The Mob Boss Insulted My Size—Then I Answered In His Secret Language
Part 2
“If you paid as much attention to your manners as you do to my waistline, Don Dan, you wouldn’t be eating by the kitchen door like a peasant.”
The effect was entirely instantaneous.
Tyler choked violently on his glass of water, coughing into his expensive linen napkin.
Greg’s hand dropped immediately beneath the table.
It was an instinctual reaction to a perceived threat, sending his fingers straight to the grip of his concealed firearm.
But Dan completely froze.
The heavy silver lighter slipped from his fingers and clattered loudly against the fine china on the table.
The cruel smirk was violently wiped from his handsome face.
It was replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated shock.
His dark eyes widened, snapping up to meet mine.
For the first time all evening, he wasn’t looking at a heavy waitress.
He was looking at an absolute equal.
“Who the hell are you?”
His voice dropped an octave as he slipped back into the dialect.
“I am the woman taking your order.”
I seamlessly shifted back to English.
“Now, we have a fantastic tomahawk ribeye on special tonight.”
“Or if you’re worried about my appetite, I can bring you a simple garden salad.”
Dan held my gaze for three long, dangerous seconds before a predatory, intrigued smile touched his lips.
He ordered the ribeye and insisted I be the only person to serve his table for the rest of the night.
Every time I stepped out of the kitchen, I felt the heavy, undeniable weight of his gaze tracking my movements.
He didn’t stare like a predator waiting to strike.
He watched me like a man trying to decipher a complex, ancient text.
When his party finally rose to leave just past midnight, he walked straight up to me.
He slid a thick linen envelope onto the polished wood under my rag.
“For the exceptional service.”
His voice dropped to a low rumble.
“And the education.”
By two in the morning, the restaurant was locked.
I stepped out into the biting chill of a New York November, exhausted to my very bones.
Rain had begun to fall in icy, stinging sheets across West 46th Street.
A sleek, midnight-black SUV suddenly idled to the curb beside me, its tinted window rolling down.
Dan sat in the dimly lit leather interior.
He told me the trains were stalled and offered me a dry ride home to Queens.
I reluctantly climbed into the sprawling backseat, bringing a gust of cold rain with me.
As we drove through the desolate city, he stared out the window and quietly revealed that he had his men run a background check.
He knew my name wasn’t Brenda Smith.
He knew my real name was Brenda Marino, and that I was the daughter of the forensic accountant who had stolen millions from a rival syndicate.
My blood turned to absolute ice in my veins.
If this ruthless crime boss knew exactly who my hunted father was, why was he offering me a safe ride home instead of a shallow grave?
Part 3
Brenda Marino sat frozen in the back of the midnight-black SUV, her blood turning to ice as Dan revealed he knew her true identity.
She stared at the ruthless crime boss, wondering why he was offering her a safe ride home instead of a shallow grave.
Dan shifted his gaze, locking his dark eyes onto hers within the dim cabin.
He explained calmly that he didn’t care about the millions her late father had stolen from a rival syndicate.
The rival families were animals, he said, but he was a businessman who valued strength over old vendettas.
He cared about the fierce, brilliant woman who had stood up to him, and he intended to court her, not kill her.
The journey to that terrifying, electrifying moment in the rain had begun earlier that same evening in a sweltering Manhattan kitchen.
The fluorescent lights of Trattoria Romano buzzed mercilessly, casting a harsh glare on the chaotic dinner rush.
Brenda wiped a heavy bead of sweat from her forehead with the back of a flour-dusted wrist.
At two hundred and forty pounds, working a double shift in the city’s most demanding dining room carried a brutal physical toll.
Her thick thighs chafed fiercely beneath the cheap black fabric of her uniform skirt.
A dull, persistent ache throbbed in her lower back, a pain she had learned to completely ignore years ago.
She was undeniably a heavy woman, a fact she carried with a mixture of quiet acceptance and the occasional sharp sting of societal judgment.
But what Brenda lacked in conventional, runway-ready aesthetics, she made up for in sheer, unstoppable competence.
Navigating the cramped spaces between tables was a delicate art she had mastered perfectly.
She balanced three scalding plates of veal on her left arm without a single tremor.
Her right hand gripped a massive tray of heavy antipasti as she wove through the crowded room.
She knew the intricate menu backward and forward.
More importantly, she knew the dangerous politics of the surrounding neighborhood.
Trattoria Romano wasn’t just a place for wealthy tourists shopping on Fifth Avenue.
It was a known, neutral ground for some of the city’s most ruthless and powerful men.
This evening, the atmosphere in the main dining room was completely drained by the arrival of a single party.
Dan didn’t just walk into rooms; he claimed them entirely.
He was the undisputed heir to a syndicate with deep, bloody roots tying back to the old world.
Dan was a man visibly sculpted from violence and incredibly expensive tastes.
He was dressed in a custom-tailored charcoal suit that clung perfectly to his broad shoulders.
His thick dark hair was slicked back with impeccable precision.
Guarded by his two top lieutenants, Greg and Tyler, he moved with the predatory grace of a man who held the city’s lifeblood in his hands.
Fearful whispers instantly rippled through the crowded restaurant.
Expensive cutlery was set down very quietly onto porcelain plates.
Customers suddenly found their footwear deeply fascinating.
Nobody wanted to risk making accidental eye contact with the city’s apex predator.
The usually pompous maître d’, Craig, practically tripped over his own feet rushing forward.
He led Dan’s group straight to the VIP booth tucked in the shadowy corner of the room.
Brenda felt a sinking pit in her stomach when she realized they were seated in her section.
Craig intercepted her near the roaring espresso machine, his face completely pale and slick with nervous sweat.
He grabbed her arm with a trembling hand, his eyes wide with panic.
“Don’t mess this up, Brenda,” he hissed through clenched teeth.
“If his wine is poured wrong, or if his steak is overcooked, he won’t just leave a bad review.”
“He will burn this place to the ground with us inside it.”
Brenda pulled her arm away from his frantic grip.
“I know precisely who he is, Craig.”
Her voice remained perfectly steady despite the chaos around them.
She grabbed a fresh cloth from the stainless steel counter.
She adjusted her apron over her wide hips and took a deep, centering breath.
She was not intimidated by cruel men in expensive suits.
She had spent a decade of her childhood in a small coastal town in Sicily.
She lived in absolute hiding with her late father, Paul Marino.
He was a disgraced forensic accountant who had crossed the wrong people, and he had taught her how to survive.
She knew the criminal underworld intimately.
She knew their posturing, their unspoken rules, and most importantly, she knew their language.
Approaching the table, Brenda kept her expression perfectly neutral.
Dan sat at the center of the plush red leather booth.
He leaned back, casually twirling a heavy silver lighter between his long fingers.
Greg and Tyler sat beside him, their eyes scanning the dining room like hungry hawks.
“Good evening to you, gentlemen.”
Brenda produced her notepad.
“Welcome to Romano.”
“May I start you off with some sparkling water or a bottle from our reserve list?”
Dan did not bother looking up immediately.
He finished igniting a thick imported cigar.
He openly ignored the city’s indoor smoking laws, knowing nobody would dare enforce them on him.
He blew out a massive plume of blue smoke into the air.
Slowly, his dark, calculating eyes drifted upward to meet hers.
His gaze raked over her with deliberate, agonizing slowness.
It was certainly not a look of interest.
It was a complete, intensely degrading appraisal.
He took in her round face and the thick curves of her waist.
He stared openly at the way her apron strings dug into the soft flesh of her sides.
A cruel, arrogant smirk touched the corner of his lips.
He completely turned his attention to his men.
Instead of addressing her in English, Dan shifted effortlessly into a rapid, thick dialect.
It was a hyper-regional Sicilian slang that even mainland Italians struggled to comprehend.
“Just look at this one.”
Dan tilted his head toward Greg, his voice dripping with aristocratic contempt.
“They feed the pigs very well in America.”
“I am surprised she can even walk to the table without collapsing.”
“We had better order double tonight.”
“Otherwise she will eat half our plates in the kitchen before they even reach us.”
Greg and Tyler laughed low and guttural in their throats.
They exchanged a look of cruel, unchecked amusement.
They presumed, as absolutely everyone did, that this overweight waitress was just another clueless local.
They thought she was completely ignorant of the venom being spit right in front of her face.
Brenda’s pen froze completely on her notepad.
For a fraction of a second, the humiliation burned hot and sharp in her chest.
It was such a common, profoundly tired script.
Society always reduced her to her size, stripping away her intellect and her dignity just because she carried extra weight.
However, the humiliation vanished almost instantly.
It was completely eclipsed by a surging, icy wave of pure defiance.
Her father had taught her that dialect to survive.
He taught her how to understand when the wolves were finally at the door.
He had certainly never taught her to cower.
She took a slow, deliberate breath.
She let the heavy, oppressive silence stretch for one agonizing second.
She did not look away.
She did not blush, and she absolutely did not retreat.
Instead, Brenda clicked her pen shut with a sharp, echoing snap that cut through the low hum of the dining room.
She leaned forward slightly, resting her knuckles on the edge of their white-clothed table.
She brought herself uncomfortably close to Dan’s personal space.
When she spoke, her voice wasn’t the polite, high-pitched customer service tone she had used moments before.
It was low, raspy, and laced with the exact same harsh, rolling, regional accent Dan had just used.
She fired back, her Sicilian absolutely flawless.
The rolling consonants and clipped vowels hit the air like pistol shots.
“If you cared as much about your manners as you do to my waistline, Don Dan, you wouldn’t be eating by the kitchen door like a peasant.”
The impact was entirely instantaneous.
Tyler gagged violently on his glass of water, coughing into his expensive linen napkin.
Greg’s right hand dropped immediately beneath the table.
It was a pure instinctual reaction to a perceived threat, sending his fingers straight to the grip of his concealed firearm.
Dan, however, completely froze.
The heavy lighter slipped from his fingers and clattered loudly against the fine china on the table.
The arrogant smirk was violently wiped from his handsome face.
It was quickly replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated shock.
His dark eyes widened, snapping up to meet hers.
For the first time that evening, he wasn’t looking at a heavy waitress.
He was looking at a ghost.
He was staring at an absolute equal.
The heavy, oppressive silence stretched tightly between them.
The surrounding tables seemed to vanish entirely into the background.
“Who exactly are you?”
Dan’s jaw tightened.
His voice dropped an octave, slipping back into the dialect.
“I am the woman taking your order,” Brenda seamlessly shifted back to English.
She shifted back to her professional demeanor, though her eyes blazed with unapologetic fire.
“Tonight, we have a fantastic tomahawk ribeye on special tonight.”
“Or if you are worried about my appetite, I can bring you a simple garden salad.”
Greg half-stood from the booth, his face turning an angry shade of crimson.
“You insolent little—”
“Sit down, Greg,” Dan’s voice was barely above a whisper.
He didn’t raise his voice, but the absolute authority in his tone caused his lieutenant to drop back into the booth instantly.
Dan’s eyes never left Brenda’s.
The initial shock was melting away, slowly replaced by a burning, intense curiosity.
The air crackled with a sudden, dangerous electricity.
He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table.
He studied the fierce defiance in her round face and the set of her jaw.
He noted the way she refused to break eye contact despite knowing exactly who he was and what he was capable of doing.
Women in his violent world were usually slender, heavily manicured, and terrifyingly submissive.
They agreed with him out of fear.
This woman did neither.
“Catania.”
Dan tested the sound of the word on his tongue.
He recognized the specific inflection in her flawless accent.
It wasn’t just general Sicilian; it was eastern.
It was the rough streets of Catania.
“You learned to speak on the eastern coast.”
“Who taught you?”
“My father,” Brenda kept her tone clipped and guarded.
“And he taught me that true men of respect don’t need to insult the working class to feel powerful.”
Dan let out a sudden, bark-like laugh that startled even his own hardened men.
It wasn’t a mocking laugh.
It was genuine.
It was the sound of a man who was utterly and completely captivated.
“I apologize.”
Dan smoothed his tie, switching to perfect, unaccented English.
He reached out slowly, moving his water glass to the side.
He cleared the space between them as if removing a physical barrier.
“You are right.”
“It was a crude peasant’s remark.”
“I am Dan.”
“I know exactly who you are.”
Brenda’s posture was entirely unyielding.
“The whole city knows who you are.”
“And yet you stand here lecturing me,” Dan observed.
A dangerous smirk returned to his lips, though this one was completely devoid of the earlier disgust.
It was predatory, intrigued, and deeply fascinated.
“Tell me your name.”
“Brenda.”
“Your last name, Brenda from Catania.”
Brenda hesitated for a fraction of a second.
Her fake last name was Smith, adopted by her father after they fled the mob.
But giving this man any personal information felt like handing a loaded gun to a madman.
“Just Brenda.”
“Now are you ordering, or are you just going to interrogate me while my other tables wait?”
Dan held her gaze for three long, silent seconds.
He was a man who took exactly what he wanted from the world.
Right now, he realized with a strange, twisting sensation in his chest that he wanted to know absolutely everything about this woman.
He wanted to know how she carried her weight with such impenetrable armor.
He wanted to know how she learned his secret language.
He wanted to know how she managed to make him feel utterly off-balance with a single sentence.
“The ribeye,” Dan leaned back into the red leather.
“Rare.”
“And bring two bottles of your best Barolo.”
“Right away,” Brenda turned sharply on her heel.
“And Brenda,” Dan called out just as she took a step toward the kitchen.
She paused, looking back over her shoulder.
Dan’s dark eyes tracked the curve of her hips as she stood her ground.
“You are the only one who serves this table tonight.”
“Nobody else.”
“Do you understand?”
Brenda didn’t nod submissively.
She just gave him a sharp, knowing look and walked away toward the swinging kitchen doors.
As the doors closed behind her, Dan reached down and picked up his silver lighter.
He ignited it, staring intently into the small, flickering flame.
For the first time in ten years, the ruthless boss of the syndicate wasn’t thinking about territory, money, or blood.
He was thinking about a waitress who had just put him perfectly, beautifully in his place.
Service dragged on for another three grueling hours.
But the atmosphere inside Trattoria Romano had fundamentally shifted.
Every time Brenda stepped out of the kitchen, she felt the heavy, undeniable weight of Dan’s gaze tracking her movements.
He didn’t stare like a predator waiting to strike. indeed.
He watched her like a man trying to decipher a complex, ancient text.
He noted the way she carried the heavy trays without a single tremor.
He watched her effortlessly command the busboys in rapid Spanish.
He admired the proud, unyielding posture she maintained despite her obvious physical exhaustion.
When Dan’s party finally rose to leave just past midnight, Craig practically bowed them out the door.
Dan didn’t spare the nervous maître d’ a single glance.
He walked straight up to Brenda, who was wiping down a nearby empty table.
He reached into the inner breast pocket of his bespoke suit.
He pulled out a thick linen envelope and slid it onto the polished wood under her rag.
“For the truly exceptional service.”
Dan’s voice dropped to a low, intimate rumble.
“And the education.” indeed.
Before she could formulate a response, he was gone.
He swept out the glass doors onto Fifth Avenue with Greg and Tyler trailing behind him like dark shadows.
Brenda opened the heavy envelope.
Inside was a massive stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills, easily totaling five thousand dollars.
Tucked against the cash was a sleek black business card with a single gold-embossed phone number on it.
Nothing else.
By two in the morning, the restaurant was finally locked.
Brenda stepped out into the biting chill of a New York November.
Rain had begun to fall in icy, stinging sheets, slicking the pavement of West 46th Street.
She pulled her worn wool coat tightly around her generous curves.
She was exhausted to her very bones.
Her small apartment in Queens felt like a million miles away.
A sleek, midnight-black SUV suddenly idled to the curb beside her.
Its heavy tires hissed loudly against the wet asphalt.
The tinted rear window rolled down with a soft mechanical hum.
Dan sat in the dimly lit leather interior. indeed.
“Get in, Brenda,” he offered no room for argument.
It wasn’t a polite request.
It was a firm statement of fact.
“I take the train, Don Dan,” She gripped her oversized tote bag.
The cold rainwater was already flattening her hair against her cheeks.
“I don’t get into cars with the syndicate.”
“It’s pouring, and the trains are stalled due to a signal failure,” Dan countered.
He pushed the heavy door open from the inside.
“I am not asking you to join the family.”
“I am offering a woman who works on her feet all night a dry ride home.”
“Do not insult my hospitality twice in one evening.”
Brenda hesitated, her feet screaming in agony as the cold seeped through her cheap shoes.
With a heavy sigh that conveyed her immense reluctance, she climbed into the sprawling backseat.
She brought a gust of cold rain into the cabin with her.
The heavy door clicked shut, enveloping her in the rich scent of fine leather, expensive cologne, and danger.
“Queens,” she told the driver through the partition, deliberately not looking at Dan.
As the SUV smoothly merged into the desolate late-night traffic, the silence between them was thick and charged.
Dan poured two glasses of amber liquid from a crystal decanter built into the console.
He offered one to her, and she took it cautiously.
“Smith is a fake name,” Dan stared out the window.
He stared out the window at the blurred, passing city lights.
“I had Tyler make a few calls while we ate our ribeye.”
“Brenda Smith doesn’t exist before a decade ago.”
“But a girl named Brenda Marino, daughter of Paul Marino, vanished from Catania right around that time.”
Brenda’s blood turned to absolute ice in her veins.
The heavy crystal glass in her hand trembled visibly.
Paul Marino, her father, was the brilliant forensic accountant who had discovered millions missing from a rival family’s offshore accounts.
He realized the theft was an inside job by a treacherous underboss.
To save his life and hers, Paul had stolen the ledgers as insurance and fled to America.
He had died of a heart attack two years ago, taking the location of the ledgers to his grave.
“If you know who I am,” Brenda gripped the armrest, her voice tight with suppressed terror.
“Then why am I still breathing?”
“The rival family has a massive bounty on the Marino name.”
Dan turned his head slowly, his dark eyes locking onto hers in the shadowy cabin.
“Because they are animals, and I am a businessman.”
“More importantly, because I do not care about a dead man’s ledgers.”
“I care about the woman who stood up to me.”
He shifted closer, erasing the distance between them on the wide bench seat.
He reached out his large, warm hand, gently taking the trembling glass from her fingers and setting it aside.
His gaze dropped briefly to her waist, then back up to her eyes.
“You carry a heavy burden, Brenda,” Dan reached for her hand.
“You hide in plain sight, making yourself invisible in a city that only values thin, fragile illusions.”
“But you are not an illusion.”
“You are substantial.”
“You are brilliant.”
“You are real.”
To her profound shock, his hand came to rest lightly on her thick thigh.
It was a gesture not of aggression, but of profound reverence.
He wasn’t disgusted by her size in the slightest.
He was utterly captivated by her gravity.
“I don’t need your protection,” Brenda let her voice waver slightly at his touch.
“You don’t,” A fierce, genuine smile playing on his lips.
“But you are going to let me court you anyway.”
Three weeks passed, and the criminal underworld of New York City quietly began to shift on its axis.
Dan was relentlessly persistent.
He didn’t send her superficial, meaningless bouquets of roses.
He sent her things she actually valued and needed.
First, it was a rare first-edition copy of an antique Italian cookbook she had mentioned in passing.
Then it was a deed to a small, struggling bakery in Brooklyn that had belonged to a friend of her late father.
The heavy mortgage had been mysteriously paid off in full.
He visited Trattoria Romano every Tuesday and Friday without fail.
He sat exclusively in her section, speaking to her in rapid-fire dialect.
He slowly peeled back the dense layers of her defensive armor.
Brenda found herself falling for the ruthless syndicate boss.
Beneath the violence and the bespoke suits, Dan was an intellect who truly matched her own.
He respected her brilliant mind above all else.
In the dark, quiet corners of his penthouse overlooking Central Park, he worshipped her body with a devastating, consuming passion.
He made her forget every cruel insult she had ever endured about her weight.
But not everyone was enchanted by the new, shifting arrangement.
Greg, Dan’s fiercely traditional and prejudiced lieutenant, viewed Brenda as a massive liability.
He couldn’t fathom why the boss was obsessed with an overweight, working-class waitress.
To Greg, Brenda was nothing more than a spy, a rival plant waiting to destroy their empire from the inside.
On a Tuesday night, Trattoria Romano was closed for renovations funded entirely off the books by Dan.
Brenda was alone in the quiet kitchen, testing a complex new recipe for ricotta cannoli.
The heavy steel door at the back of the alley groaned open in the darkness.
Brenda didn’t turn around immediately, assuming it was the late-night delivery driver bringing supplies.
“Put the flour by the walk-in, please,” she called out over her shoulder.
The distinct, chilling click of a pistol hammer being pulled back echoed loudly through the tiled kitchen.
Brenda froze instantly.
She turned slowly to see Greg standing near the prep tables.
His silencer-equipped firearm was pointed directly at her chest.
His face was twisted in a horrific mask of pure, unadulterated hatred.
“The boss has lost his mind,” Greg spat, stepping further into the harsh fluorescent light.
“He’s weak.”
“He’s letting a fat, worthless rat from Catania dictate his every move.”
“The rival family reached out to me today, Brenda.”
“They know you’re alive, and they know exactly who your father was.”
“They offered us a permanent truce and new territory in Brooklyn if we just hand you over.”
Brenda’s heart hammered violently against her ribs.
But the deep survival instincts her father had beaten into her immediately flared to life.
She didn’t scream for help.
She slowly wiped her flour-covered hands on her dark apron.
“Dan said no.”
Brenda’s eyes remained locked on Greg’s weapon.
“Dan told them to go to hell.”
Greg stepped closer, his jaw tight.
“He’s going to start a massive war over you, a war we cannot afford to fight.”
“So, I am going to fix this right now.”
“I am going to put a bullet in your head.”
“I’ll dump your heavy body in the East River.”
“And I will tell the boss the rivals got to you first.”
“Greg,” Brenda dropped her voice into that icy, commanding Sicilian tone she had used on her very first night.
“You are making a colossal, fatal mistake.”
“You think my weight makes me slow?”
“You think my apron makes me utterly helpless?”
“I think you talk way too much,” Greg raised the gun higher.
Brenda didn’t wait for him to pull the trigger.
With terrifying, unexpected speed fueled by pure adrenaline, her hand shot out.
She grabbed a massive, searing-hot cast-iron skillet resting on the industrial stove beside her.
In one fluid, incredibly powerful motion, she hurled the heavy pan.
The pool of boiling duck fat inside it flew directly at Greg’s face.
Greg screamed a horrific, wet, gurgling sound as the boiling oil caught him across the eyes and neck.
The gun went off wildly in his panicked grip.
The stray bullet shattered the expensive espresso machine behind Brenda in a massive explosion of ceramic and hissing steam.
Blinded and in agonizing, searing pain, Greg dropped the weapon entirely.
He collapsed, clawing desperately at his blistered, ruined face.
Brenda didn’t hesitate for a single second.
She grabbed a solid, heavy wooden rolling pin from the flour-dusted counter.
She closed the distance rapidly and swung the tool with all her considerable weight.
She cracked it incredibly hard against the side of Greg’s knee.
He collapsed fully to the floor, whimpering pathetically.
He was utterly neutralized by the woman he had just called a worthless rat.
The back door of the kitchen suddenly slammed open again.
Dan burst into the room, his own weapon drawn, his broad chest heaving.
Tyler was right behind him, scanning the room for threats.
Dan had tracked Greg’s phone, strongly suspecting a betrayal within the ranks.
He had fully expected to find a devastating tragedy.
Instead, Dan froze completely in his tracks.
The chaotic scene before him was straight out of a Renaissance painting of vengeance.
Greg was writhing helplessly on the wet floor, groaning in sheer agony.
Standing over him, breathing heavily, flour dusting her determined face, was Brenda.
The massive wooden rolling pin was clutched tightly in her hand like a royal scepter.
She was completely unharmed, her dark eyes blazing with a ferocity that took Dan’s breath away.
Tyler slowly lowered his gun, his mouth hanging open in sheer, unadulterated disbelief.
He looked at the heavy waitress, then down at the seasoned mafia hitman crying on the tiles.
Dan slowly and deliberately holstered his weapon.
A slow, dark, incredibly proud smile spread across his handsome face.
He walked calmly past the moaning Greg, not even giving his treacherous former lieutenant a second glance.
He stepped up to Brenda.
He gently took the wooden rolling pin from her tight grip.
He tossed it onto a metal prep table with a loud, ringing clatter.
“I told you,” Brenda breathed heavily, her hands shaking slightly now that the adrenaline was finally fading.
“I don’t need your protection.”
“I know, my queen.”
Dan gently cupped her round face in his large hands.
“I know.”
“You are the most terrifying, magnificent creature I have ever known.”
He kissed her deeply and fiercely amidst the harsh smell of gunpowder, shattered espresso, and hot oil.
It was a powerful seal of absolute, unbreakable devotion.
Dan finally broke the kiss and looked down coldly at Greg.
His voice turned to absolute, unforgiving steel.
“Tyler, clean this garbage up immediately.”
“If he survives the burns, take him to the warehouse.”
“He will beg for death by the time I am done with him.”
“Yes, boss.”
Tyler rushed forward to secure the traitor.
He looked up at Brenda with a newly minted, profound respect.
“Are you okay, Miss Brenda?”
“I’m fine, Tyler.”
She straightened her stained apron.
“Just a little mess in my kitchen.”
Dan wrapped his strong arm tightly around her thick waist.
He pulled her flush against his side, completely uncaring about the white flour ruining his bespoke suit.
He had finally found his true equal in this dark world.
The syndicate was about to face a brutal war with the rival families.
But as Dan looked at the fierce, brilliant, unapologetic woman in his arms, he knew they wouldn’t just survive it.
They would conquer the entire city together.
New York was about to learn a very hard, unforgettable lesson.
You never, ever underestimate a Sicilian woman.
Especially one who knows exactly how much space she deserves to take up.
THE END
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Disclaimer
This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. If you would like to share your story, please send it to [email protected].
