The Mafia Boss’s Fiancée Ripped the Plus-Size Maid’s Dress—Then His Mother Saw Her Scar

The impact was concussive.

Vanessa, weighing barely a hundred and ten pounds, was thrown backward out of the pantry like a rag doll, her head bouncing off the mahogany baseboard of the hallway with a sickening crack. The nickel-plated revolver flew from her grip, skittering across the parquet floor into the shadows beneath a library table.

Norah scrambled forward on her hands and knees, ignoring the sharp pain where her knees slammed into the hardwood. She threw her full weight onto Vanessa’s torso, pinning the woman’s arms to the floor with her knees.

Vanessa shrieked, thrashing wildly, her nails raking across Norah’s cheek, drawing three thin lines of blood. “Get off me! Get off me, you disgusting cow!”

Norah did not strike her. She simply leaned down, her face inches from Vanessa’s, her grip on the woman’s wrists like iron bands.

“You called me a peasant,” Norah whispered, her hazel eyes blazing with an ancient, unyielding fury that made Vanessa’s manic thrashing suddenly freeze. “You called me ugly. But you are the one crawling on the floor, Vanessa. You are the one who needs a gun to feel like you exist.”

A heavy gunshot shattered the silence at the end of the corridor.

Lorenzo Caruso stumbled backward through the double doors of the master suite, his shirt soaked in crimson, his breathing a wet, bubbling rattle. He fell to his knees on the carpet, his fingers clawing uselessly at the wallpaper before he collapsed forward onto his face.

Behind him stepped Roman Bellandi.

The Kimber .45 in Roman’s right hand was smoking faintly. His white shirt was splattered with blood across the chest and forearms, his jaw smeared with black soot. He did not look at Lorenzo’s body. He looked down the hall, his eyes locking onto Norah, who sat panting, her hair unraveled, pinning his former fiancée to the floor with the casual dominance of a lioness.

Roman lowered the weapon.

A slow, terrifyingly dark smile spread across his bruised face.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

Sal and two surviving Bellandi soldiers jogged up the steps behind Roman, their weapons at the low-ready. Sal took one look at Vanessa pinned beneath Norah and whistled softly through his teeth.

“Should I call the cleaners, boss?” Sal asked, nodding toward Lorenzo’s corpse.

“Call them,” Roman said, his voice cold. He walked forward, stopping beside where Norah knelt. He reached down with his left hand, offering it to her. “Get up, Norah. Don't dirty your skirts on garbage.”

Norah took his hand. With a single, smooth pull, Roman hoisted her to her feet, pulling her directly against his chest. She stumbled slightly, her breath coming in ragged gasps, but his arm locked around her waist, anchoring her against his solid, unyielding frame.

Vanessa lay on the floor, weeping hysterically, her designer suit ruined, her vanity completely pulverized. “Roman... please... Roman, he made me do it... my father made me—”

Roman did not even look down at her.

“Sal,” Roman said, his voice flat as a tombstone. “Take her to the cellar. Contact the Commission. Tell Carlo Moretti that the Caruso name is extinct in Illinois. If she is still breathing when the sun sets, you will join her.”

“Understood, boss,” Sal said, grabbing Vanessa by the arm and dragging her down the hallway like a sack of spoiled flour. Her screams echoed down the stairwell until the heavy iron fire doors closed, cutting the sound off entirely.

Mia and Teresa emerged from the library pantry.

Teresa looked at Lorenzo’s body, then at her son, and finally at Norah, who stood wrapped in Roman’s blood-spattered arm, the blood from the scratch on her cheek dripping slowly onto her cream turtleneck.

Teresa lowered her shotgun. She walked forward, reached up with a lace handkerchief, and gently wiped the blood from Norah’s cheek.

“You have your father’s fighting weight, child,” Teresa said softly, a ghost of a smile touching her weathered lips. “He was a miserable gambler, but he never ran from a bar fight.”

Norah let out a shaky, trembling laugh that broke into a sob. She buried her face against Roman’s chest, her hands clutching the torn, bloodied linen of his shirt.

Roman’s arms tightened around her, completely encasing her full, soft figure in his strength. He rested his chin on the top of her head, his eyes closing as he breathed in the scent of vanilla, sweat, and woodsmoke that clung to her skin.