My Wife In A Wheelchair

CRISTIANO

The whiskey burned its way down, hot and mean, same as the week had been. Hell, the whole month had gone to sh*t, and today just put the cherry on top.

Another warehouse gone. Upstate. And the stiff locked up in the basement twenty floors under my feet had finally confirmed what I’d known for weeks—the Albanians were sniffing around my turf.

I squeezed the glass so hard it nearly cracked.

I’d run the Families for thirteen years, stretched us out north and west, built something nobody thought could last.

Plenty of idiots had tried to worm their way in, most of ’em looking to drag their filthy skin business into my city. I’d buried every one of them.

But the Albanians kept testing me, little bites at the edges. Then their boss keeled over, and now his dumbass kid, Arben, thinks he can come at me head-on.

The office door creaked open. Nico walked in. My second. My brother in every way but blood. He dropped into the chair across from me and slid a folder across the desk.

I glanced at it, tossed back another swallow. “That what I think it is?”

“Yeah.” His usual smirk was gone. Nothing funny tonight. Not after the fire. Not after losing two of our men.

I dragged a hand down my face and flipped the folder open. The photo staring up at me made my stomach turn.

Nico leaned back, lips tight. “At least she’s pretty enough.

Beautiful didn’t even scratch the surface. Sharp blue eyes stared back at me under a mess of golden curls. Lips full and red. Dark brows. A straight little nose. Rosy skin. Haylee Ivanova was, without question, the most striking woman I’d ever laid eyes on. The longer I looked, the more something unwanted moved in my chest.

I forced my gaze away. “How old is she?”

“Just turned twenty-one.”

“D*mn.” I put the glass down. “She's just a child.”

Nico’s tone was hard. “You don't have a choice here, fratello. If we want the Russians backing us, this is the way through Roberto.”

Roberto Ivanov, head of the Chicago Bratva. Things had been tense, ready to spill into war, until he came forward with an offer. He wanted the use of our eastern routes to run his guns and drugs. In exchange, the Russians would stand with us against the Albanians.

“You think it’s worth it?” I asked.

Nico hesitated, which wasn’t like him. I lifted a brow.

“I think we’re boxed in,” he finally said. “Russians on one side, Irish on the other, Albanians pressing in. We’ve got the city, but not the numbers. Allies change that. This deal could be step one.”

“I just don’t see why it starts with me getting married,” I muttered, eyes falling back to her face in the photo. The capos had whispered for years about their Don without a wife, without children. They wanted heirs. But a wife, a family—that opened up weak spots.

Nico leaned back, watching me. “I know what day it is. The Anniversary? Sienna tried to find you earlier.”

My eyes went to the window. “Don’t.” I didn’t need the reminder, didn’t need his judgement of what a coward I was. I nodded at the file. “What do we have on her?”

His jaw twitched, but he let it go. “Not much. Roberto keeps his daughters hidden. Schooled at home, rarely seen. Next page has what he sent.”

I slid the picture aside. The page was nearly blank—her age, height, and a few hobbies: cooking, baking, reading.

“You could demand a meeting before it’s sealed,” Nico said.

I closed the folder, stopping myself from looking at her again.

“It doesn’t matter,” I muttered. “We won’t be an actual husband and wife.”

“Oh?”

“We’ll share a roof, that’s all. Nothing beyond being roommates.” I’d had plenty of women over the years, but never for more than a night. Long ago I made the choice—no woman would ever be allowed to turn me soft.

Nico lifted a brow. “And heirs?”

I flicked my hand dismissively. “That can wait. What matters right now is shutting the Albanians down.” The push and pull with the Bratva had already eaten up too many of our men, pulling focus from Arben and his games.

Nico leaned back in the chair, arms folding across his chest as his eyes studied me. A slow grin tugged at his mouth.

I narrowed my eyes. “What?”

“Just curious how this plays out. Matteo Rossi, untouchable Don, shacked up with his sweet little bride.”

His grin only made my temper climb. “F*ck off. This is business. Nothing else.”

“Sure,” he said lightly, standing. “I’ll tell them we can move ahead with the date.”

“Keep it small,” I ordered. “Get it over with.”

Nico gave a nod, reaching for the folder.

“Leave it,” I snapped.

He only hummed as he strolled out of the office.

HAYLEE

Emma curled closer against me, the way she always had since we were kids. She’d slept in my bed more often than her own, both of us searching for warmth in this cold house. Cold everywhere, in spirit and in air.

“Are you really going to marry him?” she whispered, her voice softer, younger than her nineteen years.

My chest tightened, my throat along with it. Father had given me the news himself.

His exact words: “When you marry Cristiano Varela and seal this alliance with the Italians, you’ll finally be worth something to me.” Mama hadn’t said a word, just stood there beside him.

“I guess so,” I whispered back.

“Do you even know anything about him?”

“He’s the boss of the New York Mafia.”

Emma gave a snort and smacked my arm. “Haylee, come on. Be serious.”

“That’s all I know!” I shot back, sticking out my lower lip and rubbing the spot where she hit me.

“That didn’t even hurt,” she said, rolling