My Boss Is A Terrifying Mafia Don \u2014 But He Just Fired His Supermodel Girlfriend Because Of Me

Part 1

Staring down at the massive, dark puddle of iced coffee rapidly expanding across the priceless Italian marble, I knew my career was over before it even began.

The billionaire head of the Chicago syndicate was standing right in front of me, staring silently at the disastrous mess I had just created in his pristine foyer.

I had been twenty minutes early for my nanny interview, clutching my battered portfolio like a useless shield against the imposing, terrifying estate.

Now, surrounded by shattered plastic and spilled coffee, I was just praying his armed security wouldn’t literally throw me out the door.

My name is Brenda Gallagher, and I possess a soft, heavy figure that takes up too much space in a world that constantly demands women shrink themselves.

My broad hips, thick thighs, and full belly were usually hidden beneath practical oversized cardigans.

But today I wore a tailored navy dress that hugged my generous curves a little too closely.

Sweat beaded on my forehead in the sweltering July heat.

Climbing the steep winding driveway of the Russo estate felt like a miserable endeavor.

When the massive oak front doors finally opened, I was met with an interior so pristine it looked like a modern art museum.

High ceilings, immaculate white marble floors, and sharp angular furniture dominated the grand foyer.

A sharp, condescending voice echoed through the hall, demanding that I take off my shoes.

I blinked nervously, adjusting my glasses to see clearly.

Descending the grand staircase was Heather Dupont, a woman who looked like she subsisted entirely on black coffee and pure spite.

Heather was a supermodel and a frequent fixture on Dan Russo’s arm at high society galas.

Her impossibly long, stick-thin legs carried her down the steps with predatory grace.

She sneered at me, looking my body up and down with barely concealed disgust.

She coldly informed me that Mr. Russo did not tolerate dirt on the Italian marble.

Her eyes lingered cruelly on my waistline.

She snickered, muttering that she didn’t expect the agency to send a bakery delivery truck instead of a nanny.

My cheeks flushed a hot, humiliating crimson, but I bit my tongue.

I desperately needed this job.

Leaning down to unbuckle my modest heels, my sweaty hand slipped.

The heavy leather portfolio plummeted from my grasp.

It burst open upon impact, scattering papers and brightly colored crayons across the floor.

A half-eaten granola bar and a thermos of iced coffee cascaded across the flawless white marble.

The thermos hit the floor with a terrifying crack.

A dark, sticky puddle of coffee began spreading rapidly toward the center of the room.

I gasped in horror, dropping to my hands and knees.

My large, soft frame scrambled desperately to clean up the mess.

I frantically apologized, my voice shaking as I admitted I was clumsy.

A low, resonant voice suddenly demanded to know what was going on.

It possessed the kind of dangerous authority that made the air in the room turn instantly frigid.

I froze on my hands and knees, looking up slowly.

Standing in the doorway of a massive study was Dan Russo.

He was undeniably terrifying, radiating a lethal, quiet power.

Dressed in a bespoke charcoal suit, Dan had sharp aristocratic features and a jawline that could cut glass.

As the head of the most feared syndicate in the Midwest, he was accustomed to total perfection and absolute obedience.

Heather instantly transformed her cruel sneer into a pouty, seductive smile as she glided toward him.

She complained that I had just destroyed his foyer and offered to have security throw me out immediately.

Dan did not look at Heather at all.

His dark eyes were fixed entirely on me as I knelt in a puddle of iced coffee.

He stepped forward, completely ignoring the supermodel as if she were nothing more than a piece of irritating furniture.

He stopped right in front of me, smelling of expensive cedar and danger.

He commanded me to get up, though his voice lacked the expected fury.

I scrambled to my feet, wiping my sticky hands awkwardly on my dress.

I frantically promised to pay for the cleaning.

Dan simply studied me with his dark, calculating eyes.

He was surrounded daily by manufactured, starved, sharp-edged women who felt entirely empty in person.

I was flushed, embarrassed, soft, and unashamedly real.

Before Dan could respond, a small shadow darted out from behind his legs.

It was Tyler, his five-year-old son.

Tyler had not spoken a single word since a tragic accident took his mother’s life two years ago.

He was a ghost in his own home, staring blankly at the world.

Tyler looked down at the mess on the floor and spotted a brightly colored orange crayon.

He tentatively picked it up.

Forgetting my fear of the terrifying boss for a fraction of a second, I smiled softly at the boy.

I whispered gently that orange was my favorite color because it makes the best suns.

Tyler looked up at my soft round face.

Slowly, incredibly, the corners of the little boy’s mouth twitched upward into a tiny, fragile smile.

It was the first time he had shown any emotion in twenty-four months.

Dan’s breath hitched violently in his chest.

He stared at the clumsy, curvy woman who had just inadvertently brought his son back to life.

Dan’s voice went deadly quiet as he addressed the supermodel.

He ordered Heather to pack her bags and leave his house immediately.

Heather gasped in pure shock, screaming that he couldn’t fire her for a fat cow.

Dan turned his head just an inch.

He whispered lethally that if she ever spoke about his son’s new nanny like that again, she would never walk a runway again.

Heather fled frantically, her heels clicking against the marble.

Dan turned back to me, pulled a pristine silk handkerchief from his pocket, and offered it to me.

He told me I had the job and gently warned me not to make him regret it.

Three weeks passed, and the stifling atmosphere of the Russo estate fundamentally shifted.

I was a chaotic, beautiful disruption to Dan’s deeply ordered, violent life.

I possessed zero grace and managed to accidentally trigger the security alarm while toasting a bagel.

I somehow spilled flour all over Dan’s custom Italian leather shoes while baking cookies with Tyler.

And yet, Dan found himself entirely mesmerized by my transparency.

Tyler was thriving under my care, eating again and laughing at my clumsy antics.

Dan began rushing through syndicate meetings just so he could return home early.

He would sit in the shadows of his study, watching the security feeds just to see me in the kitchen.

He was captivated by the sheer softness of my thick thighs and generous curves.

But the world outside the mansion’s iron gates was incredibly cruel and immensely dangerous.

Craig Pendleton, the ruthless head of the rival syndicate, had grown desperate.

Word had reached the criminal underworld that the great Dan Russo had a soft, fat nanny as a weakness.

On a stormy Tuesday night, I was awake with anxiety and decided a midnight snack was the only cure.

I wrapped myself in my oversized, fluffy pink bathrobe and padded barefoot down the grand staircase.

I opened the massive stainless steel refrigerator in the industrial kitchen.

I pulled out leftover lasagna, a jar of premium mayonnaise, and a loaf of Italian bread.

As I turned around, my elbow caught the edge of the milk carton.

It tumbled to the floor, splashing white liquid across the dark tile.

I muttered at my own clumsiness and reached for paper towels.

I completely failed to hear the back door click open.

I didn’t hear the soft, calculated footsteps of the man dressed entirely in black tactical gear.

Craig’s top assassin, known only as the Ghost, had slipped past the guards to take me hostage.

He raised a suppressed pistol, creeping up slowly behind me.

I spun around abruptly to clean the spilled milk.

As I pivoted, my bare foot landed squarely in the center of the slick puddle.

My feet completely flew out from under me.

All of my substantial weight went airborne for a fraction of a second.

I tumbled backward with the unstoppable momentum of a runaway freight train.

The Ghost never even had a chance to react before I crashed squarely into his chest.

My heavy frame completely crushed the breath from his lungs.

The sheer unexpected force of the collision threw the highly trained killer backward across the kitchen.

His skull connected violently with the sharp edge of the granite countertop.

He crumpled to the floor, completely unconscious.

I landed hard on my bottom, surrounded by spilled milk and shattered mayonnaise.

I whimpered in pain, rubbing my hip.

It was only then that I noticed the bleeding man in a ski mask lying beside the island.

Before I could even scream, the kitchen doors burst open.

Dan stormed in with an automatic rifle gripped tightly in his hands.

His face was a mask of absolute, terrifying fury until he surveyed the bizarre scene.

He found the Midwest’s most lethal hitman completely knocked out cold.

I looked up at him, covered in mayonnaise, and frantically apologized for falling on his ninja.

Dan let out a sound that was half gasp and half laugh.

He placed his rifle on the counter and walked slowly toward me, completely ignoring the mess.

He knelt down in the milk, ruining his expensive trousers, and gently took my sticky hands.

He murmured that I hadn’t just fallen on him; I had taken out Craig Pendleton’s best killer.

My heart hammered wildly as the large, intimidating boss knelt in a puddle just to be at eye level with me.

He wiped a smear of mayonnaise from my cheek.

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, possessive rumble, and told me he was never, ever letting me leave that house.