My Boss Forced Me To Marry A Mafia Don To Pay His Debts — He Didn’t Know We Had Met 15 Years Ago

Part 1

My knees throbbed against the cold marble floor of the grand foyer as I dragged a soapy rag across the stone.

Being the plus-size maid for the Miller family meant I was practically invisible until they needed someone to humiliate.

I wiped a streak of dirt away, ignoring the dull ache in my lower back and the shallow pants escaping my chest.

An untreated thyroid condition had caused my weight to balloon over the years, transforming me into an easy target for their cruelty.

I heard the sharp clack of designer heels before I saw her.

Heather Miller strolled past me, her eyes locked onto her phone screen with a bored expression on her perfectly made-up face.

She paused right next to my bucket of murky flower water.

Her foot kicked out with deliberate force.

The bucket tipped over, sending a wave of dirty water cascading over the floor I had just dried.

My cheeks burned with humiliation as she laughed a high, mocking sound.

I bit my tongue hard enough to taste copper, determined not to give her the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

I reached for the heavy, soaked rag and started all over again.

People looked at my body and saw only a punchline, completely blind to the sharp mind hiding beneath my anxiety.

They didn’t see the heart that still broke every single night for a boy I had lost fifteen years ago in a horrific foster home fire.

A boy named Greg.

The heavy oak doors of the foyer suddenly slammed open, shattering the quiet afternoon.

I scrambled backward on my hands and knees, clutching my empty bucket to my chest in sheer terror.

Half a dozen men in dark, tailored suits stormed into the house like they owned the very air we breathed.

The temperature in the room instantly plummeted.

At the center of their phalanx stood a man who looked like pure violence wrapped in expensive velvet.

Greg Romano, the undisputed boss of the Chicago underworld.

Dan Miller came scurrying down the grand staircase, his hands trembling visibly at his sides as he stammered a greeting.

Greg raised a single, gloved hand, cutting off Dan’s frantic apologies before they even started.

His deep, resonant baritone sent an inexplicable shiver racing down my spine.

He demanded to know where the girl was.

Dan swallowed hard and pointed a shaking finger directly at me.

Greg slowly turned his icy gaze downward.

I froze in place, my hands dripping with dirty water as I stared up at him.

My wide eyes locked onto his piercing ice-blue ones.

For a fraction of a second, the entire world stopped spinning.

Greg stared at my heavy-set frame, taking in the stained, oversized apron and my flushed, round face.

A strange jolt struck my chest as I looked at the cruel line of his mouth and the sharp angle of his jaw.

He couldn’t possibly be the boy from the fire.

Greg had perished in the flames all those years ago.

This man was a monster who carved out his empire with bone and blood.

But then I saw the tiny crescent-shaped scar resting just above his left eyebrow.

The truth screamed in my mind, terrifying and impossible.

Greg ordered me to get up, his tone entirely devoid of warmth.

I struggled to my feet, my legs shaking violently beneath my damp, clinging uniform.

He turned on his heel, tossing a single command over his shoulder.

We were getting married on Saturday.

I learned later that Greg’s uncle, Paul Romano, had orchestrated a masterful trap using archaic syndicate laws.

Paul declared that a boss without a wife by his thirty-third birthday was unfit to rule.

He wanted to strip Greg of his untouchable aura by forcing him to marry the woman they selected.

Dan Miller owed the syndicate five million dollars.

He eagerly offered up his scrubbing girl to clear his debts, delighted to be rid of me.

If Greg refused the marriage, he forfeited his empire to his uncle.

If he accepted, he became a walking punchline.

The wedding at the downtown cathedral was the absolute worst day of my life.

The syndicate had provided an expensive dress covered in seed pearls, but the designers had been given only three days to fit me.

The heavy satin skirt made me look even larger, and the bodice pinched my ribs until I could barely breathe.

As I walked down the aisle, the deafening silence was broken by cruel, mocking whispers from the criminal elite.

They called me a pig, laughing at the sweat beading on my forehead.

Tears pricked the corners of my eyes as I glued my gaze to the floor.

When I finally reached the altar, I was forced to look up at the dark, imposing figure of my new husband.

Greg stood there like an impenetrable statue of stone.

He heard the whispers and saw the sneers of his uncle’s cronies in the front pews.

His eyes narrowed into a terrifying promise of bloodshed, and the mocking silence instantly turned fearful.

He took my trembling, calloused hand in a grip that was surprisingly gentle.

We recited our vows mechanically, signing a contract in front of God and the entire mafia.

That night, I was escorted to his sprawling, fortress-like estate on the edge of Lake Michigan.

I was given a massive suite in the east wing, miles away from his rooms in the west wing.

For the first two weeks, we lived like ghosts haunting the same house.

I reverted to the only thing I knew how to do to manage my anxiety.

I practically took over the estate kitchen, much to the dismay of his professional staff.

Then came a stormy Tuesday night when Greg returned home at two in the morning.

He stumbled into the dimly lit kitchen, looking completely battered.

A deep gash ran along his forearm, bleeding heavily into his ruined suit sleeve.

He kept his eyes half-closed, his jaw clenched tight against a blinding migraine.

I forgot my fear and rushed toward him with a clean dishcloth.

I pressed it firmly against his bleeding arm, ignoring his grunts of protest.

I guided him to a heavy wooden island stool and fetched the first-aid kit from the pantry.

I worked quickly, peeling away the ruined fabric to clean the wound.

Then, I moved to the stove to prepare a very specific remedy.

I pulled out a mortar and pestle, tossing in dried chamomile flowers and fresh mint leaves.

I crushed them together, releasing a sharp, earthy scent into the air before steeping them in boiling water.

Greg’s breath hitched audibly.

I brought the steaming mug over to him, telling him it would help the pain.

He didn’t look at the mug.

He seized my arm in an iron grip, his ice-blue eyes fixed entirely on the jagged burn scar I had spent fifteen years trying to hide.