The Mafia Boss Told His Plus-Size Nanny No One Would Ever Want Her, but the Morning She Walked Away His Entire House Began to Fall Apart

The next two weeks were a nightmare for Victor Rossi, but not because of the mob.

Pier 9 was cleared within twenty minutes. O'Malley’s dockworkers slammed Vance’s thugs so hard that Vance fled back to Providence and hadn't been seen in Massachusetts since. The shipments cleared. The money flowed. The business was safer than it had been in five years.

And Victor Rossi was losing his mind.

Every room in his mansion reminded him of her.

The kitchen smelled of her hazelnut coffee. The laundry room held the soft cedar scent she used for Finn’s towels. The pantry still had her handwriting taped to the door.

Finn was no longer having violent meltdowns, but he had withdrawn into a quiet, solemn world of his own. He went to school, he ate his meals, he did his exercises with the new therapist Victor had hired at astronomical expense, but he never laughed. He never ran down the hall.

Every evening at 6:00 PM, Victor sat in his grand dining room alone, eating meals prepared by a high-end personal chef that tasted like cardboard.

On the third Friday after her departure, Victor stood in his study, looking at his private safe.

He opened it. He pulled out a small velvet box that had sat in the back behind his bonds and cash for five years.

Inside was a diamond ring—an flawless six-carat emerald-cut stone that had belonged to his family for three generations.

Frank Novak walked into the study, holding a stack of shipping reports.

"Boss," Frank said quietly. "The autumn numbers are in. We're up twenty percent."

Victor didn't look at the reports. He closed the velvet box with a soft snap.

"Where is she working, Frank?" Victor asked.

Frank hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "Boss... she told us not to—"

"Where is she working, Frank?" Victor repeated, his voice dropping into a register that brook no refusal.

Frank sighed, pulling a piece of paper from his pocket. "She took a job at a non-profit children’s literacy center in Jamaica Plain. It’s a small community clinic. She’s managing their administrative office."

"How much are they paying her?"

"Forty-five thousand a year," Frank said quietly. "It’s a tiny budget, Boss. She’s working out of a renovated basement under a library."

Victor stood up, buttoning his charcoal suit coat. "Get the car."