The Heavyset Bride Everyone Mocked Was Supposed To Be A Mafia Boss’s Helpless Wife

By three o'clock in the morning, the rain had turned into a punishing sleet that coated the wrought-iron gates of the Moretti estate in a sheet of ice.

The sprawling stone manor sat nestled within twelve acres of private woods in Lake Forest. To the outside world, it was an enclave of generational wealth. To the syndicate, it was the fortress from which Roman ruled northern Illinois.

Tonight, however, the lights in the main security pavilion were dim.

Bridget stopped the SUV two hundred yards from the primary perimeter gate, cutting the headlights. Roman, his flank tightly bound and a dark tactical sweater pulled over his bandages, watched her work. His color had returned, replaced by a dark, simmering fury that seemed to emanate from his very bones. But he didn't issue commands. For the first time in his life, Roman Moretti was waiting for someone else’s move.

Bridget opened her laptop. “The exterior cameras are on a five-second loop. The gate guards are Marcus and Toby. Loyal to Victor Romano. They’ve been promised five hundred thousand each to confirm my ‘suicide’ after you fail to return from Fulton Market.”

Roman’s hand drifted toward his spare firearm—a Glock 19 Bridget had retrieved from a hidden compartment beneath the rear seat. “I’ll take them out.”

“You’ll sit there and keep pressure on your stitches,” Bridget said dismissively, tapping several keystrokes. “We don’t waste ammunition on pawns.”

On the screen, a series of commands executed. Suddenly, the perimeter gate’s industrial hydraulic mechanism groaned, releasing the locking pins with a sharp *clack*. Simultaneously, the secondary security lights in the guard shack flared blindingly, short-circuiting the internal monitors with a squeal of feedback.

Bridget shifted into drive and glided the SUV through the gate before Marcus and Toby could even stumble out of the guardhouse, clutching their ears from the acoustic feedback loop she had piped through their headsets.

By the time the SUV rolled up the circular cobblestone driveway of the main mansion, Roman was moving. The pain in his side was a dull roar, but the adrenaline overrode it.

They entered through the conservatory terrace, using Bridget’s private bypass code. The grand foyer of the estate was quiet, illuminated only by the crystal chandelier dimmed to a soft amber glow.

Standing near the grand double staircase, a glass of vintage bourbon in hand, was Helen Gable.

The head housekeeper—a woman who had served the Moretti family for twenty years and had spent the last three months treating Bridget like an unwelcome animal in the house—froze.

Beside her stood two men in black suits, both carrying sidearms, both looking nervous.

When Helen’s eyes landed on Roman, the bourbon glass slipped from her fingers. It shattered against the polished marble floor, amber liquid and crystal shards spraying across the entryway.

“M-Mr. Moretti...” Helen stammered, her face draining of all color. “We... we were told... Lorenzo said there had been a terrible tragedy at the market...”

Roman didn't say a word. He stepped into the light, towering, dark, and lethal, his eyes fixed on the two guards. The men instantly recognized the cold calculation in their Don’s face—the look that preceded an execution.

Both guards reached for their holsters.

They never cleared the leather.

Bridget stepped around Roman’s shoulder with the Benelli shotgun. She didn't hesitate. She fired once into the marble floor directly between the feet of the guard on the left. The blast echoed like a cannon shot in the cavernous foyer, tearing up a two-foot crater of stone and plaster, spraying shrapnel into their legs.

Both men screamed, collapsing to their knees, their hands flying up in immediate surrender.

“Disarm,” Bridget said, her voice terrifyingly flat.

The guards unbuckled their holsters and kicked them across the slick marble with trembling hands.

Bridget walked forward, her boots crunching over the shattered crystal. She stopped directly in front of Mrs. Gable, who was trembling violently against the mahogany banister.

The heavyset housekeeper, who had spent months commenting on Bridget’s weight, hiding her mail, and withholding basic household services to please Lorenzo’s faction, looked up at Bridget Sullivan as if staring into the maw of an ancient predator.

“You told me three hours ago that Roman didn't allow me to leave,” Bridget murmured, tilting her head slightly.

“I... I was only following Mr. Rossi’s instructions, ma'am! I swear to God, he said Roman was dead! He said you were a liability—”

“Silence,” Roman’s voice cut across the room like a whip.

The Don stepped forward, his eyes burning into the trembling staff. He turned not to Helen, not to the guards, but to Bridget. In front of the remaining household staff, Roman bowed his head slightly—an act of deference no man in the syndicate had ever seen Roman Moretti perform for any human being alive.

“What is your judgment, Bridget?” Roman asked quietly.

Helen Gable gasped, her eyes darting between them.

Bridget looked at Helen with absolute coldness. “The guards are locked in the sub-basement holding cells until morning. They will talk, or they will be handed over to the city coroner. As for Helen...”

Bridget took a step closer, leaning down until her lips were inches from the housekeeper’s ear.

“Pack your things. You have fifteen minutes to leave this property on foot. If I see your face in Cook County after sunrise, Helen, I will personally pull your retirement accounts, seize your daughter’s townhouse in Lincoln Park that Lorenzo bought for you, and leave you in an unmarked ditch. Run.”

Helen Gable didn't even grab her coat. She scrambled over the marble floor, slipping on the spilled bourbon, and bolted out the heavy mahogany front doors into the freezing sleet.

Roman turned to the two bleeding guards. “Do what she says. Move. Before I decide to use the rest of the shells.”

The men scrambled toward the basement access door, dragging their wounded legs in sheer terror.

When the foyer fell silent once again, Roman turned to Bridget. He was breathing heavily, his hand pressed against his bandaged flank. His eyes trailed over her—the unyielding line of her shoulders, the broad, commanding presence that filled the luxurious entryway far more completely than any delicate, waifish socialite ever could.

He felt a sudden, violent surge of desire, raw and completely unbidden. He had spent months blind to the power radiating from this woman. He had dismissed her body, ignored her mind, and treated her like collateral.

He took a step toward her. “Bridget.”

She turned, her face impassive. “We don’t have time for your pride, Roman. Lorenzo thinks you’re dead. Victor thinks I’m dead. They will move on your primary accounts at eight o'clock when the market opens. We have four hours to build a noose.”

Roman stared at her, the corner of his lips curving upward into a dark, dangerous smile.