The Mafia Boss Hadn’t Laughed in Nine Years Until His Plus-Size Maid Chased a Puppy Into His Private Office and Made Him Remember the Life He Had Buried

At 8:00 AM on Friday morning, the secondary parlor of the Moretti estate was turned into an exclusive haute couture showroom.

Three high-end tailors from Michigan Avenue arrived with racks of custom gowns, velvet shoe boxes, and cases of glittering diamond jewelry.

Elena stood in the center of the room in her slip, feeling entirely out of her depth as two women fluttered around her with measuring tapes and silk swatches.

Claire Whitmore watched from the doorway, her arms crossed, her eyes cold as ice.

"Most of these high-fashion houses don't design for... ample proportions," Claire said spitefully, her tone dripping with venom. "A custom corset might help minimize the hip breadth, but I doubt we can achieve a traditional silhouette by tomorrow."

Before Elena could respond, a deep voice rang out from the hallway.

"If you make one more disparaging comment about Miss Brooks’s body, Claire, you will be packing your bags before noon."

Adrian walked into the parlor, wearing a dark gray suit. He looked terrifyingly handsome.

Claire flushed red, biting her lip in humiliated silence.

Adrian walked past the clothing racks, his eyes locking onto Elena. She looked vulnerable, her soft shoulders bare, her eyes wide with self-consciousness.

"Leave us," Adrian ordered the tailors and Claire.

The staff quickly scurried out, closing the double doors behind them.

Adrian walked over to a rack holding an exquisite emerald-green silk gazar dress. It had a sweetheart neckline, off-the-shoulder draped sleeves, and an A-line skirt designed to accentuate a woman's waist while flowing gracefully over lush curves.

He pulled the gown from the rack and held it up against Elena.

The rich green color made her warm skin glow and brought out the golden flecks in her dark brown eyes.

"This one," Adrian said softly.

Elena looked in the floor-length mirror. For the first time in her life, she didn't see "too much" of herself. She saw an absolute vision.

"It's beautiful," Elena whispered, touching the soft silk. "But Adrian... people like Vince Falcone... Claire said they’ll be watching. Won't my presence embarrass you?"

Adrian stepped up behind her in the mirror. He placed his large, warm hands gently on her waist, pulling her back against his chest.

"Listen to me, Elena," Adrian murmured into her ear, his breath warm against her skin. "I built an empire out of fear. I have money, power, and land. But for nine years, I have been empty. When you entered my office, chasing a dog, making jokes, looking at me like a man instead of a monster... you brought me back to life. You are not an embarrassment. You are my pride."

Elena turned around in his arms. Her breath hitched as she looked up into his intense, dark eyes.

"Adrian..." she breathed.

He leaned down slowly. His mouth hovered barely an inch from hers. The tension between them was electric, thick enough to cut with a knife.

Then, a knock on the parlor door shattered the moment.

Nathan Cole stuck his head inside. "Boss. We have a problem. Falcone just hijacked our supply trucks at the border. He’s demanding a face-to-face sit-down in the Drake Hotel suite before the gala starts tomorrow."

Adrian’s jaw tightened, the tender lover instantly melting back into the ruthless Syndicate Boss.