“Touch Him Again,” His Jealous Fiancée Snapped—But the Mafia King Refused to Let the Curvy Maid Leave His Side

By mid-afternoon, news of Dr. Mercer’s sudden, violent dismissal had sent a shockwave through the upper echelons of the Vale Syndicate.

Down on the ground floor of the Black Pelican, inside the soundproof, oak-paneled executive lounge, three men sat around a low marble table, sipping fifteen-hundred-dollar cognac.

At the center of the leather sofa sat Victor Vance—Julianna’s father, a broad-shouldered man in his late fifties with silver hair, cold blue eyes, and a ruthless reputation along the Gulf freight routes.

Sitting across from him was Julianna, her face pale, her red lips pressed into a thin, angry line as she swirled her glass.

Standing near the window was Sal Moretti—Dante’s underboss, a greasy, sharp-eyed man in his late forties who managed the syndicate’s distribution warehouses in West New Orleans.

"He threw Mercer out?" Victor Vance asked, his voice deep and gravelly like grinding river stones. "The best neurologist on the East Coast?"

"Dragged out by Marcus," Julianna snapped, her voice trembling with indignity. "And all because of that fat river-trash maid he hired off the housekeeping floor!"

Sal Moretti took a puff from a fat Cuban cigar, blow a thin plume of gray smoke toward the ceiling.

"It’s not just about a maid, Victor," Sal said, leaning against the window frame. "Dante hasn't left the ninth floor all day. He canceled the shipping audit with your managers this morning. My guys inside the hotel say he’s brought in private physical therapy equipment under armed guard."

Victor’s eyes narrowed into sharp, dangerous slits. "Is he improving?"

"If he improves," Sal said softly, stepping closer to the table, "the wedding is off. The merger between your shipping line and our distribution network gets put on hold while Dante reassumes direct personal control over the docks."

Julianna slammed her glass down onto the table, splashing cognac onto the polished marble.

"He held her wrist right in front of me, Father!" Julianna hissed. "He threatened to cancel our contract if I spoke to her! He’s treating that girl like she’s made of gold!"

Victor sat back, resting his large, calloused hands on his knees. He had spent forty years taking control of river freight through murder, bribery, and strategic marriages. He had agreed to marry his daughter to a man in a wheelchair because a crippled boss was easier to manipulate, easier to bypass, and eventually, easier to replace.

A standing Dante Vale was a completely different nightmare.

"Who is the girl?" Victor asked flatly.

"Lena Maro," Sal answered, pulling a thin manila folder from his jacket and tossing it onto the table. "Twenty-six years old. Grew up in Biloxi. Father’s an ex-dockworker with failing kidneys. No political connections. No family money. She’s completely vulnerable."

Victor opened the folder, scanning the photos of Lena taken from hotel security cameras—photos showing her thick, curvy frame, her soft dark hair, and her quiet, earnest eyes.

"She’s his weakness," Victor said, a dark, calculating smile spreading across his heavy face. "Dante has been an impenetrable fortress for seven years because he cared about nothing except his ledger and his guns. Now, he’s found a little bird he wants to protect."

"What do you want to do, Father?" Julianna asked, her green eyes glinting with malicious hope.

"We don't touch the girl inside the Pelican," Victor said, closing the folder with a sharp thud. "Dante’s security on the ninth floor is absolute. But her father... her father sits in an unguarded clinic three miles down the road every Tuesday morning."

Sal Moretti chuckled softly, taking another drag from his cigar. "A gentle conversation with the old man?"

"A conversation," Victor agreed, leaning forward. "We let Miss Maro know that if Dante Vale takes one single step without our permission... her father won't survive his next dialysis cycle."