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

The ballroom erupted into chaos, but Bridget didn't blink.

Before Victor could level the barrel, Roman was already moving. With a speed that defied his recent injury, Roman closed the distance, his left hand clamping down over the cylinder of the revolver, preventing the hammer from striking.

With a sickening crunch, Roman twisted Victor’s wrist backward, breaking the bone instantly. Victor screamed as Roman drove an elbow directly into his temple, sending the capo crashing down across a glass ice-sculpture table that shattered under his weight.

“Take him to the harbor,” Roman roared to his loyal capos, who descended on the screaming traitor like wolves.

Lorenzo Rossi, seeing the distraction, bolted through the service doors behind the stage, disappearing into the labyrinthine service tunnels beneath the Drake Hotel.

“Lorenzo’s heading for the Navy Pier access road!” Bridget called out over the screams of the fleeing socialites. She had already tapped into the hotel’s internal security feed via her smartphone. “He has a private launch docked at Slip 14!”

“Let’s finish this,” Roman said, grabbing Bridget’s hand.

They didn't wait for the enforcers. They took the private freight elevator down to the underground parking garage, sprinting toward the armored SUV. The sleet had worsened outside, howling off Lake Michigan in violent, blinding sheets of white.

Ten minutes later, the SUV roared onto the concrete apron of the commercial shipping terminal near the mouth of the Chicago River.

The industrial docks were dark, the freezing wind whipping waves against the rusted pilings. Ahead, the twin halogen floodlights of a seventy-foot luxury yacht illuminated the driving rain.

Lorenzo had two remaining mercenary guards covering the slip. As the SUV skidded to a halt on the slick pavement, gunfire erupted, bullets cracking against the ballistic glass of the windshield with spiderweb fractures.

“Stay down!” Roman commanded, drawing his weapon.

“Don’t order me around, Moretti!” Bridget retorted, reaching into the footwell and pulling out a heavy semi-automatic carbine she had stashed before the gala.

She kicked open the passenger door, using the heavy door frame as cover. Her velvet gown was drenched within seconds, the freezing rain soaking through the fabric, but her hands were like iron. She leaned out, sighted through the red-dot optic, and fired three controlled double-taps.

The muzzle flashes illuminated her face—fierce, lethal, and devastatingly beautiful.

One of Lorenzo’s guards dropped from the elevated loading dock, his rifle clattering into the black, churning water below. The second guard scrambled backward, fleeing into the shadows of the shipping containers.

Roman charged the gangway of the yacht, Bridget half a step behind him.

They breached the main salon. Inside, the lights were blinding.

Lorenzo Rossi was standing behind the bar, a heavy chrome automatic in his shaking hands. The silver-haired consigliere looked like a wild animal backed into a corner. His tuxedo was torn, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.

“Stay back, Roman!” Lorenzo screamed, his voice cracking. “I built this family! Your father was a brute—I was the brains! Without me, you wouldn't have a single dock in this city!”

“You didn't build this family, Lorenzo,” Roman said, walking slowly down the carpeted stairs of the salon, his gun leveled directly at his former mentor. “You stole from it. And you murdered Arthur Sullivan’s son because he saw what a parasite you were.”

Lorenzo’s eyes darted to Bridget, who stepped down onto the salon floor, water dripping from her emerald velvet dress, the carbine resting comfortably in her arms.

“You...” Lorenzo hissed, spitting blood onto the cream carpet. “Arthur’s fat, useless cow. You think you’re smart? You think you won? Roman will use you until the books are clean, and then he’ll put you in a home like your pathetic father!”

A cold, dangerous calm settled over Bridget’s face.

She stepped past Roman. Roman didn't stop her. He watched her with a look of fierce pride, letting his queen take her ground.

“My brother’s name was Michael,” Bridget said, her voice dropping into a register that made the hairs on the back of Lorenzo’s neck stand up. “He was twenty-four. He had a master's degree in economics. He had a whole life ahead of him. You had two junkies hold him down and inject pure fentanyl into his veins because he found your five-million-dollar offshore deficit.”

Lorenzo’s finger tightened on the trigger. “He was a nobody! Just like you!”

*BANG.*

Bridget didn't wait for him to raise the barrel.

She fired a single round from her carbine. The bullet tore clean through Lorenzo’s right kneecap.

The consigliere shrieked in agony, dropping the weapon as he collapsed to the deck, clutching his shattered leg, writhing in the pool of his own blood.

Bridget walked over, kicked the fallen handgun across the floor, and looked down at the weeping, broken old man.

“You took Michael from me,” Bridget whispered. “And in return, I took your money, your empire, your reputation, and your freedom. You die knowing that the woman you laughed at destroyed everything you spent forty years building.”

She turned her back on him, looking at Roman.

“He’s yours,” she said simply.

Roman stepped forward. He didn't look at Lorenzo. He looked at Bridget. With his left hand, he reached out, caught the back of her wet neck, pulled her roughly against his chest, and crashed his mouth down onto hers.

It was a kiss born of adrenaline, rain, blood, and mutual obsession.

Bridget gasped against his lips, her hands rising to grip his broad shoulders. Roman pulled her deep against him, his mouth claiming hers with a ferocious, starving hunger that set her blood on fire. For months, they had lived in cold silence. Now, amidst the wreckage of a shattered coup, the heat between them was incendiary.

When Roman finally broke the kiss, breathing heavily, his forehead rested against hers.

“You are the only thing in this city that matters,” Roman growled against her lips.

Behind them, Lorenzo moaned in agony.

Without breaking eye contact with Bridget, Roman raised his sidearm, pointed it over his shoulder, and pulled the trigger.