiles faltered, then cracked, then collapsed into open disbelief.

He stopped in front of Emilia.

He looked at her. Up and down. Not like the others had looked at him—hungry, desperate, calculating. He looked at her like a collector examining a piece he hadn't known was missing from his collection.

Then he smiled.

"You," he said, his voice low enough to make the silence around them feel heavy. "I pick you to be my wife."

The room erupted.

Stacy's face went white. Sophia's jaw dropped. Lily's hands curled into fists at her sides. Mrs. Ciaro stood frozen, her painted smile now a rigid mask of confusion.

Andrew watched from his corner.

His hands, which had been resting at his sides, slowly curled into fists.

Emilia looked up at Lesner. Her expression didn't change. No fear. No excitement. No outrage.

She simply said nothing at all.