The Mafia Boss Asked Whether Someone Had Hurt His Plus-Size Secretary and Her Silence Made an Entire Boardroom Afraid to Breathe

The South Port Terminal at 8:30 PM was a wilderness of towering rusted shipping containers, flickering yellow floodlights, and the cold, howling wind from Lake Michigan.

Mara’s taxi pulled up near the small two-story administrative building at the edge of Pier 14.

"You want me to wait, ma'am?" the taxi driver asked, looking nervously at the dark, desolate industrial yards.

"Yes, please," Mara said, handing him a hundred-dollar bill. "I’ll be out in five minutes."

She pulled her rain coat tightly around her shoulders and stepped out into the pouring rain. Her heels clicked sharply against the wet asphalt as she walked up the concrete stairs toward the glass doors of the administrative building.

The lobby was dim, lit only by a single fluorescent tube hanging from the ceiling.

Standing behind a metal counter was a burly man in a rain-soaked leather jacket, chewing on a wooden toothpick.

"Mara Whitcomb?" the man asked, his voice rough as gravel.

"Yes," Mara said, stepping into the room, her hand resting inside her handbag where her phone was ready to speed-dial Luca. "Where is the document?"

The man didn't answer. He simply grinned, looking past her shoulder toward the glass entrance.

Mara felt a cold spike of adrenaline slam through her veins. She spun around to leave, but two heavy-set men in dark work coats had already stepped inside, blocking the glass doors.

Before she could pull her phone out, the door to the inner office slammed open, and Salvatore Rizzoli stepped out, leaning heavily on a brass-topped cane.

"Miss Whitcomb," Rizzoli said, his rasping voice echoing in the small room. "You look even more magnificent in person than in your photographs. Luca Vale certainly has exquisite taste."

"This is a trap," Mara said, her voice rising in panic as she backed away until her spine hit the metal reception counter. "There is no father's debt note."

"Of course not," Rizzoli chuckled sinisterly. "Your father was a pathetic little clerk who couldn't borrow fifty dollars from a street loan shark. But you... you are priceless."

"Luca will kill you for this," Mara growled, her fear instantly transforming into a white-hot wall of anger. "If you lay a single finger on me, he will tear your entire organization apart!"

"He will certainly try," Rizzoli agreed smoothly, signaling to his men. "Which is why you are going to help me convince him to step down from the port authority before anyone gets hurt."

The two burly men stepped forward.

Mara didn't hesitate. She swung her heavy leather handbag with all her strength, striking the first man across the face with the brass buckle, sending him staggering back. She kicked the second man sharply in the shin with her high heel.

"Bitch!" the man yelled, grabbing her arm and pulling her roughly toward the side exit.

Mara opened her mouth and screamed with everything she had—a loud, piercing shriek that echoed off the metal walls of the terminal.

"Cover her mouth!" Rizzoli barked angrily.

A thick cloth soaked in a sweet, chemical odor was slammed over her face. Mara fought fiercely, kicking and striking out, but within seconds, the darkness pulled at the edges of her mind, her strength evaporating as the world faded to black.

Ten miles away, inside the thirty-eighth-floor executive suite, Luca Vale was standing beside Mara’s empty glass desk.

He held a small black velvet box in his hand. Inside rested a flawless six-carat emerald-cut diamond ring—a masterpiece he had commissioned from a master jeweler in Milan three weeks ago.

He was planning to propose to her tonight on the balcony of his penthouse.

The office door flew open, and Daniel rushed inside, his face pale as chalk, his radio buzzing frantically in his hand.

"Boss," Daniel gasped, his breath ragged. "We have a critical failure."

Luca closed the velvet box with a sharp snap. His eyes turned to absolute ice. "Where is she?"

"She took a private taxi from the basement garage twenty minutes ago," Daniel reported, his voice shaking. "She didn't use the corporate car. The taxi driver just called our main dispatch line—he said three men dragged her into a gray van at the Pier 14 administrative building!"

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Luca did not yell. He did not slam his fist on the desk.

He slowly slid the velvet box into his breast pocket. He walked over to his mahogany cabinet, unlocked the hidden drawer, and pulled out his father’s old heavy .38 revolver alongside a modern tactical firearm.

He racked the slide with a single, cold metallic clack.

"Daniel," Luca spoke quietly, his voice carrying the terrifying weight of a dark king declaring war.

"Yes, Boss?"

"Call Marcus. Call every man we have in the North, South, and West Loop," Luca ordered, walking past him toward the private elevator. "Lock down every exit port in Chicago. No boats leave the river. No trucks cross the state line."