They Bullied Me, Then They Met My Mafia Sister

This man was throwing his weight around purely on Eloise’s influence—and frankly, it sounded like there was something more going on between them than just a professional relationship.

If Eloise couldn’t give me a proper explanation today, there was no way our engagement banquet was moving forward.

Silence stretched. Then, Eloise replied with that cold tone, “Who is this? And what business is it of yours what Rex means to me? Don’t waste my time.”

Before I could tell her that I was her fiancé, the call cut dead.

I stared at the screen in frustration. She hadn’t even saved my number.

Something hot and tight coiled in my chest—humiliation, anger, a sharp little sting of disbelief. This was the woman my sister had chosen to be my wife.

I shoved the phone back into my pocket, jaw set.

Rex laughed, a high, braying sound that bounced off the boutique’s chandeliers. “Oh, this is priceless. Some people really do live in a fantasy. You thought you could name‑drop and she’d swoon?”

His eyes crawled over my simple linen shirt as he continued, “Look at you—the guards at Grant Group dress better than you. Honestly, who let you through the door?”

Normally, I couldn’t care less about labels. Comfort was my religion. But today, his words landed like a blade between the ribs. I felt the weight of every gaze in the room, the silent agreement in their averted eyes.

“It’s the twenty‑first century,” I said coolly. “Judging a man by his clothes is just lazy. And if Eloise keeps a viper like you at her side, she’s blind.”

I’d lost the taste for trying things on. I grabbed the suit and carried it to the register. “Ring it up.”

The saleswoman glanced between me and Rex, her fingers fluttering over the keyboard. “Sir, our boutique prioritizes existing members. I’m afraid I can’t—”

Rex crowed, fishing out a gleaming platinum card and slapping it onto the marble counter. “Million‑dollar deposit,” he announced. “Still think you’re in my league, street rat?”

I drew a steadying breath. I wasn’t the type to swing my weight around, but something inside me had snapped clean through.

I slipped a matte‑black card from my wallet—no credit limit, a direct line into the Rosetti family’s quiet ocean of offshore holdings—and placed it beside his.

“Fine. Sign me up for the membership. Charge the suit.” I glanced around the boutique, taking in the rows of tailored jackets. “Actually, throw in that coat over there too. The charcoal one.”

The saleswoman’s face went pale. “Sir, I—”

Rex leaned over the counter, menace coiling in his whisper. “Think very carefully. New York is the Grant family’s turf. Sell that suit to him, and tomorrow Eloise will acquire this boutique and fire every single one of you. Try me.”

The color drained from the saleswoman’s cheeks. She drew her hands back as if the register had burned her, fingers curling into her palms.

The onlookers started murmuring in earnest. A man in a pinstripe suit shook his head slowly. “That’s Rex Norris—Eloise’s favorite. Last year some guy bumped into him at a gala and got bankrupted within a month. Whole family, wiped out.”

“Kid,” an older man muttered at me, stepping forward with a hand half-raised in warning, “just apologize to Mr. Norris. Don’t mess with him, or you’ll regret it. You’re a nobody—going up against the Grants? That’s a fight you simply can’t win.”

Rex’s smirk curled into something triumphant. He tilted his head, relishing the spotlight. “Tell you what. Get down on your knees, right here on this lovely marble, and scream three times—loud enough for everyone to hear—‘I’m sorry. Please let me go. I know I’m trash.’ Do that, and maybe, I’ll let you slink out of here.”

I’d never encountered such brazen, weaponized arrogance.

My jaw tightened until my teeth ached. “Say that again. I didn’t quite catch it.”

“Are you deaf?” Rex leaned in, spittle dotting the air. “I said, ‘I’m sorry. Please let me go. I know I’m trash.’ Now get down on your knees!”

A slow, dangerous smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. “Loud and clear. You’ve got some real self‑awareness there. Since you already know what you are, do us both a favor and get the hell out of my sight.”

Confusion flickered across his face, then rage detonated behind his eyes when he realized he was played.

He exploded, "You son of a bitch! I will kill you! I will end you in this very store!"

He lunged at me, arms swinging wildly, his polished shoes skidding on the marble.

Being raised in the mafia, I knew my way around a fight better than most.

My body reacted before my brain gave the order—a pivot, a snap, a clean roundhouse kick that caught Rex square in the chest. The impact thudded through my shin.

He flew backward, crashed into a mannequin, and landed in a tangle of limbs and shattered silk ties, howling like a wounded animal.

Gasps ricocheted off the walls.

“He’s dead,” someone breathed. “Miss Grant will literally carve him into pieces.”

“No one can save him now,” another voice agreed.

I didn’t flinch. I straightened my shirt, brushed a speck of dust from my sleeve. The Grant family’s empire owed its existence to my sister’s help. There wasn’t a single name in this city that could make me bow.

I slapped the card onto the counter again. “Charge it. Now.”

The saleswoman’s hands trembled as she swiped the card. She folded the suit into a garment bag with shaking fingers and handed it over.

I took it, turned on my heel, and headed for the door.

But Rex scrambled up, blocking the exit, one hand pressed to his chest. “Don’t you dare leave! You bastard! You think you can just hit me and walk out?”

I lifted my fist and let it hover inches from his nose. “What’s the matter? Want another kick to remember me by?”

He flinched, a full‑body recoil.

I huffed a dry laugh and stepped around him, heading towards the exit.

At that moment, a black Maybach glided to the curb, tires whispering against the pavement. The engine purred to a stop.

The door opened, and a striking woman stepped out.