Her Ex Said No Rich Man Would Want Her—Then the Mafia Boss Asked Her to Move Into His Mansion – Ty

Her Ex Said No Rich Man Would Want Her—Then the Mafia Boss Asked Her to Move Into His Mansion

Have you ever been told you weren’t enough? That your body, your style, your entire existence was a joke to the person who was supposed to love you? Khloe’s ex-boyfriend laughed in her face, telling her that no rich, successful man would ever look twice at a woman her size. He left her crying in the middle of a crowded restaurant.

But he didn’t realize the most feared billionaire in the city was sitting at the very next table. And he was listening. Cypriani. Wall Street was a cathedral of wealth. The towering marble columns, the massive chandelier dripping with thousands of crystals and the low synchronized hum of Manhattan’s elite closing multi-million dollar deals over truffle Rotto.

It was not the kind of place Khloe Bennett felt she belonged, but tonight was supposed to be a celebration. Khloe adjusted the belt of her emerald green wrap dress, acutely aware of the way the silk clung to her thick thighs and the wide curve of her hips. At a size 18, Khloe was a woman who took up space in a world that constantly demanded women shrink themselves.

Usually, she loved her body. She loved her soft curves and her heavy breasts. But sitting across from Derek Mitchell, the man she had loved for four years, she felt like a grotesque impostor. Derek, wearing a newly tailored Tom Ford suit, was checking his Rolex. He was a junior vice president at Goldman Sachs, a position he had achieved largely because Khloe had paid his rent and edited his pitches during his grueling early years as an analyst.

“Derek, the champagne is getting warm,” Khloe said softly, trying to catch his eye. He finally looked up, his gaze sweeping over her. There was no warmth in his eyes, only a cold clinical calculation. Chloe, we need to talk. Her stomach plummeted. Okay, talk. Derek sighed, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers.

I got the promotion. I’m making managing director. Derek, that’s incredible. Khloe’s face broke into a massive smile, her previous anxiety momentarily forgotten. She reached across the white linen tablecloth to grab his hand, but he pulled away. It is incredible. But it changes things, Derek said, his voice dropping into a harsh, hushed tone.

My new role requires me to entertain. High-net worth clients, international investors. The partners host Garas in the Hamptons, retreats in Monaco. It’s a different echelon of society, Chloe. I know, she said, her voice faltering. I can buy new dresses. I can It’s not just the dresses.

Derek cut her off, his eyes darting nervously to the surrounding tables to ensure no one was listening. Look at yourself, Chloe. The words hit her like a physical blow. What? I need a partner who fits the part. A trophy, for lack of a better word, Derek said, leaning in, his face twisted in a mask of cruel pity.

My colleagues wives are former models, ballerinas, socialites. They wear sample sizes. You are well, well, let’s be honest. You’re fat, Chloe. You’re loud. You’re soft. And you don’t fit into this world. No wealthy, successful man wants a woman with your body on his arm. It projects a lack of discipline.

Khloe felt the blood drain from her face. The sprawling restaurant suddenly felt suffocatingly small. She had spent 4 years loving this man, supporting him when he was eating instant ramen in a roachinfested Brooklyn apartment, and now he was discarding her because she didn’t match his new tax bracket. You’re breaking up with me?” she whispered, a tear escaping and trailing down her cheek.

“Because of my weight? I’m breaking up with you because I’ve outgrown you,” Derek said coldly. He stood up, tossing a $100 bill on the table. Barely enough to cover the appetizers. “Don’t make a scene. I’ve already moved my things out of the apartment. Goodbye, Chloe.” He turned and walked out, leaving her sitting alone at a table for two.

Tears streaming down her face, surrounded by the wealthy elite of New York City, she felt entirely, utterly worthless. She bared her face in her hands, trying desperately to stifle her sobs. “Excuse me, miss.” Khloe flinched, wiping her eyes frantically as she looked up. A waiter in a crisp white jacket was standing beside her holding a silver tray.

On it was a crystal glass filled with amber liquid and a folded heavy stock napkin. “I didn’t order this,” Chloe choked out, her voice trembling. “It was sent by the gentleman at the corner booth with his compliments,” the waiter said, setting the glass of Louis the Thwanth cognac down gently. He also instructed me to inform you that your bill for the evening has been fully settled.

Khloe blinked through her tears, looking over at the corner booth, sitting in the shadows of the marble pillar, was a man who looked like he had stepped out of a modern Gothic film. He was broadshouldered, wearing a bespoke charcoal three-piece suit that screamed old money and dangerous power. His jaw was covered in dark scruff, and his hair was sllicked back.

But it was his eyes that caught her. They were piercing, obsidian black, and fixed intently on her. He didn’t offer a polite, pitying smile. He just stared, raising his own glass of whiskey in a silent, commanding toast. Khloe unfolded the heavy napkin left on the tray. Written in bold, elegant black ink was a single sentence.

Tears are wasted on cheap men. Drink up, Bella. She looked back at the booth, but the man was already standing. He tossed a few words to the terrifyingly large bodyguard standing behind him, buttoned his jacket, and walked out the side door, leaving a trail of expensive cologne and an overwhelming sense of gravity in his wake.

Chloe picked up the cognac. Her hands were shaking. She didn’t know who the man was, but for the first time in an hour, she didn’t feel invisible. 3 days later, the sting of Derek’s betrayal was still a hollow ache in Khloe’s chest. She had thrown away every picture of them, boxed up the few ugly ties he had left behind, and thrown herself into her work.

Kloe was a senior architectural historian and estate appraiser at Caldwell and Sterling, one of Manhattan’s most elite property valuation firms. She spent her days walking through gilded age mansions and ultramodern pen houses, determining the value of everything from loadbearing marble columns to Renaissance frescos. It was a job that required extreme intellect, a sharp eye, and absolute discretion.

On Thursday morning, her boss, Richard, burst into her cramped office, his face pale and sweating. Chloe, I need you to drop the Tribeca Loft appraisal. We just got a priority call, Richard said, waving a thick Manila folder. A new client. He bought out the old Vanderbilt estate in Alpine, New Jersey. He needs a full cataloging of the property and its contents by the end of the month.

Alpine, Millionaire’s Row. Chloe raised an eyebrow. That’s a 30,000 square ft compound. It’ll take me weeks. Then you’d better start packing your overnight bag, Richard said, dropping the file on her desk. He’s paying triple our usual rate to expedite it. And Chloe, be careful. The client is extremely private.

2 hours later, Khloe was driving her beat up Honda Civic up the winding, heavily wooded roads of Alpine, New Jersey. The wealth in this zip code was unfathomable. She pulled up to a set of massive row iron gates adorned with gargoyless. Two men in tactical black gear, complete with earpieces and visibly bulging shoulder holsters approached her car.

This wasn’t just old money. This was dangerous money. After checking her ID and scanning the undercarriage of her Honda with mirrors, the gate slowly groaned open, Khloe drove up a halfmile driveway lined with ancient oak trees until the estate came into view. It was a sprawling Gothicstyle stone fortress, intimidating and cold, yet breathtakingly beautiful.

She parked and carried her heavy leather briefcase to the front door. Before she could knock, the heavy oak doors swung open. Standing in the foyer was not a butler, but a towering man in his late 30s. He wore a simple fitted black cashmere sweater and dark trousers. But there was nothing simple about his presence.

The raw primal aura radiating from him made the massive foyer feel claustrophobic. Khloe froze, the obsidian eyes, the sharp jaw. It was the man from Kipriani. You, she breathed, the word slipping out before she could stop it. The man’s lips curled into a slow, devastating smirk. Miss Bennett, I was wondering if Caldwell and Sterling would actually send their best, or just their most senior. I’m pleased they sent you.

“You You know who I am?” Khloe asked, clutching her briefcase tighter to her chest, acutely aware of her sensible flat shoes and her camel colored trench coat stretched over her wide hips. I make it a point to know everything about anyone who enters my property, he said, taking a slow step toward her. I am Dominic Russo.

The name sent a violent shiver down Khloe’s spine. Dominic Russo. He wasn’t just a billionaire real estate mogul. I was the whispered king of New York’s underworld, the head of the Russo syndicate, a family that controlled everything from the shipping ports in Brooklyn to the luxury highrises in Manhattan. He was a mafia boss, and she was standing alone with him in an empty fortress. Mr.

Russo, Khloe swallowed hard, trying to summon her professional voice. I’m here to appraise the estate. If you’ll show me to the primary living quarters, I can begin my cataloging. Dominic didn’t move. His dark eyes slowly dragged down her body, taking in the full, generous curves that Derek had called a liability. But Dominic didn’t look at her with disgust.

He looked at her with a heavy simmering hunger that made Khloe’s breath catch in her throat. “You didn’t drink the cognac,” Dominic noted smoothly. “I don’t drink with strangers,” Khloe fired back, her defensiveness kicking in. “Especially not men who spy on women, having their hearts broken in public restaurants.” Dominic chuckled, a deep, resonant sound that bounced off the marble walls.

I wasn’t spying, Bella. The man was speaking loudly enough for the entire dining room to hear his idiocy. And for the record, he is a fool. Chloe felt a flush creep up her neck. My personal life isn’t your concern, Mr. Russo. I’m here to do a job. Very well, Dominic said, gesturing for her to follow him deeper into the mansion.

Let’s do the job. For the next four hours, Khloe followed Dominic through the sprawling estate. The house was filled with priceless art and antique furnishings. Despite her nerves, Khloe fell into her element. She moved through the rooms with authority, identifying a 17th century French tapestry here, a genuine first edition Gutenberg Bible.

There, Dominic watched her the entire time. He wasn’t looking at the art. He was watching the way she moved, the way her thick thighs brushed against her skirt, the sharp, intelligent spark in her eyes when she spoke about architectural history. They ended up in the grand library, a massive twostory room with a roaring fireplace.

Chloe was perched on a velvet ladder, inspecting a ceiling fresco when her foot slipped. She gasped, tumbling backward, but she didn’t hit the floor. Two massive iron hard arms caught her around the waist, pulling her flush against a solid chest. Khloe’s heart hammered against her ribs as she looked up into Dominic’s dark eyes.

His grip on her waist was possessive, his large hands sinking into the softness of her hips. “Careful, Chloe,” his voice was a low, rough whisper that sent electricity shooting straight to her core. “You can put me down,” she squeaked out, her face burning. Dominic didn’t let go immediately. He held her there, perfectly balancing her weight as if she weighed nothing at all.

You have a brilliant mind, Miss Bennett, and a body that was meant to be woripped, not hidden in oversized trench coats. He finally set her gently on her feet. Khloe stepped back, her chest heaving. “Mr. Russo, please. I am a professional. I know you are,” Dominic said, his expression sobering. “Which is why I brought you here.

I didn’t hire your firm to appraise this house, Chloe. I hired them to get you in front of me. Chloe stared at him, stunned. What are you talking about? Oh, this house is a front. I’m selling it next month. Dominic walked over to a crystal decanter and poured two glasses of scotch. He handed one to her. My primary residence is a penthouse at 432 Park Avenue.

And I require a private curator, someone who understands the value of discretion, someone brilliant, and someone who won’t be intimidated by my associates. You want to hire me? Khloe asked, dumbfounded. I want to monopolize your time, Dominic corrected, his gaze intense. I will pay you 10 times what Caldwell and Sterling is paying you. I will clear your student debt by Friday.

But there is a condition. Khloe’s eyes narrowed. There’s always a condition. What is it? My world is dangerous. The moment you start working directly for me, you become a target for my rivals. Dominic said, stepping closer until she had to tilt her head up to look at him. [clears throat] If you take this job, you don’t go back to your apartment in Queens.

You move into my penthouse. You live under my roof where my men can protect you. Khloe’s jaw dropped. You want me to move in with a mafia boss? Are you out of your mind? I’m not doing that. I refuse. Dominic’s smirk returned slow and lethal. We’ll see, Bella. We’ll see. Kloe fled the Alpine estate as fast as her Honda Civic could carry her.

For the next two days, she tried to convince herself that Dominic Russo was just an arrogant, unhinged criminal, and that she had dodged a massive bullet. She ignored the three missed calls from a blocked number, and she buried herself in paperwork. But her firm, it seemed, wasn’t done with the elite world.

On Saturday night, Caldwell and Sterling was sponsoring a high-profile charity auction at the Plaza Hotel. As a senior appraiser, Khloe was required to attend and authenticate the auction items. She spent hours getting ready, determined to reclaim some of the confidence Derek had stolen from her. She bought a new dress, a stunning off-the-shoulder ruby red gown that hugged her heavy breasts and flared elegantly over her wide hips.

She wore her dark hair in loose waves and applied a bold red lip. When she walked into the grand ballroom of the plaza, she felt beautiful until she saw him. Derek was standing by the champagne fountain, looking entirely too smug in a tuxedo, and clinging to his arm was a woman who looked like a stiff breeze would snap her in half.

She was a size zero blonde in a silver slip dress, looking bored and wealthy. Kloe tried to turn around and hide, but Derek’s eyes locked onto her. A malicious grin spread across his face, and he actually steered his new prize directly toward Chloe. “Well, well, Chloe,” Derek sneered, looking her up and down.

“I’m surprised security let you in. Are you working the catering staff tonight?” The blonde giggled, a high grating sound. Derek, be nice. She’s probably here for the open bar. Khloe’s hands clenched into fists, her nails biting into her palms. I’m here working for Co and Sterling. Derek, excuse me. She tried to push past them, but Derek stepped into her path.

He had always been a bully, but now emboldened by his new status, he was cruel. You know, Tiffany here was just saying how brave it is for women of your proportions to wear such bright colors. Doesn’t it just draw attention to all the wrong places? A few nearby guests turned their heads, listening in. Chloe felt the familiar suffocating wave of humiliation rising in her throat.

She was back at Chipriani. She was the fat unwanted ex-girlfriend standing in a room of people who looked down on her. “Derek, back off,” Khloe said, her voice shaking despite her best efforts. “I’m just giving you some advice, Klo. You really need to accept reality. No man in this room is room is ever going to take you seriously, Derek said loudly, enjoying the audience he was gathering.

You’re a joke in this society. Is there a problem here? The voice cut through the hum of the ballroom like a sythe. It was deep, rough, and carried an undeniable authority that made the temperature in the room plummet. The crowd parted. Dominic Russo walked forward. He was wearing a stark black tuxedo, no tie, his collar open, revealing a gold chain against his olive skin.

He looked like a wolf stalking into a room full of sheep. Two massive men in suits followed a few paces behind him, scanning the room with lethal intent. The ballroom went dead silent. The mayor, who had been laughing near the ice sculpture, suddenly palded and looked away. Everyone knew who Dominic Russo was, and everyone knew you did not cross him.

Dominic didn’t look at the mayor. He didn’t look at the socialites. He walked straight up to He didn’t ask for permission. He simply reached out, sliding a heavy, warm arm tightly around her waist, pulling her soft curves flush against his hard side. “Apologies, I’m late, Mia Regina,” Dominic murmured, pressing a brief, shocking kiss to the side of her head.

He then turned his obsidian gaze onto Derek. The mafia boss looked at the Wall Street banker like he was a cockroach on the sole of his expensive Italian shoe. Derek was physically trembling. Mr. Mr. Russo, I didn’t realize. I mean, Chloe and I, you are Derek Mitchell, junior managing director at Goldman, Dominic said, his voice quiet, conversational, and utterly terrifying.

I read your portfolio. It’s mediocre. You lack vision. Derek swallowed hard, sweating profusely. Sir, I I was planning to move the Russo family’s pension funds and real estate holdings to your firm next week. An account worth roughly 2.4 billion. Dominic continued smoothly. But I don’t do business with men who disrespect what belongs to me. The blonde woman.

Tiffany gasped, stepping away from Derek as if he were suddenly radioactive. Sir, please. It was a misunderstanding. Derek panicked, realizing his entire career was evaporating in front of his eyes. Khloe is my ex. She’s She is the most exquisite woman in this room, Dominic interrupted, his voice dropping into a deadly baritone.

And if you ever speak her name again, if you ever breathe in her general direction, my men will ensure you never speak again. Do you understand me, little boy?” Derek nodded frantically, thoroughly castrated in front of the entire elite society he had so desperately tried to impress.

He turned and practically ran from the ballroom, leaving Tiffany standing alone. Dominic turned back to Khloe, his arm still locked around her waist. Are you ready to leave? Khloe was in absolute shock. She couldn’t speak. She could only nod. Dominic escorted her out of the plaza, the crowds parting for them like the Red Sea.

Outside, a matte black armored. Maybach was waiting at the curb. The driver opened the door and Dominic helped her inside before sliding into the back seat next to her. The tinted windows rolled up, sealing them in the quiet luxury of the car. Chloe finally found her voice as the car pulled away into the Manhattan traffic. “You ruined his life,” she whispered, looking at Dominic.

He insulted my curator,” Dominic replied effortlessly, pouring a glass of sparkling water from the car’s miniar and handing it to her. “I never said I took the job.” Dominic leaned back against the leather seats, turning his head to look at her. In the dim street lights passing by, his dark eyes were intense. You don’t belong with those cowards, Chloe.

You belong in a world where your brilliance is valued and where your beauty is revered. Come work for me. Move into the penthouse. Khloe looked down at her hands. Her apartment in Queens was empty. Her life felt entirely devoid of excitement save for the pain Derek had caused her. And here was a man, a dangerous, terrifying, intoxicating man, offering her the keys to a kingdom and demanding nothing but her presence.

She looked back up at Dominic. I want full creative control over the curation, and I want the master guest suite. Dominic’s lips curved into a triumphant, dangerous smile. Done. As Khloe took the contract from the folder in the car door and signed her name on the dotted line, a cell phone vibrated in Dominic’s breast pocket.

He pulled it out, glancing at the screen. It was a text from Leo, his underboss. The Mitchell problem is handled. He was fired from Goldman 10 minutes ago. Blacklisted from every firm on Wall Street, Dominic pocketed the phone, turning his attention back to the beautiful, full-figured woman sitting next to him. She had no idea the depths he would go to protect her, but she was about to find out moving into the top floor of 432 Park Avenue was like stepping onto Mount Olympus.

The penthouse hovered 1,300 ft above the gritty reality of Manhattan, a sprawling fortress of floor toseeiling glass, polished kakata marble, and aggressive luxury. When Khloe stepped out of the private elevator, her sensible rolling suitcase looked absurdly out of place against the backdrop of an authentic Jean Michelle Basia painting hanging in the foyer.

Leo, Dominic’s heavily tattooed and violently polite under boss, carried her bags. The boss had the east wing prepared for you, Miss Bennett. If the temperature isn’t to your liking, the smart home system is voice activated. The kitchen is fully stocked, and the chef arrives at 6 every morning. “Thank you, Leo,” Khloe said, still trying to process the sheer scale of the apartment.

Her suite was larger than her entire apartment building in Queens. It featured a king-sized bed swathed in Fretter linens, a massive soaking tub overlooking Central Park, and a walk-in closet that was currently completely empty. She spent her first week burying herself in work. True to his word, Dominic had given her full access to his private collection.

And what a collection it was. Khloe found herself cataloging pieces that the art world had assumed were lost for decades. A sketch by Da Vinci, a controversial Francis Bacon tptic, and a breathtaking undocumented Amado Modiglani portrait of a woman. She realized very quickly that Dominic Russo didn’t just buy art. He hoarded beauty.

He collected things that were rare, misunderstood, and wildly expensive. She also realized how deeply intertwined his legitimate businesses were with the criminal underworld. Men in dark suits came and went at all hours. Hushtoned meetings took place in the soundproofed billiard’s room. Chloe minded her business, keeping her head down in the library, authenticating provenence documents from Sabes and Christies.

But no matter how busy Dominic was, he always found her. It was late Thursday evening. Khloe was sitting on the plush velvet sofa in the library, wearing a pair of comfortable gray sweatpants and an oversized Yale hoodie. Her thick dark hair was piled into a messy bun, her glasses slipping down her nose as she squinted at a magnifying glass over a 19th century wax seal.

You are working too late. Chloe jumped. Dominic was leaning against the mahogany door frame. He looked exhausted, his tie loosened, the top buttons of his crisp white bryion shirt undone. He held two heavy crystal tumblers of Macallen 25. “I wanted to finish authenticating the Roman jewelry before the weekend,” Chloe said, pulling her hoodie down self-consciously over her wide hips.

After 4 years of Derek making her feel monstrous in casual clothes, the habit of hiding her body was hard to break. Dominic crossed the room. his movements entirely too graceful for a man of his imposing size. He set the drinks down on the coffee table, then reached out, his large hands gently but firmly gripping her wrists.

He pulled her hands away from the hem of her hoodie. “Stop hiding from me,” Dominic commanded softly. His obsidian eyes held no judgment, only a dark consuming heat. I’m in sweatpants, Dominic. I look like a mess, she whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs. You look exactly how I want you to look in my home, he replied, taking a seat beside her.

The leather sofa groaned under his weight. The sheer proximity of him, the smell of expensive tobacco, gunpowder, and bergamont made Khloe’s head spin. He handed her a glass of whiskey. I have a gift for you. Tomorrow morning, a team from Burgdorf Goodman is arriving. Chloe blinked, nearly choking on the smooth scotch.

A team, personal shoppers, tailor, stylists, Dominic said matterofactly, taking a slow sip of his drink. Your closet is empty, Chloe. That is unacceptable. Dominic, no. I can’t accept that. I have clothes back in Queens. I just haven’t. The clothes in Queens were chosen by a woman who was trying to make herself invisible to please a pathetic, weak-minded boy.

Dominic cut her off, his voice hardening with a protective edge. You are not invisible here. You are the curator of the Russo estate. You will dress like the royalty you are. I have instructed them to pull from Marina Rinaldi custom Christian Syriano and Dolce and Gabbana pieces that will worship your curves, not compress them.

Tears pricricked the corners of Khloe’s eyes. Why are you doing this? Why are you treating me like this? Dominic reached out, his calloused thumb gently wiping away a stray tear from her cheek. His touch was shockingly tender. Because for 28 years the world has tried to convince you that your softness is a flaw.

I intend to spend the rest of my life proving them wrong. The air between them crackled. Chloe looked up at his handsome, dangerous face. Feeling a magnetic pull she had never experienced in her life. She leaned in just a fraction of an inch and Dominic’s gaze dropped to her lips. Before the moment could ignite, the heavy oak doors of the library slammed open.

Leo stood there out of breath. A suppressed Glock 19, visibly clutched in his right hand. Boss, we have a problem. Lorenzo Moretti just hijacked the shipment at the Red Hook docks. Two of our men are in the ICU. The tender, worshipful man sitting next to Khloe vanished in an instant, replaced by the apex predator of New York’s underworld.

Dominic stood up, his jaw ticking, his eyes dead and cold. “Lock down the penthouse. No one gets in or out,” Dominic ordered Leo. He turned back to Khloe, his expression unreadable. “Lock your door, Bella. I will deal with the rats. As Dominic stormed out of the apartment, leaving a terrifying silence in his wake, Chloe realized with a shivering gasp that she wasn’t just living with a wealthy benefactor.

She was sleeping in the den of a very dangerous wolf, and the rival pack had just declared war. Two weeks passed. The tension in the penthouse was thick enough to cut with a knife. Dominic was rarely home, spending his nights coordinating a brutal, systematic dismantling of the Moretti syndicate’s operations. Lorenzo Moretti, the vicious head of the rival family, had been trying to usurp Dominic’s territory, and the streets of Brooklyn were paying the price.

Yet, despite the mafia war raging outside, inside the penthouse, Khloe was being treated like a queen. The team from Burgdorf Goodman had completely overhauled her wardrobe. Gone were the frumpy, oversized cardigans, and sensible slacks. Her closet was now lined with custom silk blouses, high-waisted tailored trousers that accentuated her thick thighs and narrow waist, and evening gowns that made her feel like a devastating fem fatal.

On Saturday, Dominic finally emerged from his command center in the billiard’s room. He looked dangerous, dressed in a midnight blue velvet tuxedo. “Get dressed, Bella,” he said, adjusting his cuffs. “We are attending the winter gala at the Museum of Modern Art tonight. There is a private auction. I need your eyes on a specific piece.

” An hour later, Khloe walked out of her suite. She wore a custom emerald green silk gown by Christianso. It featured a plunging sweetheart neckline that proudly displayed her heavy cleavage, a corseted bodice that snatched her waist, and a dramatic thigh high slit. She paired it with diamond drop earrings, a borrowed set from the Romano vault she had been appraising.

When Dominic saw her, he literally stopped breathing. He crossed the foyer in three long strides, his eyes dark with undisguised lust. He didn’t say a word. He simply gripped her hips, pulled her flush against his chest, and buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply. “You, you will be the ruin of my self-control, Chloe.

” He groaned against her skin, his hands mapping the swoons. lush curve of her backside. “Then let it be ruined,” she whispered back, surprising herself with her own boldness. The gala at the MoMA was a dazzling display of Manhattan’s elite. Champagne flowed like water, and the atrium was filled with politicians, celebrities, and billionaires.

Kloe walked in with her hand resting confidently on Dominic’s arm. She felt the stairs. But unlike before, when she felt judged for her size, tonight she saw envy in the eyes of the women and absolute awe in the eyes of the men. They were inspecting a collection of abstract expressionist paintings when a pathetic siring voice broke the elegant atmosphere.

Chloe. Chloe froze. She turned around to see Derek Mitchell. He looked horrendous. He had clearly lost weight. His off the rack suit hung loosely on his frame, and he smelled strongly of cheap gin. The public blacklisting Dominic had orchestrated had completely destroyed him. “Derek,” Kloe said coldly.

“What are you doing here? I had to sneak in, Derek stammered, stepping forward, his eyes darting nervously toward Dominic, who was standing perfectly still, radiating lethal intent. Chloe, please, you have to talk to him. I can’t get a job. My bank accounts are frozen. Tiffany left me. Please tell him to call off his guys.

You made your bed, Derek, Khloe said, her voice steady. She felt no pity, only a profound sense of closure. Now lie in it. Derek’s desperation suddenly turned to ugly, drunken rage. You fat, vindictive You think you’re so special because this mobster is screwing you. He lunged forward, raising his hand toward her.

He never made it. Before Khloe could flinch, Dominic’s hand shot out. He gripped Derek by the throat, lifting the banker completely off the marble floor. Derek choked, his legs kicking frantically in the air. I told you, Dominic whispered, his voice echoing like a death nail in the suddenly quiet museum hall.

If you ever breathed in her direction, I would end you. Dominic, stop, Khloe said softly, placing a hand on his massive bicep. He isn’t worth the mess. Dominic stared into Derek’s terrified, bulging eyes for a second longer, then threw him onto the floor like a piece of garbage. Leo, Dominic commanded.

Leo and another suit materialized from the crowd. They hauled the sobbing, broken Derek to his feet and dragged him out the service elevator. Chloe knew she would never see him again. Are you all right? Dominic asked, his hands gently framing her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. “I’m fine,” she breathed.

But the night was far from over as Dominic escorted her toward the underground VIP parking garage. An eerie silence settled over the concrete bunker. Their armored Maybach was idling near the exit, but the driver was missing. Dominic’s instincts flared. He she shoved Khloe behind him, drawing a sleek matte black sig sour from his shoulder holster in one fluid motion. “Get down!” he roared.

The screech of tires echoed through the garage as a black SUV tore around the corner. The windows rolled down and the deafening roar of automatic gunfire erupted. Concrete shattered. Car alarms blared. Dominic tackled Khloe to the ground behind a concrete pillar, shielding her body entirely with his own.

“Lorenzo’s men,” Dominic snarled, returning fire with lethal precision. “Two men in the SUV dropped, but more were spilling out of the vehicle, heavily armed.” “We need to move!” Leo shouted, providing covering fire from behind a nearby Mercedes. Run to the stairs, Chloe. Do not look back, Dominic commanded, grabbing her hand and pulling her up.

Kloe kicked off her diamond encrusted heels, grabbing the skirt of her emerald gown, and ran. The sound of bullets ricocheting off the walls was terrifying. She could hear Dominic right behind her, his gun barking loudly. They burst through the heavy fire doors into the stairwell, sprinting up to the street level. They spilled out into the cold New York night, right into an unmarked bulletproof Audi that Leo had called in as a backup.

Drive! Dominic barked at the driver as he shoved Khloe into the back seat and dove in after her. The Audi peeled away into the traffic, leaving the sirens and the chaos behind. Chloe was hyperventilating, her heart threatening to beat out of her chest. She looked over at Dominic. I was calm, reloading his weapon. But then she saw the dark stain spreading across the white fabric of his shirt just below his left shoulder.

“Dominic, you’re bleeding,” she cried out, her hands hovering over the wound in panic. It’s a graze, he grunted, though his face was pale. Leah, take us to the Brooklyn Heights safe house. We can’t go back to the penthouse. Lorenzo has breached the inner circle. 20 minutes later, they were locked inside a heavily fortified, unassuming brownstone.

The windows were still shuttered, and the doors were deadbolted. In the dim light of the safe house bathroom, Khloe forced Dominic to take off his tuxedo jacket and shirt. Her hands shook as she cleaned the bloody groove the bullet had carved into his thick muscular shoulder. She pressed a heavy gauze pad to the wound, her chest heaving with residual adrenaline.

“You took a bullet,” she whispered, tears finally spilling over her eyelashes. You covered me and you got shot. Dominic looked down at her. He reached out with his good arm, wrapping his hand around the back of her neck, pulling her close. His dark eyes were fierce, stripping away all the wealth, the power, and the mafia titles, leaving only the raw, undeniable obsession of a man in love.

I would take a thousand bullets before I let a single scratch touch your skin,” Dominic vowed, his voice thick with emotion. “You are mine, Chloe. Every beautiful soft inch of you. I belong to you. I didn’t wait for her response.” He crashed his lips down onto hers. The kiss was desperate, bruising, and tasted like adrenaline and copper.

Chloe kissed him back with equal ferocity, her hands tangling in his dark hair, pressing her lush body flush against his hard, heavily scarred chest. All the fear of the night melted away, replaced by an allconsuming fire. In the safety of the fortress, amidst the chaos of a mafia war, Khloe finally surrendered to the boss of the underworld.

The morning sun filtered through the steel slatted blinds of the Brooklyn Heights safe house, casting sharp lines of light across the bloodstained tuxedo shirt discarded on the hardwood floor. Chloe woke up tangled in the heavy cotton sheets, her lush, soft body pressed flush against Dominic’s warm, solid side. The memory of the previous night, the terror of the gunfire, the frantic escape, and the consuming, desperate passion that followed, rushed back to her in a dizzying wave.

She traced a light finger over the heavy bandage on Dominic’s left shoulder. He was still asleep. The harsh, dangerous lines of his face momentarily softened. In the quiet light of dawn, Khloe finally had a moment to think critically. Her mind, trained to identify anomalies in thousandpage historical documents, began to turn over the events of the Momma Gala.

How did Lorenzo Morete know exactly when they were leaving? The VIP exit was an unlisted subterranean garage meant for diplomats. Lorenzo’s men had been waiting, engines idling precisely at the right column. A chilling realization washed over her. She slipped out of bed, her bare feet padding silently across the floor as she grabbed her oversized trench coat from the chair, wrapping it around her full figure.

She found her discarded clutch on the kitchen counter and pulled out her cell phone. It was completely dead. Looking for this, Chloe spun around. Dominic was leaning against the bedroom door frame. He was wearing nothing but a pair of lowslung black sweatpants, revealing the terrifying landscape of scars and tattoos across his chest. He held a sleek black signal jammer in his right hand.

“You jammed my phone,” Chloe said, her brow furrowing. “Lo activated the jammer the second we got in the Audi,” Dominic said, walking toward her. His dark eyes sharp and fully alert. “Lorenzo’s hit squad was too coordinated. “We have a mole. Until I find out who it is, no electronic signals go in or out of this house. It’s not a mole, Dominic, Khloe said, the pieces snapping into place with terrifying clarity. It’s me.

I led them to you. Dominic’s jaw tightened. Explain. My phone. It’s a corporate device issued by Caldwell, Chloe said, her pulse quickening as she connected the dots. When I was promoted, my former boss, Richard, forced me to install an MDM, a mobile device management profile. It tracks location, keystrokes, everything.

He claimed it was for corporate security to protect our high netw worth clients. Dominic stepped closer, his imposing presence filling the small kitchen. Your firm is an architectural appraisal company, not the CIA. Exactly, Chloe said, her voice dropping to a whisper. But Richard is drowning in gambling debts.

I saw the notices on his desk last month. Lorenzo Moreti must have found out. Lorenzo didn’t use street thugs to track us. Richard had sold my device access to Black Cube. Dominic’s eyes flared with recognition. The private intelligence agency. Yes. Khloe nodded eagerly, her brilliant mind working at lightning speed. They use ex Mossad operatives.

They specialize in corporate espionage and tracking. Richard gave them the back door to my phone and Black Cube fed our realtime GPS coordinates directly to Lorenzo. Dominic stared at her for a long, silent moment. The realization that this beautiful, curvy woman had just effortlessly unraveled a hit that had baffled his top left tenants was intoxicating.

He reached out, his large hand cupping her jaw, his thumb stroking her soft cheek. “You are a terrifyingly smart woman, Chloe,” Dominic murmured, his voice thick with pride. Lorenzo thought he was using you as a weapon against me. He didn’t realize he just handed me the key to his destruction.

“What are you going to do?” she asked, leaning into his touch. A slow, lethal smile spread across Dominic’s face. “We are going to give Lorenzo exactly what he wants, a sitting duck.” For the next 3 hours, the safe house transformed into a war room. Leo and four of Dominic’s most trusted capos arrived, laying out tactical maps of the city on the kitchen island.

Kloe sat beside Dominic, fully integrated into the syndicate’s inner circle. She watched as Dominic orchestrated a masterclass in deception. They would turn off the jammer. They would let Black Cube ping Khloe’s phone, but the phone wouldn’t be at the safe house. Leo’s men would plant it in the glove box of the decoy Maybach and park it at the abandoned Red Hook grain terminal.

A massive isolated industrial graveyard. Lorenzo, desperate to finish the job and claim the city, would bring his entire crew to wipe out Dominic. But instead of an ambush, Lorenzo would be walking into a heavily fortified kill zone. When this is over, Dominic said, pulling on a black tactical vest over his dark sweater, loading spare magazines into his belt.

The Moretti family will no longer exist. Kloe stood up, her heart aching with a sudden, sharp fear. She walked over to him, her hands resting on the heavy ballistic plating of his chest. Come back to me. Do you hear me? You promised me you would spend the rest of your life worshiping me. You don’t get to die on me now. Dominic dropped his weapons.

He wrapped both arms around her thick waist, lifting her off the ground and crushing her mouth against his. The kiss was a vow sealed in desperation and gunpowder. I am the king of this city, Bella,” he whispered fiercely against her lips. “But I am nothing without my queen. I will be back before midnight, the hours stretched into an agonizing eternity.

” Kloe paced the floor of the safe house, flanked by two heavily armed guards Dominic had left behind. She drank three cups of black coffee, her mind racing with every worstc case scenario. At 11:15 p.m., the heavy steel door of the safe house finally clicked open. Khloe’s breath caught in her throat. Dominic walked in.

He was covered in soot. His tactical vest scraped and scarred, his knuckles bruised and bleeding. The air around him practically vibrated with dark unchecked violence. But the moment his obsidian eyes locked onto Khloe, the monster vanished, leaving only the man. He unclipped his vest, dropping it to the floor with a heavy thud and opened his arms.

Chloe ran to him, crashing her soft, heavy body into his solid frame. She buried her face in his neck, inhaling the sharp scent of smoke and the deep masculine musk of his skin. Dominic held her so tightly her ribs achd, burying his face in her dark hair. “It’s over,” he rumbled, his voice exhausted but triumphant.

“Lorenzo is dead. The docks are ours. The city is secure. You’re safe,” she sobbed quietly, clinging to his broad shoulders. “You’re really safe. I told you I would come back,” Dominic said, pulling back just enough to look at her. He framed her face with his blooded hands, uncaring of the mess.

“But we have one final piece of business to attend to.” He took her hand and led her to the velvet sofa. He gently pushed her down, standing above her. Khloe watched, her heart hammering as the most feared mafia boss on the eastern seabboard slowly dropped to one knee. Dominic reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black velvet box.

He flipped it open. Resting on the silk cushion was a diamond the size of a quail’s egg, a flawless, radiant cut stone set in platinum. surrounded by rare pink diamonds. Khloe immediately recognized it. It was the centerpiece of the Roman collection she had been appraising. “Dominic,” she gasped, her hands flying to her mouth.

“Derek Mitchell told you that no wealthy, successful man would ever want you,” Dominic said, his voice ringing with absolute, unshakable devotion. I was a blind, pathetic fool. I don’t just want you, Chloe. I am entirely consumed by you. Your brilliant mind, your beautiful, generous body, the way you command a room. You were born to rule.

He took her left hand, his thumb stroking her trembling fingers. I don’t want you to just be my curator. I want you to be my wife. the head of the Russo syndicate. My equal in every single way, Dominic swore, his black eyes burning into hers. Marry me, Kloe. Let me spend every day of my life proving to you that you are a goddess.

Tears streamed down Khloe’s face. But this time, they weren’t tears of humiliation. They were tears of absolute profound victory. She looked at this terrifying, magnificent man kneeling at her feet. A man who had burned down a rival empire just to keep her safe. “Yes,” Khloe whispered, pulling him up by his collar. “Yes, Dominic, I will.

” Dominic slid the heavy, priceless ring onto her finger, sealing his vow with a searing, breathless kiss. He scooped her up into his arms, carrying her heavy, beautiful curves as if she weighed nothing and walked toward the bedroom. The mafia war was won. The blood was spilled, but the true reign of the Russo family had just begun.

And at its center was a woman who would never ever be made to feel small again. Did Khloe’s journey from a heartbroken woman to the queen of the New York underworld leave you breathless? If you loved this dramatic mafia romance and want more stories of curvy women claiming their power, taking no prisoners, and finding billionaires who worship every inch of them, you know what to do. Hit that like button.

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