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

THE CARTEL'S PLOT(WEDDING DAY)

It was exactly three days since Lesner had set the date, and the wedding was holding in the biggest church in Boston.

Mrs. Ciaro had poured everything into this wedding. Money, connections, favors—she didn't hold back. In her mind, she was finally securing the family's future. Her daughter was marrying the most powerful man in the city. Lesner would protect them, provide for them, make them untouchable. Never mind that she had broken her dead husband's word. Never mind that Emilia was already married to Andrew. In Mrs. Ciaro's world, survival mattered more than promises.

She sat in the front pew, dressed in an expensive purple gown, smiling like she had won a war. Her daughters sat beside her—Stacy, Sophia, Lily. They wore matching dresses and fake smiles. Inside, they were still burning with jealousy. Lesner had walked past them like they were furniture. He had chosen Emilia, the quiet one, the favorite, the sister who never had to try. But they weren't about to show that bitterness today. Instead, they redirected their anger at the one person they could still mock without consequences: Andrew.

"Where is that useless boy?" Stacy whispered to Sophia.

"Probably hiding somewhere, fixing a toaster," Sophia replied, smirking.

Lily glanced around. "I heard he came back with no scratches. Lesner must have taken pity on him and let him go."

"Pity?" Stacy laughed softly. "Lesner probably didn't even see him as a threat. Like swatting a fly."

Mrs. Ciaro overheard them and joined in. "That good-for-nothing fool. What did he think he was going to do? Challenge Lesner with a screwdriver?" She shook her head. "I told Emilia to dissolve that stupid marriage, but she's stubborn like her father."

They all chuckled. Mocking Andrew was easy. It always had been. And as far as they could tell, Andrew wasn't even in the church. Probably hiding somewhere, crying into his toolbox. Good riddance.

---

Emilia stood at the back of the church, ready to walk down the aisle. The wedding gown was white and beautiful, but she felt nothing. Her face was calm—it always was—but inside, her heart was racing.

She didn't want to marry Lesner. She had never wanted it. But she had agreed to Andrew's plan. Pretend. Go to the altar. Trust me. Those were his words. And despite everything—despite the years of silence, the unconsummated marriage, the humiliation—she trusted him. Not because she had proof. Not because she had seen his power. But because her father had believed in Andrew. And her father was never wrong.

Father, you promised me, she thought, adjusting her veil. You promised Andrew would save this family. I'm holding you to that.

The music started. She began to walk.

---

The church was packed.

Lesner had brought his entire army. Hundreds of men in black suits filled the pews on his side of the aisle. Their eyes were sharp, their jackets bulging with hidden weapons. Every gang leader, every drug lord, every corrupt politician who owed Lesner a favor was there. The atmosphere was thick with power and fear. Even at his own wedding, people dreaded him.

Lesner stood at the altar in an expensive black tuxedo, his smile wide and confident. He had won. He had taken the Ciaro family's most prized daughter, and no one had stopped him. That pathetic handyman who had shouted at him three days ago? Probably crying in a ditch somewhere.

Emilia reached the altar. Mrs. Ciaro beamed from her seat. Lesner took Emilia's hand. She didn't pull away. She didn't smile. She just stood there, waiting.

The priest began the ceremony. Prayers. Readings. Vows. Emilia answered when she was supposed to. Lesner answered when he was supposed to. Everything was going exactly as planned.

Then the priest said, "You may now kiss the bride."

Lesner leaned in.

Emilia closed her eyes and prayed—not to God, but to Andrew. Do something. Please.

---

A gunshot ripped through the air.

Loud. Close. Outside the church.

The congregation gasped. Lesner pulled back from Emilia, his head snapping toward the doors. His men reached for their weapons. The guests started to panic.

Then more gunshots. Rapid fire. Shouting. Chaos.

Before Lesner's men could even form a defensive line, something strange happened. The priest stopped looking like a priest. He reached under his robes and pulled out a pistol. The altar boys—three young men who had been holding candles and books—rolled up their sleeves and revealed guns strapped to their forearms. In seconds, Lesner was surrounded. Barrels pointed at his head from every angle.

"What the—" Lesner started, but his words died in his throat.

It wasn't just the priest and the altar boys. Dozens of guests in the congregation suddenly stood up. Men who had been sitting quietly, pretending to be ordinary diplomats or minor gang members, pulled weapons from under their jackets. They moved fast, locking down every exit, every aisle, every angle.

Outside, through the stained-glass windows, Lesner could see them. Thousands of men dressed in red. They surrounded the church like a sea of blood. His own army of hundreds was nothing compared to that.

Lesner's face went pale. His men froze. They were outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and outgunned. No one dared to move.

Mrs. Ciaro's smile had vanished. Her daughters huddled together in the pew, eyes wide with terror and confusion. Stacy grabbed her mother's arm. "What's happening?" she whispered.

Mrs. Ciaro couldn't answer. She was staring at the men in red, trying to understand who in Boston had an army like this. Lesner was supposed to be the most powerful. Who dared to challenge him?

Lesner found his voice. He looked at the priest, whose calm face now held a cold, professional stare. "What is this?" Lesner demanded. "Who do you work for?"

The priest didn't answer. He just smiled and stepped aside.

The congregation parted.

And then, a voice.

"I do."

Everyone turned.

Andrew walked through the main doors of the church. He was surrounded by armed men in red suits, moving like a shield around him. But Andrew didn't need a shield. He walked with the kind of confidence that made people step back without thinking.

No one had seen him before that moment. He hadn't been lurking in the back or hiding in a pew. He had been outside, waiting. And now he entered like a storm.

He was dressed differently today. No more plain clothes. No more handyman look. He wore a sharp red suit, a matching red hat, and the gold and diamond Chappatti crest hung proudly around his neck. His shoes clicked against the marble floor with every step. His eyes were cold, fixed on Lesner.

Mrs. Ciaro's jaw dropped. Stacy, Sophia, and Lily stared like they were seeing a ghost. This wasn't the Andrew they knew. This wasn't the meek, invisible handyman who fixed their electronics and took their insults. This man looked like a king.

Andrew walked past the frozen guests, past Lesner's helpless men, and stopped at the altar. He didn't look at Lesner. He looked at Emilia.

"I told you to trust me," he said quietly.

Emilia's eyes were wet, but she smiled—the first real smile she had shown in days.

Andrew turned to Lesner. The smile disappeared.

"You wanted a wedding," Andrew said, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. "You got one. But the groom isn't you."

He took Emilia's hand and pulled her gently away from Lesner.

The priest—one of Klaus's men—stepped forward and said, "Is there anyone here who objects to this union?"

Andrew looked around the church. At Lesner. At Mrs. Ciaro. At the hundreds of terrified guests.

"No," he said. "I don't think anyone objects."

Lesner's face twisted with rage. But he couldn't move. Guns were still pointed at his head.

Andrew leaned in close to Lesner's ear and whispered, "Three days ago, I told you she was my wife. Today, I'm proving it. You have been the most powerful in this city, terrorizing everyone. Today, i render your power useless. You shall bend a knee in front of me and my wife, and pledge your loyalty and i will spare your life. I will cut all your operations in this city and place you on a suspension until you start paying me a 10 percent weekly f*e for anything you do in my city or you die. Choose one." His hands were around Emilia's waist

" And who the fuck do you think you are ?" Lesner tried to act stubborn, but then the looks on the Chappatti cartels face were serious. Guns were still pointed at him and he was surrounded by strange men. He was scared to death.

Lesner surprisingly bent a knee and everyone was shocked including Mrs. Ciaro and her daughters. Emilia herself was surprised also. When did Andrew became so powerful?

They thought.

Andrew smiled. "Smart boy."

He snapped his fingers. The men in red parted, creating a path to the door. Lesner didn't need to be told twice. He stood up and walked down the aisle, his men following behind him like whipped dogs. Outside, the thousands of men in red let them pass—but their eyes promised death if Lesner ever came back.

The church was silent.

Andrew turned to Emilia. "Shall we finish the ceremony?"

Emilia looked at him—really looked at him. The man she had ignored for two years. The man her father had chosen. The man who had just destroyed the most dangerous crimina

l in Boston with nothing but his presence.

"Yes," she said. "Let's finish it."

The priest cleared his throat. "Dearly beloved..."

*******