Chapter 2

Rushing through the hospital corridors,I locate room 616 and storm through the door.

“Sir, you can’t be in here,” an orderly tries to tell me.

“Don’t presume to tell me where I can and cannot be,” I snarl as I walk over to the bed, hoping my granddad still has his wits about him.

“Sir!”

“It’s okay,” Granddad says weakly. “He can stay.”

“Sir, we are under strict?—”

Granddad leans forward and fixes the orderly with a cutting glare. “I don’t give a damn who you’re getting your damn orders from. If you don’t leave me alone with my grandson right the hell now, I’ll buy this goddamn hospital and fire your ass.”

Even after a heart attack, he still has it.

The orderly smiles back at Granddad, shaking his head from side to side. “You must be under the impression that I actually value my job.”

Well, I didn’t expect that.

They both burst into laughter, which is mildly annoying considering I have so many unanswered questions.

“I’ll be in soon with a cup of Jell-O for you, pops,” the orderly said as he heads out the door.

I turn to look at my granddad, my brow lifting. “Pops?”

“He’s a fine young man, and I see no reason to sully the relationship between myself and the person who’s been wiping my ass.”

“Yeah, about that. Are you okay?”

“My ticker gave me a scare, is all.”

“But you’re fine now?”

“Eh, I wouldn’t say that. While they were poking around, they saw a few things. They don’t have a proper diagnosis for me yet, but I had my images sent to doctors well above their pay grade, and…let’s just say I’m going to be partying it up for the next two months.”

“Partying it up?”

“Hookers, booze, maybe take up skydiving.”

“That’s preposterous.”

“Well, would you rather go out with a bang or a whimper?”

The weight of his words hits me with such force, I’m sent reeling.

“Sit down, boy.” He gestures to a chair by his bedside.

I obey, knowing better than to go against the Rossi patriarch.

“I have one year at best.”

I blink at him, hoping this is all just a nightmare. How could this happen to Aldo Rossi—or, as he’s formally known, The Butcher of the Bay?

No, he did not get that name from killing anyone, though I do know where a few bodies are buried.

He was only sixteen when he made his first deal, taking out a loan to buy one-fourth a share of a restaurant. By the time he was eighteen, he owned seven, free and clear.

Restaurants turned into real estate, and everything he touched turned to gold. He grew an empire, ruthlessly driving away the competition by any means necessary.

Those are the bodies I speak of.

Now, forty years later, his empire is so grand, he’s been invited to more than one royal wedding.

As he’s said time and time again, he’s not a force, he’s the force.

Granddad reaches over and gently places his hand on my shoulder. “I need you to keep the Rossi name alive.”

“I promise to continue to bring infamy to the dastardly Rossi name,” I say, hoping to bring a smile to his face.

“No, you idiot. You need heirs. A wife and a few snot-nosed brats will do you some good.”

I chuckle. “They’ll come in time.”

“Well, you better hurry the hell up or else you’ll be written out of my will.”

I blink at him as the weight of his words tumble around in my head.

“Surely you can’t?—”

“Surely I can do anything I damn well please with the money I earned through a lifetime of hard fucking work. I didn’t raise your father right, and he left this world far too soon. His sister Isabella had the right idea, but gave the family three daughters that have no interest in my work.”

“I literally run several divisions of your company. The most lucrative, in fact.”

“Yes, but you’re thirty-two and still bring home a different broad each night.”

The fact that he uses the word broad speaks to his age.

“So, you’re going to leave me nothing?”

“Nope. I’m going to leave you one dollar.”

My brow pinches together. “Why one dollar?”

“Because if I leave you nothing, you could contest it, saying I merely forgot to add you. One dollar is intentional.”

Jesus Christ, he’s serious.

“And my job?”

“Maria’s husband will inherit my position, but don’t worry, you’ll still have a job. You’ll be making a fraction of what you are now.”

Maria has the most sense of my three cousins, though her husband is a complete moron, which my granddad surely knows.

“You can’t be serious. He’ll run the Rossi name into the ground.”

“All he has to do is float the business until the next generation comes of age.”

“Your oldest grandchild is seven. Do you really expect him to ‘float’ for over a decade?”

Granddad winks. “He’ll have plenty of help.”

“Well, aren’t you a bastard.”

He smiles smugly, and despite the situation I’ve now found myself in, I still love him to pieces.

“Will my sister fare better?” I ask.

“Maria gave me two beautiful grandchildren, so yes, she’ll do fine.”

Jealousy needles me, but I refuse to let it show. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to start looking for places that might value my experience,” I tell him, knowing he’ll see it as a threat.

“I wouldn’t look so fast if I were you.”

“Really? Because you’re taking everything from me.”

“And leaving you a sliver of hope.”

“Explain.”

“If you can secure a wife by month’s end, you’ll get to keep your job and salary, and if you can knock her up before I pass, you’ll keep your inheritance.”

“Knock her up?” I blurt, appalled.

“I want a goddamn grandchild by your blood. Even if my time on this earth is limited, I want to know that the line is still growing.”

I shove my fingers through my hair, contemplating his demand.

“There’s not enough time…”

“With your good looks and family name, you could be married by the end of the day.”

“You know as well as anyone that marriages into legacy lines like ours take careful screening.”

“Then I guess it’s good that I gave you a head start.”

“A head start?”

“I put in an application with Wife for Hire, a company specializing in matchmaking. Miss May, the owner, has put together a list of potential brides. All you need do is pick one.”

“But she could pick anyone?”

“Son, this is what she specializes in, and the contract I signed will ensure we’ll get a full refund if we’re not satisfied.”

“You signed a contract?”

“A seven-figure contract, to be precise.”

“Why on earth would you pay that much?”

“Because Miss May can guarantee a bride with high fertility in the limited timeframe we have.”

Shit.

High fertility? Jesus Christ. He’s fucking seriously. If I don’t marry and breed a woman, I’m out. Everything I’ve worked so hard for—gone, except for the spite-dollar he promised to leave me.

There’s no worming out of this. Not if I want to keep my lifestyle and my job.

Exhaling a long breath, I say, “I’ll look at the recommendations.”

He reaches over and grabs a card off of his bedside table and hands it to me. “Here’s your login.”

I snort derisively and snatch the card. “Is there anything else? Or should I have the orderly return to airplane some Jell-O into your asshole mouth?”

He chuckles, his eyes dancing with glee, which I’m happy to have put there.

“Why don’t you crack open your laptop and see what’s out there?”

“In other words, you don’t just want to pick when I’m going to marry, but who?”

With an offended look, he says, “I would never think to impose on your life in such a way.”

I start up my laptop and pull up the Wife For Hire website.

“Isn’t this cute?” I say as I navigate the pages of happy couples.

I log in and look over the profile granddad made for me, which reads straight out of the diary of a man with a breeding kink.

“Seriously, Granddad?”

“I left nothing to chance.”

In the corner, there’s a notification that I’ve been matched with three women.

With my timeline, I can’t afford to be picky. It has to be one of these three, because hunting for any longer than I have to could cost me everything.

The first profile I click into is my strongest match. She’s a pretty blonde, with a wide grin and itching to live the ‘trad wife’ dream, though I can tell that’s just the veneer she puts on. She wants all the credit of raising some rich idiot’s, spoiled brats with none of the work, because she requires a maid, chef, several nannies, and tutors to get her future children through their formative years.

No, thanks.

The next is a dark-haired woman with a sad smile and eyes that say, I’m being forced into this.

Her and me both.

I click on the third profile, deciding that I’d rather not marry a woman as miserable with this setup as I am, and go to the final potential bride, a lovely redhead whose fair features could easily land her the cover of Vogue, with the right pedigree.

She’s young. Too young. And frighteningly innocent. But, out of the three profiles I’ve matched with, she’ll undoubtedly be the easiest to control.

Which matters to me, because if I’m going to get married against my will, I want to retain as much of my freedom as possible. I won’t have a wife telling me when to come home and to take my shoes off at the door.

I’ll say jump.

She’ll obey.

There is one troublesome comment regarding her mother and how she’s expected to be accepted to stay with her daughter, because they’re so close. But she’s the best of the three and I’m good at dealing with problems.

And yes, this mother is a problem.

“Looks like you’re in luck, pops.”

“The spicy redhead named Ivy?” he asks.

Glaring at him, I say, “Did you narrow down the list before it came to me?”

He shrugs. “One can’t be too careful with who they share their genes with.”

I hit the connect button, and a box pops up, asking if I’d like to send a message to Ivy.

Yes.

I type out a brutally honest message and hit send.

A list of times pop up, allowing me to set up a video chat with my selected bride-to-be. I click tonight, 5 p.m., then gather as much information about Ivy as I can and forward it to Lance O’Connor, a guy I use for PI purposes, following it up with an email:

Find out everything you can about this woman ASAP.