The Plus-Size Woman Kissed a Mafia Boss for a Dare…

The Plus-Size Woman Kissed a Mafia Boss for a Dare… Then He Claimed Her…

I kissed a terrifying stranger because my best friend called me the “safe fat friend.” Less than twenty-four hours later, that same stranger walked into my Chicago boardroom as Dominic Romano—a billionaire logistics CEO whose name came with whispers about organized crime. Then I found the dirty accounts. Then I learned my own boss had deliberately put my name on them. But the worst part came from one drunken text on my phone: the dare had never been random. I hadn’t wandered into Dominic Romano’s world by accident. Someone I trusted had placed me directly in his path—and expected me to take the fall.

PART 1: One cruel birthday dare dropped me into a billionaire’s trap

“Kiss the man in the corner, or admit you’re exactly what everybody thinks you are—the safe fat friend.”

Samantha smiled when she said it.

That was the part I remembered.

Not the tequila.

Not the bass humming through the walls of the Violet Hour.

Not the $24 cocktail sweating beside my elbow.

Her smile.

Small.

Satisfied.

Cruel.

I stared across our leather booth at the woman I’d called my best friend since Northwestern.

“What exactly does everybody think I am?”

Samantha was three drinks past polite and one drink away from vomiting in an Uber Black.

She waved one manicured hand.

“Oh, Clarissa. Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make everything serious.”

“Call me fat, then explain why I’m too serious.”

Her smile flickered.

Around us, Chicago’s beautiful people pretended not to listen.

A blonde woman in a silver dress laughed too loudly near the bar.

Some guy in Gucci loafers checked his Rolex.

A police siren passed somewhere outside on North Damen Avenue.

Samantha leaned closer.

“You know you’re gorgeous.”

There it was.

The emergency exit after the insult.

“You’re gorgeous, but…”

“You’re gorgeous, except…”

“You’re gorgeous for…”

I knew the script.

I was twenty-six years old, a size eighteen, five-foot-eight in heels, and wearing a sapphire wrap dress I’d spent three weeks deciding whether I was “allowed” to buy.

I looked good.

I knew I looked good.

That didn’t mean old bruises stopped hurting when somebody pushed them.

Samantha pointed toward a raised booth in the darkest corner.

“Prove me wrong.”

I followed her finger.

And immediately said, “Hell no.”

The man sitting there looked like somebody casting a mafia movie had been told to stop being subtle.

Mid-thirties.

Dark hair.

Charcoal suit.

Broad shoulders.

A heavy silver ring.

Two massive men stood behind him without drinks, smiles, or any visible interest in having fun.

The stranger wasn’t talking.

He was watching.

There’s a difference.

“You want me to kiss that guy?”

“One kiss.”

“He has bodyguards.”

“Security.”

“They look like they bury security.”

Samantha laughed.

Then she twisted the knife.

“See? Safe.”

I looked at her.

“Stop.”

“Funny Clarissa. Responsible Clarissa. Everybody’s emergency contact Clarissa.”

“Samantha.”

“Never reckless. Never dangerous. Never the woman some man loses his mind over.”

I stood.

Her smile disappeared.

“Hold my purse.”

“Wait. Seriously?”

Too late.

My heels clicked across the hardwood.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Every intelligent cell in my body was screaming at me to turn around.

I audited multinational corporations for a living.

I found seven-figure accounting irregularities before lunch.

I did not kiss strange men because a former pageant queen with daddy’s AmEx had wounded my pride.

Apparently, I did that night.

One of the bodyguards stepped forward.

“Ma’am—”

The seated man lifted one finger.

The guard stopped instantly.

That should have been warning number eighty-seven.

I stepped closer.

Up close, the stranger was worse.

Not uglier.

Worse for my judgment.

Dark eyes.

Strong jaw.

A little stubble.

Cedar, leather, and expensive Scotch.

His gaze moved over me without surprise.

Without amusement.

Without that irritating little double take some men gave me, like curves and confidence weren’t supposed to occupy the same body.

He looked at me like he’d already decided something.

That scared me.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

His eyebrow lifted.

“I lost a bet.”

“Did you?”

His voice was low enough to make the back of my neck warm.

I should have walked away.

Instead, I leaned down.

I intended to kiss his cheek.

Quick.

Stupid.

Done.

He turned his head.

My mouth landed on his.

His hand closed around my waist.

I gasped.

He pulled me off balance, and suddenly my knees hit the booth and one hand was braced against his shoulder.

He could have stopped.

So could I.

Neither of us did.

The kiss lasted maybe five seconds.

It felt like somebody had disconnected the rest of the building.

When I pulled away, my lipstick was probably halfway across his face.

I stared at him.

He stared back.

Then his thumb brushed beneath my bottom lip.

“You taste like lime.”

My pulse went insane.

“What’s your name?”

I finally remembered I had survival instincts.

“I have to go.”

He caught my wrist lightly.

Not painfully.

Still, my body went rigid.

“Your name.”

“Clarissa.”

Something changed in his expression.

“Clarissa.”

The way he repeated it made running seem reasonable.

So I ran.

I grabbed my purse from Samantha, ignored her shrieking questions, and pushed through the front door into freezing Chicago air.

By the time I got home to Lincoln Park, the whole thing felt unreal.

My apartment smelled faintly like the Thai food I’d abandoned in my refrigerator.

My graduation photo sat crooked on the bookshelf.

A coffee mug was still in the sink from that morning.

Normal things.

Safe things.

I slept terribly.

At 6:40 a.m., I stood barefoot at my kitchen island drinking black coffee and swallowing Advil.

By nine, I was inside Willis Tower wearing a charcoal pantsuit and my professional face.

I had a new client.

Romano Holdings.