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

By five in the morning, Roman’s private study had been converted into an electronic war room.

Four multi-panel monitors were set up across Roman’s antique oak desk, the soft glow casting blue and green shadows over the wood paneling and leather-bound books. Bridget sat in the high-backed executive leather chair—Roman’s chair—her fingers flying across a mechanical keyboard with dizzying velocity.

Roman stood behind her, a fresh glass of black coffee in his hand. He had showered, washed the blood and grime from his skin, and pulled on a dark charcoal dress shirt, rolled up at the forearms to expose the heavy tattoos marking his rank in the syndicate. Every few moments, his eyes drifted from the numbers on the screen down to the nape of Bridget’s neck, where loose strands of dark hair curled against her pale skin.

He was mesmerized.

“Here,” Bridget said, pointing to a cascading column of ledger entries on the left screen. “Lorenzo isn't just trying to replace you. He’s liquidating the Moretti commercial holdings to consolidate under a new front company called Veloce Holdings. Look at the signatory.”

Roman leaned over her shoulder, his chest nearly brushing against her back. The warmth radiating between them was electric, thick with an unspoken tension that made the hairs on Roman’s arms stand up.

“Richard Davies,” Roman growled, recognizing the name instantly. “The Alderman.”

“The Alderman is the sponge,” Bridget explained, her finger tracing the flow of currency. “Victor moves the illegal freight through the docks. Lorenzo launders the profits through Apex Logistics. Then Davies signs off on municipal contracts, giving the laundered funds the appearance of clean city infrastructure bonds. That’s how they plan to buy the loyalty of the other Five Families. They aren't going to rule Chicago with muscle, Roman. They’re going to buy the entire city out from under you.”

“Can you stop the transfers?”

Bridget let out a short, quiet laugh—the first genuine sound of amusement Roman had ever heard from her. It sent an unexpected shiver straight down his spine.

“Stop them?” she asked, looking up at him over her shoulder. “Why would I stop them? I’m going to redirect them.”

Her fingers danced over the keys.

“I just initiated a mirror protocol on Philip Sterling’s offshore clearinghouse in the Caymans. When Lorenzo enters his private authentication keys at eight this morning to finalize the transfer of your fifty million dollars, the funds won’t move to Veloce Holdings.”

Roman’s eyes narrowed. “Where do they go?”

“To a non-custodial holding trust in Zurich, registered solely in my name,” she said, her voice deadpan. “And then, through an automated split, forty percent of it will be deposited directly into the personal slush accounts of the Russian Vor syndicate in Brooklyn.”

Roman blinked, stunned. “The Russians? Why the hell would you give them twenty million dollars?”

“Because,” Bridget smiled, and for the first time, Roman saw the terrifying, brilliant demon that lived inside his wife’s head, “the transaction will be flagged with Victor Romano’s private digital signature, accompanied by a forged memo thanking the Vor for their assistance in executing the hit on you. When Lorenzo finds out the money is gone, he will think Victor stole it to make a side deal with the Russians. And when Victor finds out, he will think Lorenzo framed him to cut him out of the profit.”

Roman slowly set his coffee cup on the desk. He leaned in, placing his large hands on either side of Bridget’s chair, trapping her within the circle of his arms.

Bridget didn't pull away. She leaned back slightly, her broad chest rising and falling evenly, her gaze meeting his without a shred of hesitation.

“You’re an absolute monster,” Roman whispered, his voice dark with absolute reverence.

“I’m an accountant, Roman,” she replied softly, her lips parting slightly. “In our world, they’re the same thing.”

Roman’s hand moved. He didn't mean to do it, but the pull was magnetic, overwhelming every instinct of control he had cultivated over a lifetime. His fingertips brushed against the curve of her jaw, sliding downward along the soft, warm column of her throat.

Bridget’s breath hitched. Her eyes widened slightly, the first crack in her icy composure.

“For months,” Roman said, his voice dropping to a low, rough cadence, “I walked past your door thinking you were an obligation. A piece of paper signed to settle a debt. I let those worthless hyenas talk about you behind your back.”

“Roman—”

“They called you heavy,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over her lower lip, feeling its fullness, its softness. “They called you quiet. They didn't see that you were a queen holding an axe behind your back while we all played in the mud.”

Bridget swallowed hard, her heart pounding visibly against the base of her neck. “Don’t romanticize me, Roman. I’m doing this for revenge.”

“I don’t give a damn what you’re doing it for,” Roman whispered, leaning down until his forehead touched hers, inhaling the scent of her skin. “As long as you’re doing it at my side.”

Before she could answer, the red light on the primary landline on the desk began to blink frantically.

The emergency syndicate channel.

Roman pulled back slowly, his eyes never leaving Bridget’s face as he picked up the receiver and hit the speaker button.

The frantic, sweating voice of Lorenzo Rossi filled the room.

“Roman? My God, Roman, please tell me you’re alive! Victor... Victor went completely rogue at the market! We have reports of an explosion! I’ve called the entire council to the Drake Hotel ballroom for noon! You need to get here immediately—the Families are threatening to split the territory!”

Roman looked down at Bridget.

Bridget gave him a slow, cold nod.

Roman leaned toward the receiver, his voice as smooth and lethal as black ice.