The ruthless boss of the Rossy syndicate had never flinched at violence or extortion. Yet watching his impeccably organized, heavy set assistant laugh across a candle lit table in a plunging crimson dress with a stranger ignited a primal, consuming rage.
He ruled the underworld, but tonight another man was making a play for his queen.
Beatrice Gallagher was the most powerful woman in the New York underworld, though absolutely no one outside the mahogany doors of Rossy Enterprises knew it.
At a size 22, BA did not look like the women who usually drifted through Matteo Rossy’s orbit.
She wasn’t a towering waifelike model from Milan, nor was she one of the surgically enhanced cocktail waitresses from the underground casinos in Atlantic City.
Bae was fat, soft, and undeniably brilliant. She wore tailored, structured blazers that accommodated her broad shoulders and full bust, sensible block heels, and a permanent expression of professional indifference.
For 5 years, Bayer had been Mateo’s executive assistant. In the daylight, that meant managing the logistics of his massive import export empire.
In the shadows. It meant doctoring the ledgers for illicit shipments, arriving at Pier 47, paying off the right harbor masters, and ensuring that the Rossy family’s millions were scrubbed spotlessly clean through a network of shell companies in Delaware.
Matteo Rossi was a monster wrapped in bespoke Italian wool. He was 34, brutally handsome, and carried the kind of generational violence that made grown men stutter in his presence.
He was a man who demanded absolute perfection, and be was the only person on earth who consistently delivered it.
He didn’t just rely on her. He was hopelessly tethered to her. Mateo knew how she took her coffee, black, no sugar, and he knew the exact cadence of her typing when she was stressed about a delayed shipment from Polmo.
But he had never looked at her as a woman. To Mateo Bayer was an extension of his own mind, a permanent, immovable fixture in his empire.
She belonged to him purely in a corporate territorial sense, or so he thought. It started on a gloomy Tuesday in late October.
Bee had spent the better part of her morning mitigating a disaster involving a intercepted truck on the New Jersey Turnpike when she finally brought Mateo his afternoon espresso.
She placed a sleek cream colored envelope on his desk alongside a stack of manifests.
The union delegates agreed to your terms. MR. Rossi Bae said her voice smooth and devoid of inflection and I’ll be leaving precisely at 5:00 this Friday.
Matteo, who was in the middle of reviewing a contract, didn’t look up. Cancel whatever it is.
The Colombos are coming into the city on Friday night. I need you here to prep the briefing documents for the sitdown.
I’ve already prepped them. They are in the blue folder on your credenza. Bear replied calmly, smoothing the front of a dark pencil skirt.
I am leaving at 5. Matteo finally lifted his dark eyes, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion.
Be never left at 5:00. She regularly worked until midnight, matching his grueling hours out of sheer dedication.
“Where are you going?” He asked, the question slipping out before his usual filter of detached authority could stop it.
Be hesitated for a fraction of a second. A faint, almost imperceptible flush crept up her plump cheeks.
I have a personal engagement. A what? A date, MR. Rossy. The word hung in the cold, heavily airond conditioned office.
A date. Matteo stared at her, taking in her plush figure, the soft curve of her jaw, and the defiant glint in her hazel eyes.
It wasn’t that he thought nobody would want her. She had a gorgeous face, skin like porcelain, and a sharp biting wit.
It was simply that the concept of bee having a life, a romantic existence outside of him was entirely foreign.
It felt like a glitch in the matrix. A date. Mateo repeated his voice, dropping an octave, taking on a dangerous grally edge.
With who? That is my personal business, they said, holding his gaze with a terrifying amount of bravery.
I will see you on Monday. When Friday rolled around the atmosphere in the executive suite, was suffocating.
Matteo had been snapping at his underbosses all day, throwing a glass ashtray at a capo who misreported the weekly earnings from the queen’s rackets.
Every time he looked through the glass partition of his office, he saw Be. At 4:30, she went into the private executive washroom.
When she emerged at 4:50, the air was entirely sucked out of Matteo’s lungs. Ba had completely transformed.
The sensible blazer was gone. In its place was a wrapped dress in a shade of deep bruised crimson.
The fabric clung to her heavy curves, accentuating her generous hips and pulling tight across her full chest.
Her hair usually scraped back into a severe bun cascaded down her shoulders in thick, dark waves.
She applied a dark red lipstick that made her mouth look impossibly soft. As she walked to the elevator, the heavy click clack of her heels echoed in the silent office.
Every guard and made man in the vicinity subtly turned their heads, suddenly realizing that the boss’s fearsome assistant was breathtaking.
Mateo’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ground together. A primal, ugly, territorial instinct flared in his chest as the elevator doors closed, swallowing her in a flash of crimson.
Mateo picked up his desk phone. Get my car. He barked to his driver. And find out exactly where she is going.
Yand said the restaurant was Leeti Kurr, an absurdly pretentious Michelinstarred French beastro on the Upper East Side.
It was the kind of place where the lighting was deliberately dim, the champagne cost more than a car payment, and the waiters moved with the silent efficiency of ghosts.
Bee sat in a velvet booth, feeling a strange mixture of exhilaration and severe anxiety.
Sitting across from her was Arthur Pendleton, an actuary she had matched with on a dating app.
Arthur was perfectly nice. He was balding slightly, wore wire rimmed glasses, and had spent the last 20 minutes talking about municipal bonds.
He wasn’t thrilling, but he was safe. He was legal. He was everything Mateo Rossi was not.
So, Beatatrice. Arthur smiled, adjusting his glasses. You said you work in logistics. Something like that.
Bae smiled politely, taking a sip of her pen noir. It’s a demanding job. Lots of late nights managing inventory.
Well, you must be very good at it,” Arthur said, his eyes dropping briefly to her cleavage before darting back to her face, a nervous flush on his neck.
“You look absolutely stunning tonight, by the way. Red is definitely your color.” “Thank you, Arthur,” Bee said genuinely touched.
She knew she was a big woman, and she carried her weight with pride, but a compliment still felt warm.
She laughed at something mildly amusing, he said, her head throwing back slightly, exposing the long column of her throat.
From across the dining room, sitting in the darkest corner booth, Matteo Rossi watched that laugh.
He was supposed to be having a highly sensitive sitdown with Victor Kosoff, the head of the Brat’s Brooklyn faction.
Victor was currently explaining the terms of a new shipping route. His heavy Russian accent, rumbling over the sound of clinking silverware.
Mateo didn’t hear a single word. His dark eyes were locked onto be. The sight of her in that red dress smiling for another man was a physical torment.
He watched the way the actuary, who looked like a stiff breeze, could knock him over, leaned in closer to his bay.
He watched the man’s eyes linger on the soft, plush swell of her breasts. A dark, violent jealousy erupted in Matteo’s bloodstream, burning hot and thick.
It wasn’t just possessiveness over an employee. It was a sudden, jarring awakening. He wanted her.
He wanted the soft curves of her body. He wanted that sharp mind entirely focused on him.
And he wanted to wrap his hands around the throat of the pathetic little man sitting across from her.
“Mateo,” Victor prompted, noticing the mafia boss’s complete lack of attention. “Are we in agreement regarding the docks?”
Mateo slowly stood up, tossing a crumpled $100 bill onto his untouched stake. “The docks are fine, Victor.
Excuse me. I have a pest control issue to handle.” Bee was just reaching for a piece of bread when the temperature at her table seemed to drop 10°.
The ambient chatter of the restaurant faded into a nervous hush. A large shadow fell over the white tablecloth.
They looked up and the breath completely left her body. Standing next to their table was Mateo.
He was wearing a custom black Tom Ford suit, his hands tucked casually into his pockets, but his eyes were entirely feral.
The lethal commanding aura he projected was suffocating. “MR. Rossy?” Bae gasped, her professional facade crumbling in an instant.
“What? What are you doing here?” Mateo didn’t look at her. His dead shark-like gaze was fixed entirely on Arthur, who suddenly looked like a gazelle that had just realized it was in the presence of a lion.
“Beckai,” Mateo said, his voice, a low, terrifying purr. “You didn’t introduce me to your friend,” Arthur swallowed hard, instinctively shrinking back into the velvet booth.
“I I’m Arthur. Arthur Pendleton. I’m a friend of Beatatrices. He extended a trembling hand.
Mateo looked at the hand as if it were a diseased rat. He did not take it.
Arthur. Mateo repeated, rolling the name around in his mouth like a bad taste. I’m Matteo Rossi, Beatatric’s employer and the man who currently needs her back at the office.
Bee’s face flushed hot with indignation. Excuse me. I am off the clock, MR. Rossy.
We agreed. A crisis came up. Mateo interrupted smoothly, shifting his imposing bulk so he was physically boxing Arthur into the booth.
He leaned down, placing his large, scarred hands flat on the table, invading their space.
A very large, very expensive shipment was seized. I need my lead logistics coordinator now.
Arthur looked frantically between Bee and the towering terrifying man looming over him. Um, well, if it’s an emergency, Beatrice, I understand.
We can we can always do this another time. No, Arthur, stay. Bae commanded her hazel eyes flashing with rare unbridled fury as she glared at her boss.
She lowered her voice to a furious hiss. Mateo, this is completely out of line.
Whatever it is, one of the capos can handle it until Monday. Mateo leaned in closer until his face was mere inches from baze.
He could smell her perfume, something sweet, like vanilla and dark amber. His gaze dropped to her red lips, then flicked up to her eyes.
No one else can handle it, B. You know that, he murmured softly. The threat barely veiled beneath his velvet tone, and Arthur here was just leaving.
“Weren’t you, Arty?” Mateo shifted his gaze back to the actuary. He didn’t make a verbal threat.
He didn’t pull back his jacket to reveal the Glock 19, holstered at his ribs.
He simply gave Arthur a look of such absolute promise-filled violence that the civilian practically scrambled out of the booth.
Right. Yes. I was just I have an early morning. Arthur stammered, throwing a $50 bill on the table and refusing to meet Bee’s eye.
Lovely meeting you, Beatrice. Really. Good luck with the shipments. Before Bee could say another word, Arthur had practically sprinted out of the restaurant doors.
Bear sat frozen in the booth, her chest heaving heavily beneath the crimson silk of her dress.
The humiliation and rage were bubbling over. She slowly turned her head to look at Mateo, who was now casually sliding into the seat Arthur had just vacated, looking obscenely satisfied with himself.
“You,” Bae breathed her voice, shaking with rage, are a monster. “I’m aware,” Mateo replied, reaching over to pick up the glass of pin noir she had been drinking from.
He turned the glass so his lips touched the exact spot where her red lipstick had left a mark and took a slow sip.
His dark eyes locked onto hers blazing with a terrifying possessive heat. Now let’s talk about that dress, Beatatrice.
My dress is none of your concern. Bayer snapped her voice, trembling slightly. She tried to maintain her rigid corporate posture, but the velvet booth felt incredibly small, with Matteo’s broad shoulders blocking her only exit.
You had absolutely no right to interfere in my private life. Arthur is a respectable man.
Arthur is a weak, spineless civilian who wears polyester blend suits and doesn’t know how to look at a woman like you.
Mateo growled his voice, dropping to a grally whisper. His gaze swept over the plunging neckline of the crimson wrap dress, the dark possessive hunger in his eyes completely undisguised.
He leaned closer, the scent of his bespoke sandalwood cologne, and danger intoxicating her. He was looking at you like you were a museum exhibit.
He wasn’t allowed to touch. Beatatrice, you are not a museum exhibit. Be felt a flush rise from her chest.
All the way to her hairline. For 5 years, she had buried her attraction to the ruthless mob boss under piles of spreadsheets and legal briefings.
She was the fat, efficient assistant. He was the untouchable, lethal king of New York.
The lines were drawn in permanent ink. But tonight, Mateo was violently scribbling outside of them.
“I am your employee, MR. Rossy, Bayer said firmly, gripping her clutch purse. And I am going home.
You are coming with me, Mateo counted his tone, leaving no room for negotiation. I wasn’t lying about the shipment.
And I’m not leaving you on the street in that dress where any desperate idiot can look at what belongs to me.
Be’s breath hitched. What belongs to me? Before she could process the weight of that statement, Matteo slid out of the booth, towering over her, he offered his hand.
For a moment, Bee considered refusing, but the lethal glint in his dark eyes told her he was fully prepared to throw her over his shoulder and carry her out of the Michelin starred restaurant.
She placed her soft, manicured hand in his large, scarred one. The heat of his skin sent a jolt of electricity straight down her spine.
He didn’t let go. Mateo pulled her firmly against his side, his arm wrapping around the plush curve of her waist, anchoring her heavy hips to his thigh as they walked out of Leeti Kurr.
The metradee visibly cowered as they passed, practically bowing as he held open the heavy oak doors.
The crisp October air hit Bee’s face, cooling her flushed cheeks. Lexington Avenue was relatively quiet at this hour, bathed in the amber glow of street lights.
Half a block down, Matteo’s armored black Maybach S-Class sat idling at the curb, his driver Dominic standing at attention by the rear door.
“I can take a cab,” Be protested weakly, though she made no move to pull away from the heavy comforting weight of his arm around her waist.
“You’re getting in the car, Bae.” Mateo said, his voice softening just a fraction. He reached out his thumb, gently brushing a stray, dark curl away from her cheek.
The tenderness of the gesture was so foreign, so deeply out of character for the monster she worked for.
That be froze. You look beautiful tonight. So beautiful it makes me want to burn this city to the ground just to keep you safe.
He was looking at her lips, his head tilting down. Bee’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
He was going to kiss her. Right here on the pavement, but the kiss never happened.
The deafening roar of a high-powered engine shattered the quiet night. A black Cadillac Escalade, its headlights entirely blacked out, swerved violently around the corner of 65th Street.
Its tires screaming against the asphalt. Matteo’s survival instincts honed from two decades in the bloody trenches of the mafia kicked in a fraction of a second before the rear windows of the escalade rolled down.
“Get down!” Mateo roared. He didn’t just push her, he tackled her. Matteo’s massive frame slammed into be, wrapping his arms around her head and shoulders burying her under his weight as they crashed onto the cold concrete of the sidewalk.
The breath was knocked out of Bee’s lungs, her heavy breasts crushed against the pavement, the silk of her crimson dress tearing at the knee.
Rat tutt the staccato crack of automatic gunfire echoed off the brick buildings. Sparks flew as bullets chewed through the brick facade of the restaurant and shattered the glass windows above them.
Diners screamed from inside the beastro. Matteo didn’t flinch, shielding Bee’s body entirely with his own custom Tom Ford suit.
He reached under his jacket, drawing his Glock 19 in one fluid, blindingly fast motion.
He rolled slightly off B, propping himself on one knee and returned fire. His shots were methodical, cold, and precise.
One bullet shattered the Escalade’s passenger side mirror. The next pierced the rear tire, causing the heavy SUV to violently swerve.
Dominic lay down cover. Matteo barked. Down the street, Dominic had already drawn a matte black submachine gun from under his coat, sending a heavy spray of bullets toward the crippled SUV.
Realizing they had lost the element of surprise against a heavily armed boss, the driver of the Escalade slammed on the gas, the vehicle limping frantically down the avenue on a blown tire before disappearing into the New York traffic.
Silence crashed back down onto the street, broken only by the whale of distant sirens and the terrified sobbing from inside the restaurant.
Mateo immediately dropped his weapon to his side and dropped to his knees next to be.
His hands were shaking, a phenomenon Bee had never witnessed before. He ran his hands frantically over her arms, her back, the thick curve of her thighs, searching for blood.
B. Beatatrice, look at me. He demanded, his voice thick with panic. He grabbed her face, his thumbs wiping the grit from her cheek.
“Are you hit? Tell me you’re not hit.” “I’m fine,” she gasped, struggling to sit up.
Her knee was badly scraped, and her crimson dress was ruined with dirt and asphalt, but there were no bullet holes.
“I’m okay, Matteo. You’re bleeding. A jagged piece of shrapnel or a grazing bullet had sliced a clean line across Mateo’s left bicep, soaking the sleeve of his jacket in dark crimson.
He didn’t even look at it. He hauled be to her feet, his grip on her waist like a vice practically lifting her off the ground as he dragged her towards the waiting Maybach.
Get in, he ordered, shoving her into the plush leather interior before diving in after her.
Dominic, get us the hell out of here. The Bakarat penthouse now. The Maybach’s engine roared, tires spinning as it launched into the night, leaving the bloody chaos of the Upper East Side behind.
In the back seat, the adrenaline was thick enough to choke on. Be was shaking violently.
She had orchestrated hits on paper. She had moved millions in blood money, but she had never been caught in the crossfire.
Mateo reached across the wide leather seat, pulling her heavy, trembling body onto his lap.
He didn’t care about the blood soaking his arm. Nor did he care about the boundaries of their professional relationship.
He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the sweet vanilla scent of her perfume.
His large hands gripping her thick thighs as if she were a lifeline. “If I had lost you,” Mateo whispered, his voice cracking a sound so raw and vulnerable it made Bee’s chest ache.
“If I had lost you, because I was too stupid to lock you down.” “Who was it?”
Bae asked her logistical brain, desperately trying to override her terror. She rested her hands on his broad shoulders, feeling the heavy, frantic beat of his heart against her chest.
“Was it Victor Kof?” “He was at the restaurant.” “It was the Bratzva,” Mateo confirmed his eyes hardening to black ice as he pulled back to look at her.
He kept me talking while his men set up outside. They knew I wouldn’t have my full security detail for a private sitdown.
A sudden terrifying twist of realization hit B. The money, Matteo Bayer, said her eyes widening her hazel eyes suddenly sharp and brilliant in the dim light of the car.
The offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands, the 20 million we were supposed to transfer to Cosvor for the new docks tonight.
It doesn’t matter. Mateo growled, his hand smoothing over the curve of her hip. I’ll kill Victor by dawn.
The money is gone. Bee’s soft lips suddenly curved into a wicked, devastating smile. The fear entirely vanished from her eyes, replaced by the brilliant, ruthless intellect that made her the true queen of his empire.
“No, MR. Rossy.” Ba whispered her hands, sliding up to cup his face. It isn’t.
The Maybach slipped silently into the underground highly secure garage of the Bakarat Hotel and Residences in Midtown.
Dominic escorted them straight to the private elevator that opened directly into Mateo’s sprawling $50 million penthouse.
The moment the heavy steel doors locked behind them, the absolute silence of the soundproof department enveloped them.
The city lights of Central Park South glittered through the floor to ceiling windows, but Mateo didn’t look at the view.
He stripped off his ruined suit jacket, tossing it onto a white leather sofa, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at the bloody gash on his arm.
Bee immediately went into fixer mode. She kicked off her ruined Christian Lubboutan heels, ignoring the tear in her dress, and marched straight to the master bathroom to retrieve the heavy trauma kit kept under the sink.
“Sit down,” she ordered, walking back into the living room. Mateo obeyed, sinking onto the edge of the sofa, watching her with predatory, fascinated eyes as she opened the kit.
She cleaned the wound with practiced efficiency. It was a deep graze from a piece of shattered glass.
Not a bullet, she applied antiseptic and began wrapping his bicep with thick white gauze.
Explain the money, Beatatrice, Mateo said softly, the adrenaline giving way to a deep simmering awe.
I never trusted Koff said calmly, pulling the tape tight. His ledgers from last quarter didn’t match the tonnage he claimed to be moving through Brooklyn.
He was skimming. I knew if you went to that sitdown tonight, he would try to blindside you.
Matteo stared at her. So, what did you do? I set up a ghost account through a shell company in Zurich, Bear explained, looking up into his dark eyes.
When I left the office at 5, I didn’t authorize the transfer to the Brata.
I wired the 20 million into our Zurich account and locked the encryption. Kof’s men probably hit us because he checked his accounts during your dinner and realized he was empty-handed.
I stole his money, Mateo. Mateo let out a low, breathless laugh, running his uninjured hand through his dark hair.
She was a genius, a ruthless, brilliant, devastatingly gorgeous genius. You went on a date with an actuary, Matteo murmured, reaching out to grip her waist, pulling her between his spread thighs.
Knowing the Bratza was going to declare war on me tonight. Arthur was an alibi and a distraction.
Be admitted her voice, softening her hands, coming to rest on his broad, muscular chest.
She looked down, suddenly feeling deeply vulnerable. I knew you were watching me. I knew you had me followed.
I wanted you to see me. Why? Mateo asked, his hands sliding up the soft, heavy curve of her hips, pulling her flush against his groin.
Because I was tired of being invisible to you, be whispered a tear finally escaping and tracking down her cheek.
I run your empire, Matteo. I bleed for this family, but to you I was just a a machine in a blazer.
The fat girl who balances the books. Don’t ever call yourself that. Mateo snarled fiercely, his hands gripping her thighs through the torn silk of her dress.
He pulled her down onto his lap, uncaring of his injured arm. He buried his hands in her thick, dark hair, forcing her to look into his blazing eyes.
You think I don’t see you? I haven’t looked at another woman in 5 years, Beatatrice.
Not since the day you walked into my office. Bee’s breath hitched. Mateo, I didn’t touch you because you were the only pure thing in my filthy violent life.
He confessed his voice thick with raw emotion. I thought if I tainted you with this, with me, you would leave.
But watching that pathetic little man look at your body tonight, it broke me. You are mine, Bear.
Every brilliant thought in your head, every soft curve of your body, it belongs to me.
He didn’t wait for permission this time. Matteo crushed his mouth to hers. The kiss was explosive, tasting of expensive wine, adrenaline, and years of repressed, agonizing desire.
Be groaned, her heavy body melting against his rocksolid frame. Her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer as he ravaged her mouth.
Matteo’s hands were everywhere, worshiping her. He slid his large palms up her ribs, marveling at the soft, plush weight of her breasts, groaning into her mouth.
He loved the thickness of her thighs, the generous curve of her belly, the absolute undeniable femininity of her shape.
He had never felt a woman who fit so perfectly against him. “You’re perfect,” he gasped against her jaw, kissing a burning trail down her throat.
“Do you are so beautiful, Mateo?” She breathed her fingers tangling in his dark hair, entirely surrendering to the heat of the mafia king she had loved in secret for half a decade.
“What about Kof?” Mateo pulled back just enough to look at her, a lethal, bloody smile playing on his lips.
His hand rested heavily on her lush hip, claiming her fully. “Let Dominic and the Capos handle Cos,” the ruthless boss of the Rossy Syndicate, whispered before claiming her lips again.
“Tonight I’m busy worshiping my queen. Did the fiery conclusion of Mateo and Bee’s story leave you breathless?
