She Was Just Serving Drinks at the Gala — Until the Mafia Boss Said "Bring That Girl to Me"
Champagne glasses shattered against marble floors when New York's most feared man pointed his ringed finger directly at the catering staff. Blood rushed from Khloe's face. She wasn't an assassin, a spy, or a socialite. She was a plus-sized waitress just trying to pay rent until Gabriel Moretti demanded her.
The cheap black polyester tuxedo vest strained against Khloe Henderson's heavy curves, the plastic buttons threatening to give way with every shallow breath she took. At a size 22, she was used to taking up space in a world that constantly demanded women shrink themselves.
But in the grand ballroom of the Pierre Hotel on Fifth Avenue, she felt like a glaring error in the scenery. Tonight was the annual Manhattan Children's Horizon Gala. The room was a sea of bakarat crystal, towering white orchid centerpieces and emaciated socialites draped in Oscar delarenta and vintage Cardier. The other waitresses from the elite catering agency were carbon copies of each other, size zero aspiring models with sllicked back hair and razor-sharp cheekbones.
Chloe, with her soft, full face, thick thighs that chafed beneath her ill-fitting slacks, and a completely unglamorous bun, was only called in because three girls had caught the flu. "Keep your head down, Henderson," hissed David, the floor manager, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Table four needs another bottle of Don Perinol.
And for God's sake, don't drop anything. The men at that table own half the judges in this city." Khloe nodded silently, adjusting the heavy silver tray balanced on her palm. Her orthopedic shoes achd against the polished marble floor. She didn't care about the billionaires or the politicians. She cared about the $300 she'd make tonight.
Desperately needed to keep her brother's apartment from going into foreclosure. As she navigated through the sea of silk and cologne, a sudden, suffocating hush fell over the western half of the ballroom. The string quartet missed a note. The chist's bow scraping awkwardly against the strings. The heavy mahogany doors swung open and Gabriel Moretti walked in.
Even someone as disconnected from the criminal underworld as Khloe knew that name. Gabriel Moretti didn't just operate in the shadows. He owned them. At 34, he was the undisputed head of the Moretti syndicate, controlling the shipping ports, the underground casinos, and a vast network of shell corporations.
He was devastatingly handsome, wrapped in a bespoke charcoal brony suit that clung to his broad shoulders, his dark hair neatly swept back, and his jawline sharp enough to cut glass. But it was his eyes that made people freeze, cold, obsidian, and utterly dead to the world around him. He was flanked by four massive men. But Gabriel was the gravity in the room.
He moved with a terrifying unhurrieded grace, taking his seat at the center of table four. Khloe swallowed hard. Table four. Her hands began to tremble as she approached. She kept her eyes glued to the base of the champagne flutes on her tray. Just serve the drinks, step back, and disappear. It was a survival tactic she had perfected over 26 years of life. Be invisible.
She reached the table just as a boisterous, sharply dressed man named Lorenzo, a known lieutenant for a rival faction from Chicago, leaned over, invading Gabriel's space. Lorenzo was drunk, waving a lit cigar dangerously close to the silk tablecloth. "You think you can just choke the supply lines, Moretti?" Lorenzo sneered, his voice carrying over the nervous silence of the surrounding tables. "You're playing a dangerous game.
" Kloe stepped up to Lorenzo's right, holding her breath as she reached out to place a fresh flute of Dom Peringan in front of him. Lorenzo suddenly violently threw his hands up in a gesture of frustration, his elbow slamming hard into Khloe's waist. The impact sent her stumbling back, her heavy frame collided with an empty chair, and the silver tray tipped.
Time seemed to slow down. The crystal flutes cascaded off the edge, shattering spectacularly against the marble floor. A splash of cold vintage champagne soaked the edge of Lorenzo's trousers. The music stopped entirely. "What the hell is wrong with you?" Lorenzo barked, spinning around to face her.
His eyes rad over her full trembling figure with blatant disgust. "Watch your massive step, sweetheart. You're taking up enough room in this city as it is. They let farm animals serve at the pier now." A few cruel chuckles rippled from the adjacent tables. Heat flooded Khloe's cheeks. a humiliating burning red.
She dropped to her knees, her thick fingers frantically scrambling to pick up the shards of broken glass. "I'm so sorry, sir. I'm sorry," she whispered, a stray piece of glass slicing into her thumb. "She didn't even wse, more terrified of losing her job than the sting of the cut." "Get out of my sight, you fat cow," Lorenzo snapped, raising his hand as if to shove her away. "Lorenzo." The voice wasn't a shout. It was a low, guttural rumble, barely above a whisper.
Yet, it possessed a lethal authority that froze every person within earshot. Kloe looked up through her lashes. Gabriel Moretti was leaning forward, his forearms resting on the table. He wasn't looking at Lorenzo, his dark, predatory gaze was locked entirely on her. For a second, the breath left Khloe's lungs.
He was looking at her, not with the usual blend of pity or disgust she received from men of his caliber, but with an intense, calculated scrutiny. He took in her flushed face, her trembling hands, and the full curve of her hips kneeling on the floor. "The lady is cleaning up," Gabriel said smoothly, his eyes never leaving Chloe.
"There is no need to raise your voice, Lorenzo, unless you want me to permanently remove your ability to speak." Lorenzo blanched, stepping back instantly. "Gabriel," she spilled. "I saw what happened," Gabriel interrupted coldly. He finally broke eye contact with Khloe and looked at his underboss, a towering man named Matteo.
Gabriel raised his hand, the heavy gold of his Rolex catching the chandelier's light, and pointed a single ringed finger directly at Kloe. "Bring that girl to me," Gabriel commanded. The catering kitchen was a war zone of panic. You're dead. You're actually dead, Henderson. David paced frantically back and forth near the stainless steel prep stations.
You spilled champagne on Lorenzo Costa and caught the eye of Gabriel Moretti. Do you know what they do to people who insult them? I'm going to lose my vendor license. I'm going to end up in the East River. Kloe clutched a paper towel to her bleeding thumb, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. He backed into me. David, I didn't do anything wrong.
Before David could scream another reprimand, the heavy swinging doors of the kitchen were pushed open. Matteo, Gabriel's underboss, stepped inside. The entire kitchen staff froze, chefs stopping with their knives midair. Matteo was built like a freight train dressed in a sleek black suit. He ignored the chefs and walked straight to Khloe.
Miss Henderson," Matteo said, his voice surprisingly polite, though it brokered no argument. "Mr. Moretti is waiting for you upstairs, room 412, the penthouse." "She's fired. I just fired her." David stuttered, terrified of being held responsible. Matteo slowly turned his head to look at the manager. "I didn't ask for her employment status. I said, "Mr. Moretti is waiting." He looked back at Khloe. Please walk with me. Khloe's legs felt like lead.
She wanted to run out the back service door to sprint down the alleyway in her orthopedics and never look back. But she knew the reality of men like Moretti. You didn't run. If you ran, you died tired. She followed Matteo out of the kitchen and into the private gold leafed service elevator. The ride to the top floor felt like a funeral march.
The elevator smelled faintly of industrial bleach, but as the doors slid open on the penthouse level, the air instantly changed. It was thick with the scent of expensive leather, polished mahogany, and the faint, intoxicating aroma of Tom Ford tobacco and vanilla. Matteo led her down a wide, silent corridor and opened a set of double doors.
He gestured for her to step inside, and the moment she did, the doors clicked shut behind her, leaving her entirely alone with the devil himself. The penthouse was breathtaking. Floor toseeiling windows offered a sweeping panoramic view of the dark expanse of Central Park and the glittering Manhattan skyline. But Kloe couldn't focus on the view. Gabriel Moretti was standing by a crystal decanter cart, his jacket discarded on an armchair, his crisp white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar.
He was pouring amber liquid into a heavy glass. I prefer Macallen 25, Gabriel said, his back still to her. But I have water if you'd rather. I I don't want a drink, Khloe managed to say, her voice shaking violently. She clutched her hands tightly over her stomach, a defensive posture she adopted whenever she felt profoundly vulnerable about her size.
Mister Moretti, I swear on my life. I didn't mean to spill the drinks. Lorenzo backed into me. I have no money to pay for his suit, but I can. Stop, Gabriel commanded softly. He turned around, glass in hand, and leaned against the mahogany desk.
He studied her again, taking in her terrified posture, the cheap polyester that failed to hide her soft, voluminous curves and the blood seeping through the paper towel on her thumb. "I didn't bring you up here to discipline you over a spilled drink, Chloe," he said, using her first name. "The sound of her name on his lips sent a bizarre shiver down her spine.
" "How do you know my name?" Gabriel took a slow sip of his scotch, his dark eyes tracing the line of her throat. I know everything that happens in my city, but more importantly, I know your brother, Tommy. All the blood drained from Khloe's face. The room suddenly tilted. Tommy, she whispered. What does Tommy have to do with this? He works in construction.
He works in construction, Gabriel agreed smoothly, setting his glass down. But he spends his weekends at an underground Bakarat table in Atlantic City. A table operated by my associates. Are you aware that your brother has a gambling addiction, Chloe? Tears pricricked the corners of her eyes. Tommy had sworn he was clean. He had sworn the late notices on the apartment were just bank errors. No, she breathed out, her heavy chest heaving.
He's been clean for 2 years. He owes me $250,000, Gabriel stated, the absolute coldness in his voice chilling her to the bone. A debt he has failed to make payments on for 6 months. In my world, blood is the only currency accepted when money runs out. Khloe's knees buckled slightly.
She grabbed the edge of a leather sofa to steady herself. "Please," she begged, abandoning her pride. "I'll pay it. I work three jobs. I can give you a thousand a month. Please don't hurt him. He's all I have left." Gabriel pushed off the desk and walked slowly toward her. Kloe shrank back, instinctively trying to make herself smaller, but there was nowhere to hide. He stopped mere inches from her.
Up close, he was a tower of muscle and heat, radiating a dangerous, overwhelming power. A thousand a month would take you 20 years. Assuming no interest, Gabriel murmured, looking down at her, he reached out, gently wrapping his large, warm fingers around her injured hand. He removed the bloody paper towel with surprising care. "Besides, Tommy has already offered a settlement.
" "A settlement?" Khloe asked, confused, trembling as Gabriel's thumb lightly brushed over her uninjured skin. "He offered me collateral," Gabriel said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming dark and thrming with a bizarre intensity. "He told me he had a sister. Said if I wiped the debt, I could have her.
" I brought the contract to the gayla tonight, fully intending to have my men collect this collateral and put her to work in one of my clubs. Khloe felt a wave of profound nausea, her own brother, the brother she had cooked for, cleaned for, and sacrificed her entire youth to raise after their parents died. He had sold her to the mafia to save his own skin. A sob caught in her throat, a choked sound of pure heartbreak.
Gabriel's jaw tightened. I expected a terrified little mouse, some skinny, forgettable girl weeping for mercy. His eyes slowly dragged down her body over her full breasts, straining against the vest, down to the soft, wide flare of her hips. There was no disgust in his gaze.
Instead, a dark, heavy hunger burned in his obsidian eyes, something raw and completely unexpected. Instead, Gabriel whispered, stepping into her space so completely that she could feel the heat of his body against hers. I find a woman taking up space in a room designed to crush her. A woman who bleeds without making a sound.
He reached into his pocket with his free hand, pulled out a folded piece of paper, the contract bearing Tommy's signature, and tossed it carelessly into a silver waist basket. You aren't going to a club, Chloe, Gabriel stated, his voice a possessive rumble. You aren't going back to the kitchen, and you aren't going back to your brother.
Then what are you going to do to me? She whispered, terrified of the answer, yet mesmerized by the intense heat radiating from the mob boss. Gabriel leaned down, his lips brushing mere millime from her ear. I'm going to keep you. Sunlight pierced the heavy floor toseeiling velvet curtains, casting sharp beams of gold across the sprawling king-sized bed.
Kloe jolted awake, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs until the terrifying memories of the previous night slammed into her consciousness. The gayla, the spilled champagne, her brother's devastating betrayal. Gabriel Moretti, she wasn't in her cramped, drafty queen's apartment. She was wrapped in sheets of Egyptian cotton with a thread count so high they felt like liquid silk against her bare skin.
Panic surged through her as she realized she was wearing a delicate lace-trimmed night gown. It was midnight blue, incredibly soft, and most shockingly, it fit perfectly. For a woman who spent her life fighting tight waistbands and restrictive sleeves, the garment draped beautifully over her thick thighs and full breasts, offering comfort she hadn't felt in years. A quiet knock preceded the opening of the bedroom door.
A severe-looking woman in a tailored gray suit stepped inside, carrying a silver tray with espresso and fresh fruit. Good morning, Miss Henderson. I am Beatatrice. Mr. already requested. I ensure you had everything you needed, the woman said, her tone professional and detached. She gestured toward the massive walk-in closet. Your wardrobe has been stocked.
Mister Moretti took the liberty of contacting a private buyer at Marina Raldi and several bespoke designers to acquire pieces immediately. He was highly specific about your measurements. Chloe felt a flush of heat rise to her cheeks. The most dangerous man in New York had studied her body closely enough to order customfitit luxury clothing for a size 22 frame overnight. "Where is he?" she managed to ask, her voice.
"Waiting for you in the study, dressed quickly." 20 minutes later, Khloe stood in front of a full-length mirror, stunned by her own reflection. She wore a beautifully tailored emerald green cashmere wrap dress that cinched perfectly at her waist and flowed elegantly over her wide hips. She didn't look like a clumsy waitress. She looked powerful. She looked expensive.
She found Gabriel in his study, a massive room lined with leatherbound books and digital encrypted servers blinking in the corners. He was standing by a mahogany conference table, speaking in low, rapid Italian to Matteo. Gabriel looked up as she entered, and the conversation instantly died.
His dark eyes locked onto her, traveling slowly from the soft curls framing her face down to the hem of her dress. The predatory hunger in his gaze was completely unfiltered, sending a heavy liquid heat straight to Khloe's core. He didn't look at her like she was too big or a burden or an obstacle. He looked at her like she was a feast. "Mateo, leave us," Gabriel murmured, never breaking eye contact with Chloe. The heavy doors clicked shut, leaving them alone.
Gabriel approached her slowly, stopping just inches away. The scent of tobacco and expensive cologne enveloped her. He reached out, his thumb gently tracing her jawline. "Emerald suits you. It brings out the gold in your eyes. Why am I here, Mr. Moretti? Khloe asked, forcing herself to hold his intense gaze, refusing to shrink back.
Men like you don't keep catering waitresses just because of a spilled drink. A dark smirk played on Gabriel's lips, sharp as well as beautiful. Sit down, Chloe. He pulled out a heavy leather chair for her. Once she was seated, Gabriel slid a sleek black folder across the polished wood. Your brother didn't just lose money at my tables, Gabriel began, his voice dropping all pretense of warmth.
Tommy is a rat, but he is an ambitious rat. He utilized his contracting job to gain access to the ventilation systems of a private wealth management firm in Manhattan. Specifically, a branch that handles offshore transfers for Pictat and Sea, one of the most impenetrable private banks in Geneva. Khloe's blood ran cold. Pictet and CA. She had seen that name on the news.
It was a sanctuary for the fortunes of billionaires, oligarchs, and syndicates. Tommy stole a ledger, Gabriel continued, his eyes hardening. A highly encrypted digital drive containing the routing numbers and proxy identities for over $80 million of my syndicate's clean assets. And instead of coming to me to negotiate, your brother panicked.
He reached out to Carmine, the boss of the Chicago faction Lorenzo works for, offering to sell the drive for a fraction of its worth to clear his debt and buy a new life. "Oh my god," Khloe breathed, burying her face in her hands. "He signed a death warrant." "He signed your death warrant?" Gabriel corrected sharply. "Carmine's men are butchers.
They don't negotiate. If they couldn't find Tommy, they would have found you. They would have dragged you to a basement in the Bronx and systematically tortured you until Tommy traded the drive for your life. Chloe looked up, tears blurring her vision. So, keeping me here, it isn't about the debt.
Gabriel braced his hands on the armrests of her chair, leaning in so close his lips brushed her ear. I brought you up to the penthouse, intending to use you as bait, to lock you in a gilded cage until Tommy crawled out of the woodwork. He pulled back slightly, his dark eyes blazing with a frightening intensity. But then I looked at you. I watched you bleed on that floor with more dignity than the billionaires sitting around you. I watched you stand your ground.
You are soft, Chloe. Gloriously, beautifully soft. But you have a spine of absolute steel. He reached out, his large hand resting possessively on the curve of her waist. You aren't bait anymore. You are mine and nobody touches what belongs to me. But I don't know where Tommy is, she whispered, her heart racing at his touch.
I don't know anything about bank routing numbers or offshore accounts. I have Croll Inc., the best private intelligence firm in the world, tearing the city apart looking for him, Gabriel said, standing upright. But Tommy is terrified, which makes him unpredictable. Kloe frowned, her mind racing.
Wait, Tommy isn't smart enough to bypass Swiss bank encryption, and he certainly doesn't know how to clean digital trails. She stood up, pacing the length of the rug. He wouldn't know what to do with a raw digital ledger. He would need a proxy to wash the codes through a legitimate system first. Gabriel's eyes narrowed. "What are you saying?" "I work three jobs," Khloe said, turning to face him.
One of them is late night data entry and invoice processing for Apex Logistics, a major freight forwarder down at the ports. Last week, Tommy begged me to push through three dummy manifests for shipping containers. He said his boss needed them expedited, and the system was locked. He gave me a flash drive to upload the serial codes directly into the mainframe.
Silence fell over the study. Gabriel stared at her, the pieces clicking together in his razor sharp mind. He didn't sell the drive to Carmine yet, Gabriel said quietly, a terrifying lethal calm settling over him. He hid the decryption keys inside the global supply chain grid of Apex Logistics. He hid them in plain sight. Using your security clearance, Khloe gasped. I'm the proxy.
Before Gabriel could speak, a deafening explosion rocked the penthouse. The floor toseeiling windows facing the private elevator bank shattered inward, raining a storm of jagged, bulletproof glass across the Persian rugs. The heavy oak doors of the study were blown entirely off their hinges, splintering into deadly projectiles. "Get down!" Gabriel roared, lunging across the room. His massive body hit Kloe, tackling her behind the thick reinforced mahogany.
conference table. Just as a hail of automatic gunfire shredded the leather chair she had been sitting in seconds prior, the penthouse alarms began shrieking. A piercing mechanical whale. Through the smoke and settling dust, Kloe could hear heavy combat boots crunching over the broken glass. Lorenzo hadn't waited for negotiations.
Carmine's men had breached the fortress. Gabriel drew a sleek, suppressed heckler and USSP from his shoulder holster. He didn't look panicked. He looked like a predator who had just been handed a reason to kill. He checked his magazine, his jaw locked tight. "Stay perfectly still," he commanded, his voice a low, terrifying rumble near her ear.
He looked at her, his eyes quickly scanning her body to ensure she hadn't been hit by the glass. He pressed a firm, reassuring hand against her soft thigh. "I won't let them touch you." Gabriel moved with terrifying speed, rising over the edge of the table and firing three silenced shots. Two heavy thuds echoed from the hallway. A man screamed in agony. Moretti.
Lorenzo's voice echoed through the ruined living room, dripping with malice. "Hand over the fat in the logistics codes, and my boss might let you keep a few of your teeth." Khloe squeezed her eyes shut, her heavy chest heaving with panic. They knew. Carmine's men knew she was the key to the Apex Logistics mainframe. Tommy hadn't just used her. He had effectively painted a target on her back to buy himself time.
Gabriel ducked back down as a fresh volley of bullets tore through the drywall. He looked at Chloe, his expression softening for a fraction of a second amidst the chaos. They only know about the logistics company. They don't know the exact terminal. Terminal 4, Khloe whispered rapidly, adrenaline sharpening her mind. Container bay 82.
That's where the dummy manifests are routed. But Gabriel, the system purges unverified freight data every 48 hours to prevent port congestion. If those codes were uploaded last Thursday, Gabriel's eyes widened slightly. They expire at midnight tonight. He tapped a secure earpiece. Matteo, we have a breach on the top floor. Lorenzo and a strike team. Seal the building and ready the armored transport in the subterranean garage.
We're moving to the docks. Gabriel grabbed Khloe's hand, his grip warm and absolute. Can you run? She looked down at her heavy frame at the elegant wrap dress and then up at the mob boss who had thrown his life on the line to shield her. Society had spent her entire life telling her she was too slow, too big, too much.
But looking into Gabriel's eyes, she didn't see judgment. She saw total faith. "Try and keep up," she said fiercely. Gabriel smiled, a sharp, lethal grin. He pulled her up and they sprinted toward the hidden service staircase behind the bookshelf. The descent was a blur of smoke and echoing gunfire. As Gabriel's security detail engaged Lorenzo's men, they reached the subterranean garage where a heavily armored, blacked out SUV was waiting, the engine roaring. Matteo was behind the wheel, a submachine gun resting on the passenger seat.
Gabriel shoved Khloe into the spacious back seat and climbed in after her, slamming the heavy ballistic door shut. Terminal 4, Port of New York. Step on it. The SUV tore out of the garage, the tires shrieking against the concrete as they merged violently into the Manhattan traffic. Khloe leaned back against the leather seats, trying to catch her breath.
Her hands were shaking violently. Gabriel reached over, pulling her completely into his chest. He didn't just hold her. He anchored her. He pressed his face into her hair, his heavy heartbeat thrumming steadily against her cheek. You did perfectly," he murmured, his hands tracing the curve of her back, sliding down to rest possessively on her wide hips. He loved how soft she was, how real she felt beneath his hands.
"You hold the keys to an empire in your head, Chloe." "Tommy set me up to die," she whispered. The reality of her brother's betrayal finally breaking her voice. "He knew Carmine would come for me." Gabriel tilted her chin up so she was forced to look at him. His eyes were dark, burning with a dangerous promise. Tommy is a dead man walking.
He thought you were expendable collateral. He didn't realize he was handing me a queen. He leaned down, his lips capturing hers in a bruising, desperate kiss. It tasted of smoke, expensive scotch, and absolute ownership. Khloe gasped, her hands tangling in his dark hair as she surrendered to the intoxicating heat of the man who ruled the city.
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For the first time in her life, she wasn't hiding. She wasn't shrinking. She was taking up space. And Gabriel Moretti wanted every single inch of her. When we secure the drive, Gabriel whispered against her lips as the shipping cranes of the port loomed in the distance.
I am going to show you exactly what happens to men who disrespect what belongs to me. The bullets are flying and the truth is finally out. With Khloe holding the digital keys to an $80 million empire inside her head, she's no longer just a waitress. She's the most powerful woman in the New York underworld. Will Gabriel and Khloe reach the port before the system deletes the codes? And what vicious revenge will Gabriel unleash on Lorenzo? If you are loving this thrilling mafia romance, hit that like button, share with your friends, and subscribe so you don't miss the explosive finale.
