My Mob Boss Demanded I Lose Weight — My Savage Reply Bankrupted His Rival
Part 1
Gunfire in the boardroom of Harrison Financial was a perfectly normal Tuesday for Dan Moretti, but being publicly humiliated by a plus-size forensic accountant was entirely unprecedented.
I knew exactly how the sleek, predatory world of corporate finance saw me.
Standing at five-foot-four and weighing two hundred and thirty pounds, I was practically invisible until someone needed a target for their insecurities.
Razor-sharp cheekbones and sample-size waistlines guarded the glass doors of our firm, while I sat in the back with a terrifyingly brilliant mind for numbers and absolutely zero patience for incompetent men.
My entire life had been defined by a constant string of brutal dismissals based solely on my appearance.
Harrison Financial was a front.
My third week on the job had made that painfully obvious.
Obscure offshore routing, phantom LLCs operating out of the Cayman Islands, and a sudden influx of untraceable cash all pointed directly to the Moretti syndicate.
Keeping my mouth shut was easy enough.
Doing my job and eating glazed donuts in the break room without apologizing to anyone secured the premium health insurance my mother desperately needed for her dialysis.
A little money laundering wasn’t going to get in the way of my family’s survival.
Watching my mother struggle every single day gave me an incredibly thick skin.
Everything changed on a rainy Thursday morning in November.
Echoing through the executive suites, two sharp gunshots interrupted the brewing of the morning coffee.
The heavy mahogany doors of the accounting department violently swung open, and the air in the room instantly dropped ten degrees.
Dan Moretti had arrived to clean house.
Standing over six feet tall and draped in a bespoke charcoal Italian suit, the mafia boss possessed a face carved from cold marble and eyes as dead as the bottom of the ocean.
He had just put two bullets into the kneecaps of our firm’s senior partner for embezzling syndicate funds.
Now he needed someone to untangle the massive financial mess left behind.
Heavily armed guards rounded up the remaining staff, herding us into the central glass-walled boardroom.
My thick thighs pressed against the armrests of a chair that was decidedly not designed for a woman of my curves.
Adjusting my thick-rimmed glasses, I kept my hands folded tightly over my stomach, refusing to tremble like the rest of the terrified junior accountants.
Dan paced the length of the room like a caged panther.
Shattered glass crunched softly beneath his expensive boots.
Three million dollars bled from his accounts over the last six months, and whoever fixed it would live.
Everyone else would be replacing the foundations of his new casino.
Silence choked the room.
None of the Ivy League-educated gym bros sitting around me dared to breathe.
A loud, exasperated sigh escaped my lips, cutting straight through the terror.
Reaching into my leather tote bag, I pulled out a thick, red-tabbed manila folder and slid it smoothly across the polished oak table.
It stopped precisely at Dan’s fingertips.
The real hemorrhage wasn’t three million, it was four point two.
Our senior partner was skimming, but the real theft came from supply chain routing through the docks.
Someone on Dan’s own crew was double-billing the shell corporations.
Stopping his pacing, the mafia boss slowly turned his dark gaze toward the end of the table.
Disgust flickered in his eyes, a look I had seen a thousand times from arrogant men who measured a woman’s worth by her dress size.
Flipping through the first few pages, he dropped the folder back onto the table with a harsh slap.
He needed a forensic genius, not someone who couldn’t even discipline herself at the dinner table.
Leaning forward and bracing his knuckles on the oak, he sneered that I looked like I would get winded walking to the printer.
If I wanted to work for him, I needed to lose fifty pounds.
A few of the terrified male accountants actually snickered, grateful that the predator’s attention had shifted to the fat girl.
Years of bullying and constant societal pressure had forged my skin into bulletproof titanium.
Pushing my chair back, the legs scraped loudly against the floor as I stood up to meet his dead black eyes with a blazing inferno of my own.
My weight had absolutely nothing to do with my brain.
Since he wanted to talk about discipline and sloppy behavior, I pointed out that he had walked in waving a gun like a B-movie gangster because he was too stupid to realize his own underboss was robbing him blind.
The phantom invoices traced directly to a shell company registered to Brian Rossi, his trusted right-hand man.
The temperature in the room plummeted further as the heavily armed guards shifted nervously.
Crossing my thick arms over my chest, I stepped away from the table to stand at my full width, entirely unapologetic about the space I occupied.
Recovering every single dime of that four point two million by Friday would require double the standard rate, full autonomy over the accounts, and a promise that he never spoke to me about my body again.
Otherwise, he could shoot me right there or watch his empire collapse under the weight of his own ignorance.
Ten agonizing seconds ticked by in absolute silence.
Standing my ground, my heart hammered violently against my ribs, but my chin remained held high.
I fully expected a bullet right between the eyes, but instead, the boardroom doors violently burst open again, and Brian was standing there with a suppressed pistol pointed directly at my chest.
