My Mafia Boss Needed A Date To His Brother’s Wedding — His Choice Shocked The Underworld
Part 1
Heavy oak doors stood between me and the undisputed king of the city’s underworld.
Four heavily armed guards flanked the entrance to the boardroom.
They barely blinked when I marched right past them and shoved the brass handles.
Thick cigar smoke instantly assaulted my lungs.
Craig Russo sat at the head of a mahogany table, ignoring the frantic pacing of his younger brother Dan.
My terrifying boss possessed dark, calculating eyes that routinely made grown men beg for mercy.
Those exact eyes snapped toward me the moment the heavy door clicked shut.
Dan stopped mid-stride, dragging a hand down his flushed face in exasperation.
We were in the middle of family business, he pointed out with a heavy sigh.
My knuckles were practically white around the thick folder I clutched to my chest.
Saving this syndicate from a federal indictment felt slightly more pressing than wedding arrangements.
The folder smacked against the polished wood as I dropped it right in front of Craig.
Page forty-two outlined exactly how stupid Paulie Gatto had been with the southside construction contracts.
A frustrated breath escaped my lips as I crossed my arms over my stomach.
Funneling skimmed cash through a shell company tied directly to the primary offshore account was amateur hour.
The IRS was going to flag the entire operation by next Tuesday.
Thirty-six hours of agonizing work had gone into building a complex firewall of fake charity donations just to cover Paulie’s tracks.
Craig stared silently at the meticulous ledger.
My trembling hands fumbled with the cheap diner coffee, sloshing dark liquid onto my white cuff.
Most people withered rapidly under his predatory stare.
My right foot tapped an impatient rhythm against the Persian rug beneath us.
Someone needed to authorize the transfer to fix the catastrophic mess.
A slow smile crept across my boss’s face.
He signed the authorization line without even verifying the math.
Then, he pushed the heavy folder back to me.
Enjoy the wedding this weekend, he murmured, his deep voice dropping a full octave.
I turned sharply on my heel, ready to retreat to my windowless cubicle.
Craig commanded me to wait.
Dan had just been arguing that his older brother needed to bring a date to the wedding who naturally commanded respect.
Bringing someone substantial was apparently vital for the delicate optics with the powerful Rossi family.
Heather Rossi, the bride-to-be, was firmly expecting her snobbish sister Brenda to be the chosen companion.
Craig’s dark, fathomless gaze remained locked intensely on my flushed face.
Tell the caterers to add a plus-one, he instructed his stunned brother.
He stood from his leather chair and fastened his suit jacket.
Deliberate steps brought him around the table until he stood mere inches away from me.
My brow furrowed in genuine confusion as I stared up at his imposing figure.
This Saturday, I was apparently attending the mafia royal wedding of the decade as his personal guest.
A ringing laugh burst out of my chest before I could suppress the sound.
The laughter quickly died in my dry throat when I realized his expression remained terrifyingly stony.
Glancing down at my sensible shoes and unruly hair, I shook my head and said, ‘Absolutely not, find someone else.’
Doing complicated taxes did not require surviving the venomous glares of rail-thin mob wives.
Craig leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a terrifying rumble.
Tyler owed sixty grand to the unpredictable rival crew across town.
My breath hitched painfully at the sudden mention of my younger brother.
They were planning to break his legs on Monday if the debt was not settled in full.
Protecting his assets was standard business, and my boss apparently considered me an indispensable asset.
Attending the wedding was the explicit, non-negotiable price for making Tyler’s debt disappear tonight.
Swallowing the lump of terror in my throat, I realized this was a calculated transaction.
Madame Rousseau arrived at my cramped apartment at dawn on Friday morning.
The private couturier clapped her hands in delight upon seeing my lush curves.
We spent hours draping deep crimson silk into a masterpiece of high fashion.
The sweeping skirt featured a daring slit that practically demanded attention.
Heavy diamonds glittered at my throat on Saturday afternoon.
The unfamiliar woman staring back from the mirror looked powerful and undeniable.
Craig waited patiently by the passenger door of his sleek Maybach.
His breath visibly hitched when I stepped out onto the damp evening sidewalk.
A possessive energy radiated from him as he helped me into the plush leather seat.
My heart hammered fiercely against my ribs during the tense ride to the Biltmore estate.
Hundreds of made men and viciously judgmental socialites waited inside those towering gates.
Camera flashes erupted like a sudden thunderstorm the exact moment my stiletto hit the cold pavement.
Malicious whispers immediately ripped through the large crowd of gawking onlookers.
My lungs seized up, refusing to draw air under the heavy weight of their mocking sneers.
A heavy, warm arm suddenly shot out and wrapped firmly around my trembling waist.
He anchored me against his solid side, forcing me to stand tall under the punishing spotlight.
A lethal glare from the most dangerous man in the city silenced the unruly crowd instantly.
We walked confidently up the grand stone steps and entered the deafeningly loud ballroom.
Across the polished dance floor, Heather Rossi’s brilliant smile froze.
Brenda Rossi quickly detached herself from her sister and marched directly toward us.
She stepped deliberately into our path, her cruel gaze locked onto my waistline, and loudly declared to the silent room that Craig had finally lowered his standards.
