The Mafia Boss Demanded She Lose Weight — Her Savage Reply Made Him Obsessed

Slowly, Dakota stood up. She pushed her chair back, the legs scraping loudly against the floor, and met the Mafia boss's dead black eyes with a blazing inferno of her own.

The silence in the glass-walled boardroom was total. Outside, rain lashed against the skyscraper windows, but inside, the air was suspended in amber. Gabriel Moretti stood six feet away, his bespoke jacket flared slightly over the holstered semi-automatic at his hip, his hands resting on the oak table. He expected tears. He expected a trembling apology or a silent, shame-filled retreat. He had broken senators, union bosses, and cartel captains with a single look.

Dakota didn't blink. She reached out, took her red-tabbed folder off the table, and tucked it calmly back into her tote bag.

"My weight is two hundred and thirty pounds, Mr. Moretti," Dakota said, her voice clear, resonant, and entirely devoid of fear. "And every single ounce of it has more structural integrity than the men you currently employ."

A junior accountant near the back choked on his breath. Gabriel’s dark eyebrows twitched downward, a dangerous, subtle shift.

"You think my self-discipline is reflected in my body?" Dakota continued, taking a step toward him. She wasn't tall, but her posture was immaculate, her shoulders squared, her chin held high. "Your senior partner was a size thirty-two waist who ran marathons on weekends. He spent three years eating from your pocket because he was clever enough to know you only look at people's waistlines, not their ledgers. You missed a four-point-two-million-dollar leak because you were too busy admiring your own reflection in the mirror."

The lieutenants in the doorway shifted instantly, their hands moving toward their coats. Gabriel held up one finger, freezing them in place. His dead black eyes didn't leave Dakota’s face.

"I can lose fifty pounds in six months if I choose to, Mr. Moretti," Dakota added, adjusting her glasses with her index finger. "But you will be stupid for the rest of your life. Good luck finding your money."

She turned her back on Chicago's most feared crime lord, picked up her umbrella, and walked toward the glass doors.

"Stop her," Gabriel murmured.

Two armed guards blocked the exit, their faces grim. Dakota stopped, turned around, and looked at Gabriel with supreme boredom.

"Kill me if you want," she said. "My mother gets my life insurance, and your traitor on the docks buys a yacht in Saint-Tropez next Tuesday with your cash. Shoot or move."

Gabriel didn't order her death. He stood staring at her as if she were a creature from another dimension—a woman who saw his power, his cruelty, and his physical perfection, and found all three utterly unimpressive.