The day my doctor told my parents I would never have children
The day my doctor told my parents I would never have children, they didn’t comfort me—they started calculating how much less I was worth. Five hours later, I was sitting inside a private Chicago club while dangerous men discussed buying me like damaged property, until Arthur Costa, a widowed mafia boss with four children of his own, looked across the room and made everyone go silent.
“Inhospitable.”
That was the word the doctor used.
I sat on the examination table while my father stared at the ultrasound monitor instead of me. At twenty-six, I had spent years living with pain, but no one had bothered investigating it until my family needed proof that I could produce an heir.
“Zero percent?” my father asked.
“Without an extraordinary medical intervention, yes.”
My mother sighed from the corner.
Not sadly.
Impatiently.
The moment we entered the car, I understood why.
“The Romanos won’t take the agreement now,” my father said, pouring himself Scotch. “Carmine wanted a grandson.”
My mother exhaled cigarette smoke toward the cracked window.
“We owe them three million dollars.”
I stared at them.
“So what happens to me?”
My father finally looked over.
“You’re still an asset.”
The words landed harder than the diagnosis.
He explained it like a businessman discussing damaged inventory.
There were men who didn’t want children.
Men who wanted a beautiful wife for appearances.
Someone to host dinners.
Someone quiet.
Someone they could sleep with without worrying about an heir.
“You’re auctioning me.”
“We’re arranging a marriage,” he corrected.
“Tonight.”
Five hours later, I was wearing the black velvet dress my mother chose and sitting inside the Continental, neutral ground for some of the most dangerous men in the Midwest.
My father moved between tables selling me.
I could always tell when he revealed my diagnosis.
The men looked over afterward.
Some lost interest immediately.
Others became more interested.
One eventually approached.
He had a scar cutting through his eyebrow and smelled of cheap cologne.
“Richard says you can’t have kids.”
“That’s what the doctors say.”
His smile widened.
“Good.”
My stomach tightened.
“Means I can do whatever I want without worrying about some bastard showing up later.”
I kept my face still.
Inside, something collapsed.
Apparently this was what remained of my future.
Then suddenly the man disappeared from the booth.
Someone had grabbed him by the collar and dragged him backward.
A different man stood in his place.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Charcoal suit.
Silver beginning at his temples.
There was dried blood on one cuff.
Arthur Costa.
Every criminal family in Chicago knew his name.
He controlled northern supply routes, warehouses, and enough men that even my father spoke carefully around him.
Three years earlier, Arthur’s wife had died in a car bombing meant for him.
He had four children.
And according to rumor, he had personally hunted down everyone responsible.
The scarred man coughed from several feet away.
“I didn’t know you had a claim on her.”
Arthur looked at him.
“I don’t.”
Then his gaze moved back to me.
“But you’re ruining the view.”
“Leave.”
The man vanished.
Arthur sat across from me and ordered bourbon.
Unlike every other man that night, he didn’t look at my body first.
He looked at my face.
Then at my father across the room.
“How much does Richard owe?”
“Three million.”
“And he’s selling you to cover it?”
My throat tightened.
“Yes.”
Arthur took one slow sip.
Then he asked the question I least expected.
“Do you like children?”
I stared at him.
“Yes.”
“How many do I have?”
“Four.”
He nodded.
Then Arthur Costa turned toward my father and spoke loudly enough for every man in the Continental to hear.
“I want her.”
The room fell so quiet I heard ice crack inside Arthur’s glass.
My father approached with a smile too eager to be natural. “Mr. Costa, perhaps we should discuss terms privately.”
“No.”
Arthur never looked away from me.
“Ask her.”
My father blinked. “Excuse me?”
“If she’s going to marry me, ask whether she wants to.”
A nervous laugh escaped my mother. “She understands her responsibilities.”
Arthur’s eyes hardened.
“I wasn’t speaking to you.”
For the first time that night, my parents looked afraid.
Arthur leaned closer. “You can walk out that door. I’ll have a car take you anywhere you want. Your father’s debt won’t follow you.”
I studied him, searching for the trap.
“Why?”
“Because I need someone my children can trust.”
“Not a wife?”
“That too.”
He paused.
“But my children come first.”
Something in his voice changed when he said it. Not softness exactly. Something older. Wounded.
I looked toward my father.
He was silently begging me to accept.
That decided it.
“I’ll marry you.”
Arthur stood.
My father nearly sagged with relief.
Then Arthur added, “But Richard receives nothing.”
My father froze.
“The three million—”
“Is your debt,” Arthur said. “Not hers.”
Two men appeared behind my father.
Arthur calmly finished his bourbon.
“You used your daughter as collateral without telling the Romanos she never agreed.”
My father’s face drained.
“How do you know that?”
Arthur smiled without warmth.
“Because Carmine Romano is downstairs.”
The elevator doors opened.
Three men entered.
Carmine Romano walked between them.
My mother dropped her cigarette.
My father whispered, “Arthur…”
But Arthur was watching me.
“Your father didn’t bring you here to find a husband,” he said.
A chill crawled across my skin.
“What?”
“He brought you here because someone offered five million dollars for you specifically.”
My pulse stopped.
“Who?”
Arthur reached inside his jacket and placed a photograph on the table.
It showed me leaving my apartment.
Another showed me sleeping beside my bedroom window.
The final photograph was twelve years old.
I was fourteen.
Standing beside Arthur’s dead wife.
On the back, written in black ink, were four words:
SHE KNOWS WHERE IT IS.
I looked up.
Arthur’s expression had changed completely.
May you like
“My wife knew you,” he said.
“And apparently, whoever killed her knows you did too.”
