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

CHAPTER 3: Agitated.

The room went dead silent.

Not the kind of silence that comes before applause. The kind that comes before a funeral.

Lesner's words hung in the air like a blade.

*"I pick you to be my wife."*

Stacy's face crumbled. Sophia covered her mouth. Lily looked like she had been slapped across the face with a wet fish. All night they had circled this man like sharks around blood, and he had just swum right past them without a second glance.

For what? Emilia?

The quiet one. The favorite. The sister who never had to try.

Mrs. Ciaro's painted smile had frozen into something ugly. Her eyes darted between Lesner and Emilia, her mind racing, calculating, trying to find the angle she had missed.

Then someone in the crowd whispered.

*"Isn't she already married?"*

The words spread like fire through dry grass. Murmurs erupted across the hall. Heads turned. Eyes narrowed. Everyone in Boston knew that Mr. Ciaro had married off his youngest daughter before he died. Everyone knew it was to some nobody—a pauper, a handyman, a ghost no one could trace. No one knew where Andrew came from. Only the family knew the truth, and they never spoke of it.

But everyone knew one thing for certain.

No one crossed Mr. Ciaro's word.

Not even from the grave.

Mrs. Ciaro stepped forward, her voice smooth but tight. "Mr. Lesner, there must be a misunderstanding. My daughter Emilia is already married. Perhaps you would prefer—"

"I know."

The crowd went quiet again.

Lesner didn't even look at Mrs. Ciaro. His eyes stayed on Emilia. "I know she's married."

Mrs. Ciaro blinked. "Then—"

"I don't care."

He took a step closer to Emilia. She didn't move. Didn't flinch. Just watched him with those calm, unreadable eyes.

"I've heard about you, Emilia Ciaro," Lesner said, his voice low. "The quiet one. The fearless one. The only daughter who carries your father's blood like armor." He tilted his head. "Your sisters smile too much. They want too much. They would sell their own mother for a diamond and call it love."

Stacy's face turned red. Sophia looked away. Lily's nails dug into her palms.

"But you?" Lesner continued. "You don't move for anyone. You don't beg. That's rare. That's valuable."

He straightened up, towering over her.

"You possess the quality of your father. You would make a good queen for my empire. Fearless. Unmoved. Straight."

Silence.

No one challenged him. No one could. This was Lesner—the most powerful, most influential, most deadly man in the city. His word was law. His empire made the Ciaro family look like a street corner operation.

Mrs. Ciaro stood frozen, her mouth half open. She wanted to refuse. Everyone could see it. But the words wouldn't come. Because refusing Lesner meant death. Refusing her dead husband's wish meant... what? A broken promise? A ghost's anger?

She could survive a ghost.

She couldn't survive Lesner.

Andrew watched from his corner. His heart pounded so hard he thought it might crack his ribs. His hands were fists at his sides. His jaw was clenched so tight his teeth ached.

But he didn't move.

What could he do? He was a nobody. A handyman. A boy who hid in a closet while his parents were chopped into pieces.

*What good am I?*

The other daughters exchanged glances. Stacy, Sophia, Lily—they still had hope. Small, desperate hope. Their mother would never agree to this. She couldn't. Their father's word was final. Everyone knew that.

Lesner would have to pick one of them.

Right?

Then Lesner spoke again.

"If she's married, then where is her husband?"

The question cut through the room like a knife.

Mrs. Ciaro opened her mouth. Closed it.

Lesner looked around slowly, his eyes scanning the crowd. "You said you need protection for this family. A pauper won't provide that. A handyman won't scare off your enemies." His voice dropped, cold and final. "Turn me down, and watch how fast your enemies tear this family apart. I won't lift a finger to stop them. In fact..." He smiled. "I might help them."

The room was ice.

Mrs. Ciaro's face twisted. Fear. Anger. Calculation. All of it warring behind her eyes. She looked at Emilia. Looked at Lesner. Looked at her other daughters—their desperate, hopeful faces.

Then something in her broke. Or maybe it finally hardened.

"Okay."

The word was small. Quiet. But everyone heard it.

Stacy's hope shattered. Sophia's face went gray. Lily let out a sound—half gasp, half sob.

Mrs. Ciaro lifted her chin. "You can have Emilia. Take her as your wife."

The room erupted.

Not in celebration. In shock. Gasps. Whispers. Disbelief. Everyone knew what Mrs. Ciaro had just done. She had broken her husband's word. She had trampled over a dead man's final wish. For what? Power? Protection? Fear?

Andrew felt something crack inside his chest.

Emilia finally moved. Just slightly. Her eyes shifted to her mother. No anger. No betrayal. Just... acknowledgment. As if she had always known this moment would come.

Lesner smiled.

He stepped forward and reached for Emilia's waist, intending to pull her close, to claim her right there in front of everyone.

Emilia stepped back.

Smooth. Quick. Unbothered.

Her face was still straight. Still calm. She didn't glare. Didn't shout. She simply removed herself from his reach like he was nothing more than a piece of furniture in her way.

Lesner's smile flickered. Just for a second. Then it returned.

"Feisty," he said. "I like it."

Before anyone else could speak—

*"She is my wife!"*

The voice cut through the room like thunder.

Everyone turned.

Andrew was walking. Not running. Not creeping. Walking. Straight into the center of the hall. Straight toward Lesner. His face was red. His fists were clenched. His entire body trembled with something between fear and fury.

But he didn't stop.

The crowd parted for him. Not out of respect. Out of shock. This nobody—this pauper, this handyman—was walking toward the most dangerous man in the city like he had a death wish.

Andrew stopped in front of Lesner. He had to look up. Lesner was taller, broader, carved from violence and success. Andrew was thin, ordinary, dressed in plain clothes that screamed *nobody*.

But he didn't back down.

"I said," Andrew repeated, his voice shaking but loud, "she is my wife."

Silence.

Then someone laughed. A nervous, breathless laugh from somewhere in the crowd.

Lesner looked down at Andrew like he was examining a bug that had crawled onto his shoe. His smile was gone now. His eyes were cold.

"Your wife?"

"Yes."

Lesner tilted his head. "And what exactly are you going to do about it, boy?"

Andrew's throat went dry. He didn't have an answer. He had nothing. No power. No money. No army. Just rage and a broken heart.

Lesner saw it. The emptiness. The helplessness.

He smiled again. This time it was worse.

"Listen carefully," Lesner said, loud enough for the whole room to hear. "Her marriage to me will happen in three days. The only person who can stop it is someone as strong as Mr. Ciaro was." He paused, letting the weight of the words settle. "Unfortunately for you, that person doesn't exist anymore."

He leaned down, his face inches from Andrew's.

"If you want her, prove yourself. Challenge me." He straightened up. "But we both know you won't. Because you *can't*."

Lesner turned and walked toward the exit. His men fell in behind him. At the door, he paused and looked back at Emilia.

"Three days," he said. "Be ready."

Then he was gone.

The party was ruined. The music had stopped. The guests stood in stunned silence, whispering among themselves. Mrs. Ciaro looked like she had aged ten years. Stacy, Sophia, and Lily stared at the floor, their dreams of marrying Lesner now ashes in their mouths.

Andrew stood alone in the center of the room.

Emilia looked at him. Just for a moment. Her face was still unreadable. But something flickered in her eyes. Something that might have been surprise. Or pity. Or something else entirely.

Then she turned and walked away.

---

Andrew didn't remember leaving the mansion.

He didn't remember grabbing the bottle of whiskey from the kitchen. He didn't remember walking past the gates, past the gardens, past the lights of the Ciaro estate until they were nothing but a glow behind him.

He found himself under a large oak tree, far from the mansion, sitting on the cold ground with his back against the trunk. The bottle was half empty. His eyes were wet.

He wasn't crying. He refused to cry.

But the tears came anyway.

*Why did Mr. Ciaro choose me?*

The question burned in his chest. Why had the most powerful man in Boston trusted him—a nobody, an orphan, a handyman—with his most precious daughter? What did Mr. Ciaro see that no one else could?

*What good am I if I can't even protect my own wife?*

He took another long drink. The whiskey burned his throat. It didn't help.

His father's voice echoed in his head. The screams from that night. The blood on the marble floor. The way his mother's body was thrown around like a rag doll.

*"Hide here, Andrew. Do not come out no matter what."*

He had hidden.

He had survived.

For what? To watch another family get torn apart? To stand by while another woman he was supposed to protect was dragged away by monsters?

*"If you want her, prove yourself."*

Prove himself. How? He was nothing. Less than nothing. A ghost wearing a man's body, pretending he belonged in a world that had already decided to crush him.

He raised the bottle to his lips again.

Then he heard it.

Engines.

Multiple engines. Low and rumbling, growing louder.

Headlights cut through the darkness. A fleet of black SUVs crested the hill and rolled to a stop in front of him. Tires crunched on gravel. Doors opened.

Men stepped out.

They were not regular men. Andrew could tell immediately. These were soldiers. Hard faces. Dark clothes. Weapons visible under jackets. They moved with the kind of coordination that came from years of violence.

Andrew scrambled to his feet, his back pressing against the tree. The whiskey bottle slipped from his hand and shattered on the ground.

A figure emerged from the lead vehicle. He was older than the others—maybe fifty—with a scar running from his temple to his jaw. His eyes were cold, assessing. He looked at Andrew like he was confirming something.

"Andrew Chappatti?" the man asked.

Andrew's blood went cold.

No one had called him by his real last name in years. To the Ciaro family, he was just Andrew. No last name. No past. No history.

"Who's asking?" Andrew said, his voice steadier than he felt.

The scarred man smiled. It wasn't a friendly smile.

"Boy, you need to come with us now"

"I'm not going anywhere."

Two of the men stepped forward. Fast. Andrew tried to run, but they were on him before he could take three steps. Hands grabbed his arms, his shoulders, his collar. He struggled, but they were too strong. Too many.

"Let go of me!" Andrew shouted.

The scarred man walked closer and looked down at him.

"Your father was a great man," he said quietly. "It's time you learned why."

They shoved Andrew into the back of the SUV. The doors slammed. The engines roared.

The vehicles sped off into the night, leaving the broken whiskey bottle and the lonely oak tree behind.

Andrew didn't know where he was going.

But something told him he wasn't going to survive this.