The Mafia King’s Chubby Obsession

[Lorenzo]

Rain hammered against the roof of the armored SUV. I watched the droplets slide down the black glass. I hated the rain. It reminded me of that night. The mud. The blood. The sound of my brother screaming my name while 

I lay paralyzed on the floor.

"We are here, Boss," the driver said.

I did not answer. I opened my door. The cold air hit my face. It felt good. It felt like the ice inside my chest.

I stepped out. My Italian leather shoes hit the wet pavement. I ignored the umbrella the guard offered. I wanted the rain to hit me. I wanted to feel something other than rage.

It had been a long day. Marco’s men were moving shipments through the southern ports. They were mocking me. They knew I could not touch them. Not while they held the Ledger. Not while Vanessa breathed.

I clenched my jaw. I walked up the stone steps of the villa. The guards bowed their heads. They feared me. Good. Fear was reliable. Love was a lie.

I pushed open the heavy oak doors. The foyer was silent. Shadows stretched across the marble floors. It was midnight. 

The staff knew the rules. When I returned, the house had to be a tomb. No noise. No people. No women.

I walked toward the west wing. My sanctuary. No one entered this wing without my permission. I needed whiskey. I needed to drown the memory of Vanessa’s laugh.

I reached the end of the hall. I stopped.

My hand went to the gun under my jacket.

My study door was open.

It was only open by an inch. A sliver of darkness. But I had closed it. I always closed it. I was a man of precision. I did not make mistakes.

Adrenaline flooded my veins. It was sharp. It was familiar.

Marco sent someone.

I drew my gun. The metal was cool in my palm. I moved silent as a ghost. I approached the gap. I listened.

I heard a sound.

Scritch. Scratch.

It was a soft sound. Like a mouse. Or a knife cutting wire.

I did not hesitate. I kicked the door wide. It slammed against the wall. I aimed the barrel at the center of the room.

"Do not move."

A scream tore through the silence. It was high. I was terrified.

I scanned the room. I did not see a soldier. I did not see an assassin in black gear.

I saw a step stool. I saw a woman standing on it. She held a feather duster like a weapon.

She flailed. Her eyes went wide. 

She lost her balance.

"Whoa!"

She fell. It was not graceful. She did not land like a cat. She landed like a sack of potatoes. She hit the Persian rug with a heavy thud.

"Ouch. My ass."

I kept the gun aimed at her head. 

I did not lower it. Women were dangerous. Women were liars.

"Stay down," I ordered. "Hands where I can see them."

She groaned. She rolled onto her back. She rubbed her head. Her hair was a mess. It was brown and curly. It looked like a bird’s nest.

She sat up. She looked at me. 

Then she looked at the gun. All the color drained from her face.

"Please do not shoot," she squeaked. "I am just dusting. I am allergic to bullets."

I narrowed my eyes. She wore a black maid uniform. It did not fit her. The buttons on her chest were straining. Her arms were soft and round. She was not the type of woman Marco hired. 

Marco liked them thin and sharp. This woman was... abundant.

"Identify yourself."

She scrambled back. She hit the leg of my desk. A stack of files slid off the edge. Papers scattered everywhere.

"Oh no," she whispered. "Oh god. 

I am dead. He is going to kill me for the papers."

She tried to grab them. Her hands shook. She dropped them again.

"Stop," I barked.

She froze. She looked up at me. Her eyes were big and brown. They looked like the eyes of a cow before the slaughter.

"I am Chloe," she said. Her voice trembled. "I am the new maid. 

Mrs. Rossi sent me. She said... she said you were out of town."

"She lied."

I lowered the gun slightly. But I did not holster it.

"Why are you in my private wing?"

" dust," she said. She pointed to the shelves. "Mrs. Rossi said the dust triggers your allergies. She said you get grumpy when you sneeze."

"I do not have allergies," I said coldly. "And I am always grumpy."

She blinked.

"Oh. Okay. That makes sense."

She stood up. She dusted off her knees. She was short. The top of her head barely reached my chest. She smelled like cheap soap and vanilla. It had a sweet smell. It made my nose itch.

"Get out."

"But I am not finished. The top shelf is still filthy."

"I do not care about the dust. I care about my privacy. You are fired."

She stopped moving. Her mouth opened.

"Fired?"

"Yes. Leave the estate immediately."

"But... I just started today."

"Then it was a short career."

I walked to my desk. I holstered my gun. I looked at the mess on the floor. My confidential files were scattered. My sanctuary was violated.

"Leave," I said. I sat in my leather chair. I picked up a bottle of whiskey.

She did not move. She stood there. She wrung her hands.

"I cannot lose this job," she whispered. It was barely audible. "Mom needs the insulin. The rent is late."

I ignored her. I poured a glass.

"Sir?" she tried again.

"I said get out."

She flinched. She looked at the door. Then she looked at me. Her gaze dropped to my chest. She bit her lip.

"Why does he have to be so hot?" she mumbled. "It is rude. He is a meanie. But he looks like a god. A mean god."

I paused. The glass stopped halfway to my mouth.

"What did you just say?"

She jumped. Her face turned bright red.

"Nothing! I said... I said I applaud... your body. I mean, your god. God bless you."

She was lying. She was terrible at it.

"You called me a meanie."

"No. Never."

"And you commented on my appearance."

She looked at her feet. She looked ready to pass out.

"My brain has a leak," she whispered. "I cannot control it. I am sorry."

"Go."

She turned. She rushed toward the door. She was fast for a chubby woman. But she was not coordinated.

Her hip bumped a pedestal near the door. A blue Ming vase sat on top. It wobbled.

"Careful," I warned.

She spun around to catch it. Her hand flailed. She slapped the vase instead of grabbing it.

It flew. It hit the marble floor.

CRASH.

The sound echoed in the silent room. A million euros shattered into blue dust.

I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath. I gripped the whiskey glass so hard I thought it would break too.

I opened my eyes.

She stood over the pieces. She looked horrified.

"Oops."

[Chloe]

I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me. I wanted a sinkhole. I wanted a meteor. Anything to end this moment.

I looked at the blue shards. It looked expensive. It looked like it cost more than my kidneys.

I looked up at him. Lorenzo Moretti. The King of Sicily. The man people whispered about in fear.

He sat behind his desk. He was terrifying. He was beautiful. He had sharp cheekbones and eyes like cold steel. He wore a suit that probably cost more than my mother’s house.

He stared at me. His face was blank. That was worse than anger.

"I can fix it," I squeaked.

"Get out," he said. His voice was low. It vibrated in my chest.

"I have glue. Super glue. In my bag."

"Get. Out."

He did not shout. He did not have to. The command cracked like a whip.

"Okay. Going. Gone."

I turned. I ran. I tripped on the rug again. I almost face-planted. I caught myself on the doorframe.

"Nice moves, Chloe," I muttered to myself. "Very graceful. Like a gazelle. A drunk gazelle."

I fled into the hallway. I did not stop running until I reached the servants' quarters in the basement.

I slammed the door to my tiny room. I leaned against it. I slid down to the floor.

My heart pounded in my throat. I touched my chest.

"I am fired," I whispered.

Tears pricked my eyes. I wiped them away angrily. I did not have time to cry. Crying did not pay bills. Crying did not buy medicine.

I looked at my phone. Two missed calls from the landlord. One text from the pharmacy.

Prescription ready for pickup. $85.00.

I checked my bank balance. $12.50.

I put my head in my hands.

"Stupid," I said. "Stupid vase. Stupid dust."

I thought of his face. Lorenzo. He was cruel. He had pointed a gun at me. He had fired me without blinking.

But I remembered his eyes. They were cold, yes. But they looked... tired. They looked like empty wells.

"He smells like rain and expensive whiskey," I mumbled. "And he hates me."

I stood up. I grabbed my suitcase. I started to pack.

I had to leave by morning. The head of security would drag me out if I did not.

My stomach growled. A loud, angry roar.

I paused. I looked at the clock. 1:00 AM.

I had not eaten since lunch. An apple and a stale cracker.

"I cannot leave on an empty stomach," I reasoned. "And... he did not eat either."

I remembered the bottle of whiskey. That was his dinner. No wonder he was so grumpy. His blood sugar was probably in the basement.

I bit my lip.

I was fired. I was leaving. I owed him nothing. He was a jerk.

But my grandmother always said: Never let a man go hungry, even if he is a devil.

"One last meal," I whispered. "A peace offering. Maybe he will not sue me for the vase if I feed him."

It was a stupid plan. It was a dangerous plan.

I opened my door. The hallway was quiet.

I crept toward the kitchen. I was going to cook for the Mafia King.

If he did not kill me first.