His Fiancée Betrayed Him Publicly—Then the Mafia Boss Chose the Woman Everyone Mocked Part 1
His Fiancée Betrayed Him Publicly—Then the Mafia Boss Chose the Woman Everyone Mocked
Part 1
The clinking of crystal champagne flutes masked the sound of a loaded revolver slipping into a velvet holster.
Dominic Russo had built a ruthless syndicate on absolute loyalty—only to have his flawless high-society fiancée shatter it on the night of their engagement. But when the dust settled and the elite whispered their cruel jokes, the mafia boss didn’t unleash a bloodbath. Instead, he locked eyes with the one woman in the room everyone else treated like invisible trash, and he made her his queen.
The grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was a sea of glittering diamonds, tailored Italian silk, and dangerous secrets. Tonight was supposed to be the crowning achievement of Dominic Russo’s decade-long ascent to the head of the Russo syndicate. By marrying Khloe Davenport, the stunning, slender daughter of Senator Arthur Davenport, Dominic was securing a legitimate political shield for his family’s underworld empire.
He stood near the ice sculpture that bore their intertwined initials, a glass of expensive scotch in his hand. His dark eyes scanned the room, calculating the loyalties of the five hundred guests mingling under the crystal chandeliers.
He didn’t love Khloe. In his world, love was a liability—a soft underbelly waiting to be sliced open. But he appreciated her aesthetic perfection, her ability to play the flawless socialite, and most importantly, her father’s influence.
Across the room, Beatrice Hayes stood entirely still, trying desperately to blend into the velvet curtains near the audiovisual booth. As Khloe’s legally adopted stepsister, Beatrice was technically part of the Davenport dynasty, but she was treated as little more than the family’s glorified assistant.
Where Khloe was a size-zero former pageant queen with cascading blonde hair, Beatrice was undeniably fat. She possessed a soft, heavy figure that the Davenport family viewed as a personal affront to their image. Tonight Khloe had forced her to wear an ill-fitting, muted gray dress that pinched her arms and did nothing to flatter her wide hips and full stomach, ensuring Beatrice looked like a dowdy shadow next to the glowing bride-to-be.
Beatrice hated these events. She hated the side-eyes from the socialites, the cruel whispers when she approached the buffet, and the way her stepfather Arthur pretended she didn’t exist. Her only task tonight was to signal the AV technician to play the engagement montage—a sickeningly sweet video of Dominic and Khloe that Beatrice herself had been forced to edit.
“Where the hell is she?” Dominic’s underboss, Lorenzo, murmured, stepping up to Dominic’s side. “Speeches are in five minutes. Khloe’s been missing for twenty.”
“Probably fixing her makeup,” Dominic replied, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that commanded immediate respect. “Find her. Tell her it’s time.”
At the AV booth, the technician tapped Beatrice’s shoulder. “Miss Hayes, the senator just gave me the cue to roll the video. Should I wait for the bride?”
Beatrice scanned the room. Khloe was notoriously late for everything, thriving on dramatic entrances.
“No,” Beatrice sighed, adjusting the tight fabric around her waist. “If Arthur gave the cue, you play it. Dim the lights.”
The chandeliers faded to a warm ambient glow. The chatter of the elite died down as the massive projector screen lowered over the grand stage. A spotlight hit the center of the room, expecting Dominic and Khloe to step into it.
Dominic stepped forward alone, his tailored black tuxedo cutting a striking, solitary figure.
But the video that flickered onto the screen wasn’t the montage of sunset yacht rides and staged charity galas.
Instead, the screen blared to life with raw, grainy security footage. The timestamp in the corner flashed the current date. The time was ten minutes ago. The location: the Plaza’s third-floor VIP coat room.
