The Widower's Ultimatum

VICTOR’S POV

"My wife is dead."

The metallic scent of blood hung heavy in the room. I stared down at my hands. Crimson coated my palms, dripping steadily onto the pristine hardwood floor of what used to be our home. At my feet lay Bianca. Lifeless. Limp. Her sightless eyes stared at the ceiling.

I pressed the phone against my ear, ignoring the blood smearing across the screen. I was speaking words to my father I never thought would leave my mouth.

Silence stretched on the other end of the line. Then, my father’s breathing hitched. "What are you saying, Victor?"

"My wife is dead, Father. Bianca is gone." I didn't blink. I just stared straight ahead at the haunted shell of our living room.

"Victor..."

"Matteo and Gia have been taken to the hospital," I cut in, my throat tightening. The image of my small children flashed in my mind, unconscious and pale. *She tried to take them with her.* Bianca had tried to fill their little bodies with sleeping syrup. A deep, agonizing breath rattled in my chest. I couldn't bring myself to say it aloud. Confessing that my wife attempted to murder our own children made the nightmare too real.

I swallowed the truth and shoved it down. "Please inform Dante. Send a cleanup crew immediately. I want this place scrubbed from top to bottom. I don't want the kids coming back to this mess."

The mafia didn't waste time on mourning. When someone died the way Bianca did, they went straight into the ground. There were no prolonged vigils, no open caskets. Just a swift burial in a sealed wooden box.

I stood at the edge of the open grave, watching the polished mahogany sink into the earth. I was supposed to feel sorrow. I was supposed to feel a profound sense of loss for the woman I had married six years ago. Today was our wedding anniversary, and death had served as the final milestone.

Instead, a cold, dark resentment coiled in my gut. All I felt was rage.

My father, Artie, rested a heavy hand on my shoulder. I glanced sideways. Was he trying to comfort me, or just steadying his own shaking frame? His eyes met mine, lined with deep worry, and I noticed how frail he had become. I squared my jaw, forcing my expression into stone. The older he got, the stronger I needed to prove myself to be.

This was the Outfit. There was no space for vulnerability. Not even when you were burying your wife.

The entire Chicago brotherhood surrounded us, a sea of dark suits and impenetrable sunglasses. Even Dante Moretti, our Don, had flown in with his wife. Dante was the only man alive who knew the actual truth about Bianca’s death. I owed him my rank, my territory, and my life, which meant he received a full report of the incident.

Soon, the men began to approach. They patted my shoulder, leaning in to murmur hollow sympathies. I nodded sharply, accepting the fake encouragement while tracking their calculating stares. I could hear the whispers drifting through the crisp graveyard air, passing from ear to ear the moment my back turned.

"She was so young."

"He killed her. Had to be."

"How could she just drop dead the night after they had that massive public screaming match?"

Let them whisper. Let them think I was a monster capable of slaughtering my own wife. It kept them afraid. I just thanked God my children were too young to comprehend the poisonous gossip. Matteo was only five; he thought his mother was just taking a long trip. Little Gia hadn't even had the chance to form a real memory of the woman.

A fresh wave of fury threatened to boil over, burning through my veins. I buried it deep. These men weren't my friends. They were predators looking for a sign of weakness. I was a young Underboss. Many considered me too green for the seat. But Dante trusted me to rule Chicago with an iron fist, and I would sooner die than fail him or my father.

The post-funeral gathering relocated to my mansion. The air grew thick with the stench of expensive cigars and untouched catered food. My mother gently took a sleeping Gia from my arms, carrying her upstairs to the nursery. My sister, Clara, scooped up Matteo to distract him in the playroom.

They had offered to take the kids for a few days, but mother was getting too old to chase after a toddler, and Clara had a house full of her own children to manage.

"You look exhausted," Father muttered, leaning heavily on his walking stick as he approached the corner where I stood.

"I haven't been sleeping," I admitted flatly. Since Bianca's death, the children woke up screaming through the night. I paced the halls with them, unable to shut my own eyes without seeing Bianca's blood-soaked body sprawled across our floor.

"You need to find a mother for your children," Father stated. No preamble. No tact.

My mother, returning from the stairs, hissed under her breath. "Artie! Have some respect. It hasn't even been two hours since we put Bianca in the ground."

Father ignored her. His gaze remained locked on me, hard and unyielding. He knew I didn't need time to grieve Bianca. He understood the bitter reality of our marriage. I didn't want another woman in my house. I didn't want to deal with another bride.

My wants meant nothing. Only the rules and traditions of the mafia mattered.

"The children need a mother, Victor. And you need a wife to maintain your image," Father pressed, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "You know the rules. An unmarried Underboss is an unstable Underboss. You remain single, and your throne in Chicago becomes a target."

"Bianca never even cared for him," Clara chimed in, stepping back into the room with a deep scowl. She had never forgiven my late wife for her past transgressions.

"Keep quiet, Clara," I snapped. The sharp edge in my voice made her flinch, but she rolled her eyes and shut her mouth.

"I suppose you already have someone in mind for him," Mother muttered bitterly to Father.

"He doesn't have to look hard," Clara argued. "Every member of the brotherhood with a daughter of marrying age is already blowing up Father's phone."

She was right. I was a prime commodity. The only bachelor sitting on an Underboss seat. Before Father could respond, the crowd parted. Dante stepped forward, his wife trailing a few steps behind. The room naturally quieted as the Don moved toward us.

"If you need a break from your duties to get your affairs in order, let me know," Dante offered, his dark eyes scanning my face.

"No," I replied without missing a beat. If I stepped down, even for a week, Dante would perceive it as weakness. Someone else would step in, and I would never get my city back. Chicago was mine. I handled my own messes.

A faint, satisfied smile touched Dante's lips. "Good. Because I know the timing is grim right now, but my brother Enzo has approached me with a proposal."

I stiffened, my defensive walls shooting up. "A proposal about what?" I asked, though the sinking feeling in my chest gave me the answer.

"Enzo has a daughter who isn't promised to anyone," Dante said, his tone casual but carrying the suffocating weight of an order. "She could be the perfect bride for you. Think about it, Victor. Uniting your power in Chicago with Enzo's city creates an unbreakable alliance. It solidifies your position forever."

I racked my brain. Enzo Moretti was Dante's brother, but that was his only real claim to fame. He was a weak Underboss with barely any real influence. I couldn't even picture his daughter's face.

"If she's Enzo's daughter, why isn't she married yet?" I asked, my eyes narrowing with suspicion. Despite Enzo's flaws, he was still high-ranking. High-ranking girls were locked into betrothals before they hit high school. "Is there something wrong with her?"

"Her engagement was called off," Dante explained smoothly. "The man she was supposed to marry ran off with a prostitute."

Sensing my deepening frown, Father quickly interjected. "She didn't even know the man, Victor. He bolted before they could even be introduced."

"You can marry her soon," Dante continued, stepping closer. "It gives you a brief buffer from Bianca's funeral. Keep the heat off your back."

"How old is she?" I demanded, the tension bleeding into my voice.

"Nineteen," Dante answered without missing a beat.

I stared at him, then turned to my father, waiting for the punchline. When neither man cracked a smile, the reality set in. "Nineteen? Are you out of your minds? The girl is ten years younger than me."

"Look around, Victor," Father said, his voice dropping to a harsh, urgent whisper. "Look where you are. Look at the vultures circling your seat. This girl is your best option. Your only option if you want to keep Chicago."

My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached. My hands curled into tight fists at my sides. "I don't think we should be having this conversation while my wife's grave is still fresh."

Dante's friendly demeanor vanished. The ruthless Don who ruled our world stared back at me. "You know the rules, Victor. You know them better than anyone. Don't take too long to think about it."

He turned and walked away. The message echoed in my skull loud and clear. It wasn't a suggestion. It was a command disguised as an offer. No one dared to disobey the Don. I had put bullets in men's heads for lesser infractions. I knew exactly where I stood.

The next morning, the sprawling mansion felt emptier than ever. The silence was deafening, broken only by the distant sounds of Matteo and Gia waking up in the nursery. I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window in my study, staring out at the grey Chicago skyline.

The city belonged to me. I had bled for these streets. I had sacrificed my soul to sit at the head of this table. I refused to lose it just because I lacked a ring on my finger.

Cold political calculation washed over my lingering anger. It was a business transaction. Nothing more.

I picked up my phone and dialed the number my father had left on my desk.

The line rang twice before a booming voice answered. "Hello?"

"Enzo. It's Victor."

"Victor!" Enzo Moretti sounded entirely too cheerful for a man talking to a fresh widower. "What a pleasant surprise. I suppose you've come to a decision about my daughter."

I stared blankly at the glass, gripping the phone tight enough to crack the casing. I didn't know her name. I didn't know her face. She was nineteen, fresh out of the gate, and thoroughly unprepared for the brutal reality of my life. But she was the key to securing my throne. I was sealing her fate without a second thought.

"Yes," I said, my voice devoid of any emotion. "I'll marry her."