When the ruthless head of the Costello syndicate stepped out of his bulletproof Maybach at the wedding of the decade, the paparazzi held their breath. They expected a runway model.
When the ruthless head of the Costello syndicate stepped out of his bulletproof Maybach at the wedding of the decade, the paparazzi held their breath. They expected a runway model.
Instead, his hand met the gloved fingers of a 200-pound forensic accountant in a blood-red gown.
High society gasped.
Earlier, the air in the boardroom of Carmichael Logistics, a perfectly legal front for the Costello family’s less-than-legal empire, had been thick with expensive cigar smoke and unspoken threats.
Arthur Costello, 34 years old and the undisputed king of Chicago’s underworld, sat at the head of the long mahogany table. His dark eyes, usually cold and calculating, were clouded with profound irritation.
“I am not asking you, Arthur. I am telling you,” Leo Costello said as he paced the length of the Persian rug.
Leo was Arthur’s younger brother, a man whose upcoming wedding to Camilla Moretti was supposed to unite the city’s 2 most violent factions.
“Camilla’s father expects you to walk in with Sofia. It’s an unspoken agreement. You bring the younger sister, you take her for a spin on the dance floor, the photographers get their shots, and the Moretti family feels respected.”
Arthur leaned back, steepling his fingers.
“Sofia Moretti has the intellectual depth of a puddle and a voice that makes my teeth ache. If I have to spend 6 hours listening to her talk about her Pilates instructor, there will be a real funeral to plan on Monday.”
“Arthur, please.”
Leo groaned and stopped to rest his hands on the table.
“Just do it for the optics. If you show up alone, it’s an insult. If you bring 1 of your usual flavor-of-the-week models, it’s an insult. Bring someone substantial. Bring someone who commands respect, or bring Sofia. Those are your options.”
Before Arthur could deliver a scathing reply, the heavy oak doors of the boardroom clicked open.
Beatrice Gallagher entered.
Beatrice was not a mafia princess. She was not a supermodel, nor was she a socialite who spent her afternoons sipping martinis at the country club.
She was 28 years old, stood 5 feet 6 inches tall, and wore a size 18. She had thick thighs, a soft, unapologetic stomach hidden beneath a slightly oversized beige trench coat, and wild, curly auburn hair that she constantly pushed out of her horn-rimmed glasses.
She was also the most brilliant forensic accountant Arthur had ever employed.
“I knocked,” Beatrice said, her voice steady, although her knuckles were white as she clutched a thick, leather-bound folder. “You didn’t answer. I assumed you were brooding.”
Leo blinked, taken aback by the sudden intrusion.
“B, we’re in the middle of family business.”
“And I’m in the middle of saving your family from a federal indictment,” Beatrice fired back.
She stepped fully into the room and let the heavy doors close behind her.
She walked straight to Arthur, entirely ignoring the 4 heavily armed bodyguards standing in the corners of the room, and dropped the folder onto the mahogany table.
The loud smack echoed off the walls.
“Page 42,” Beatrice said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Your capo, Richard Spatafora, is an idiot. He’s been skimming off the South Side construction contracts, which is your problem, but he’s been funneling the skim through a shell company tied directly to your primary offshore holding account, which makes it my problem because the IRS flag goes up next Tuesday if I don’t bury it. I spent the last 36 hours building a firewall made of fake charity donations to a nonexistent wildlife preserve in Maine to cover his tracks.”
Arthur stared at the ledger, then slowly trailed his eyes upward to Beatrice.
She was breathing heavily, her cheeks flushed with anger and exhaustion. There was a smudge of ink on her chin, and she smelled faintly of cheap diner coffee and vanilla.
Most people withered under Arthur Costello’s gaze. Grown men, killers, had begged for their lives when he looked at them the way he was looking at her.
Beatrice merely tapped her foot.
“Well, are you going to authorize the transfer to fix it, or should I start packing for a federal minimum-security prison?”
A slow, dangerous smile spread across Arthur’s face.
He picked up his Montblanc pen, signed the authorization without looking at the numbers, and pushed the folder back toward her.
He didn’t care about the money.
He cared about the fire in her eyes.
In a world full of plastic people who told him what he wanted to hear, Beatrice Gallagher was entirely, refreshingly real.
“You’re a lifesaver, Miss Gallagher,” Arthur murmured, his voice dropping an octave.
“I’m severely underpaid, is what I am,” she muttered, grabbing the folder. “I’ll process this. Have a good weekend, Mr. Costello. Enjoy the wedding.”
She turned on her heel to leave.
“Wait,” Arthur commanded.
Beatrice froze, closing her eyes briefly before turning back.
“If this is about the petty cash drawer on the 4th floor, I already told HR.”
Leo scoffed.
“You said I needed to bring someone substantial,” Arthur said, never breaking eye contact with Beatrice. “Someone who commands respect. Someone who isn’t Sofia Moretti.”
Leo’s eyes darted between his brother and the accountant.
“Arthur, no. Are you insane? Camilla will have a stroke.”
“Good. Tell the caterers to add a plus-1,” Arthur said smoothly as he finally stood.
He buttoned his suit jacket and walked slowly around the table until he was standing just inches from Beatrice.
He towered over her, smelling of bergamot and expensive leather.
Beatrice looked up at him, her brow furrowed in deep confusion.
“What is happening right now?”
“You are attending my brother’s wedding this Saturday, Miss Gallagher,” Arthur said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “As my date.”
Beatrice stared at him for 3 agonizing seconds before bursting into genuine, ringing laughter.
She clutched her folder and shook her head.
“Oh, that’s rich. Good 1, boss. For a second, you sounded completely serious.”
Arthur didn’t laugh.
He didn’t even smile.
He simply stared down at her.
Her laughter slowly died in her throat.
“You’re serious. You want me—”
She gestured toward her generously curved body, her practical, sensible shoes, and her messy hair.
“—to go to the mafia royal wedding of the decade with you?”
“I do.”
“No,” Beatrice said flatly. “Absolutely not. I do your taxes, Mr. Costello. I don’t do your social bidding. Besides, I don’t own a ball gown. I don’t know which fork to use for the caviar. And if 1 of those rail-thin mob wives looks at me sideways, I will verbally destroy her, which I assume is bad for syndicate diplomacy.”
“I am counting on it,” Arthur replied.
He leaned in slightly.
“I know about your brother, Tommy. I know he owes $60,000 to the O’Malley crew across town. I know they threatened to break his legs on Monday if he doesn’t pay.”
Beatrice’s breath hitched.
Her tough facade cracked just a fraction, revealing the terrified sister underneath.
“You looked into my family.”
“I protect my assets,” Arthur said softly. “You are a very valuable asset. Come to the wedding. Stand by my side. Smile for the cameras. Do this 1 favor for me, and Tommy’s debt to the O’Malleys disappears. Completely. Tonight.”
Beatrice swallowed hard.
$60,000.
She had been frantically trying to secure a 2nd mortgage just to keep Tommy out of a wheelchair.
She looked at Arthur and saw the absolute certainty in his eyes.
He wasn’t playing a prank.
He was offering a transaction.
“If I do this,” Beatrice said, her voice shaking slightly although her chin remained high, “I am not pretending to be someone I’m not. I’m not sucking in my stomach, and I’m not apologizing for taking up space.”
Arthur reached out, his thumb lightly brushing the ink smudge from her chin.
The touch sent a violent shiver down her spine.
“Beatrice,” he murmured, “if I wanted a woman who took up less space, I wouldn’t have asked you.”
The preparation began at dawn on Friday.
True to his word, Arthur didn’t send Beatrice to a standard boutique where the attendants would passive-aggressively try to squeeze her into shapewear and sample sizes.
Instead, he summoned Madame Rousseau, a highly sought-after private couturier, directly to Beatrice’s cramped 2-bedroom apartment.
Madame Rousseau took 1 look at Beatrice’s lush curves and clapped her hands in delight.
“Finally,” the Frenchwoman declared. “A woman with a canvas. We are going to drape you like a Renaissance goddess, my dear.”
They settled on a deep, rich crimson silk.
The dress was a masterpiece of structural engineering and high fashion. It featured a sweetheart neckline that highlighted her generous cleavage, a corseted bodice that smoothed and accentuated her waist without making her gasp for air, and a sweeping skirt with a daring thigh-high slit that demanded attention with every step.
When Beatrice looked in the mirror on Saturday afternoon, with her hair swept into an elegant, cascading updo and diamonds glittering at her throat courtesy of the Costello vault, she didn’t recognize the woman staring back at her.
She didn’t look thinner.
She didn’t look as though she were hiding.
She looked powerful.
She looked dangerous.
When she walked out of her apartment building toward the waiting Maybach, Arthur was leaning against the passenger door.
He wore a custom midnight-blue tuxedo that hugged his broad shoulders, with a black bow tie perfectly knotted at his throat.
When he saw Beatrice, he stopped breathing.
He had always found her brilliant. He had always noticed the soft, inviting slope of her hips and the fire in her eyes.
But seeing her now, radiating a nervous but undeniable majesty, he felt a possessive, primal urge settle deep in his chest.
“You look—”
Arthur stopped, his voice unusually raspy.
He cleared his throat.
“You look extraordinary, Beatrice.”
“I look like a target,” she corrected him, carefully sliding into the plush leather seat. “Tommy called me 1 hour ago. The O’Malleys dropped his marker. He’s clear. So, thank you. But let’s get 1 thing straight, Mr. Costello. This is a business arrangement. You don’t have to act like you’re swept off your feet.”
Arthur slid into the car beside her, the scent of his cologne wrapping around her in the confined space.
He turned toward her, his dark eyes locking onto hers.
“Beatrice, I don’t act. Ever.”
The ride to the Biltmore estate was thick with tension.
Beatrice stared out the window, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
She knew exactly what she was walking into.
The Costello-Moretti wedding wasn’t merely a celebration.
It was a viper’s nest.
Hundreds of made men, power-hungry politicians, corrupt judges, and the viciously judgmental women who stood beside them would all be there.
The Maybach passed through the towering wrought-iron gates and cruised up the mile-long driveway, illuminated by thousands of fairy lights.
As they approached the grand entrance, flashes from cameras erupted like a localized thunderstorm.
“Ready?” Arthur asked, offering her his hand.
“No,” Beatrice said honestly. “But I’ve never missed a deadline.”
She placed her hand in his.
Arthur stepped out of the car first, then turned and guided her out.
The moment Beatrice’s crimson stiletto touched the pavement, the world seemed to freeze.
Part 2
The paparazzi, expecting a waif-like actress or the statuesque Sofia Moretti, visibly faltered.
Whispers ripped through the crowd of onlookers like a sudden gale.
Beatrice felt a heavy wave of panic threaten to crush her.
She saw the judgmental stares, the raised eyebrows, and the mocking sneers beginning to form on the lips of the elite.
Instinctively, she started to hunch her shoulders, trying to make herself smaller.
Arthur felt it.
His arm shot out and wrapped firmly around her waist.
He didn’t merely hold her.
He anchored her.
He pulled her flush against his side, forcing her to stand tall, then cast a lethal, sweeping glare across the crowd of photographers and arriving guests.
It was a silent, unmistakable warning from the most dangerous man in the city.
Look at her with anything less than absolute reverence, and I will ruin you.
The sneers instantly vanished, replaced by nervous, respectful smiles.
“Head up,” Arthur murmured into her ear, his breath warm against her neck. “You are the most beautiful woman here, and you are with me. Let them choke on it.”
They walked up the grand stone steps and entered the opulent ballroom.
The sheer scale of the wealth was staggering.
Crystal chandeliers the size of small cars hung from the vaulted ceilings, and the room was packed with some of the most powerful people in the country.
As they entered, the string quartet’s music seemed to be drowned out by the sudden hush that fell over the room.
Across the dance floor, Leo Costello stood with his new bride, Camilla.
Camilla’s smile froze.
Standing beside her was Sofia Moretti, clad in a slinky emerald gown and holding a glass of champagne.
When Sofia saw Arthur walk in with Beatrice, her jaw literally dropped.
Beatrice could read the lips of the women gathered near the ice sculpture.
Who is she?
Look at her size.
Why is Arthur Costello holding her like that?
Sofia detached herself from her sister and marched across the marble floor, her heels clicking aggressively.
She planted herself directly in Arthur’s path and looked Beatrice up and down with barely concealed disgust.
“Arthur,” Sofia purred, although her eyes were venomous. “You made it. And you brought a friend. I don’t believe we’ve met. I am Sofia Moretti.”
Sofia extended a limp hand, her gaze locking onto Beatrice’s waistline with a mocking glint.
“I must say, Arthur, your tastes have expanded.”
The surrounding guests went entirely still.
It was a brazen insult intended to humiliate Beatrice and force Arthur to apologize for her presence.
Beatrice felt the sting, the familiar, awful burn of high school bullying amplified by $1 million worth of silk and diamonds.
She opened her mouth to reply, ready to tear into Sofia’s tax-evading trust fund, which Beatrice personally knew was being audited.
But Arthur spoke first.
His voice was terrifyingly calm, but it carried across the quiet floor like a gunshot.
“Sofia,” Arthur said softly, his hand tightening protectively on Beatrice’s hip. “This is Beatrice Gallagher. She is my date, my most trusted advisor, and the woman I chose over you. I suggest you find your manners, or I will ensure your father’s import business finds itself sinking in the harbor by midnight.”
Sofia paled.
She took a step backward as though she had been physically struck.
The smugness disappeared from her face, replaced by genuine terror.
Arthur didn’t give her a chance to respond.
He turned his attention entirely to Beatrice, his expression softening into something that made her heart perform a violent, unexpected flip.
“Dance with me,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
The orchestra seamlessly transitioned into a slow, hauntingly beautiful waltz.
Arthur guided Beatrice to the absolute center of the polished mahogany floor.
He didn’t pull her toward the edges or try to blend in with the other couples.
He positioned them exactly where the crystal chandelier cast its brightest light, making it impossible for anyone in the enormous ballroom to look away.
He placed 1 large, warm hand securely against the small of her back and extended the other to clasp hers.
The heat of his palm seared through the crimson silk of her dress.
“I don’t know how to waltz, Arthur,” Beatrice whispered fiercely, his first name slipping out in her panic.
Her chest heaved against the tight, corseted bodice of her gown.
“I crunch numbers. I don’t do whatever this is.”
“You don’t need to know how,” Arthur replied, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that she felt in her own chest. “You only need to trust me. Follow my lead, Beatrice. I will not let you fall.”
He stepped forward, and instinctively, she stepped back.
Arthur moved with a predatory grace that completely contradicted his massive, intimidating frame.
Within moments, he had locked her into the rhythm.
They swept across the floor, the heavy silk of her skirt flaring beautifully around her thick thighs with every turn.
She felt the eyes of Chicago’s elite burning into her skin.
But whenever her gaze wavered toward the onlookers, Arthur’s hand tightened around her waist, pulling her attention sharply back to him.
“Look at me,” he commanded softly. “Only me. They do not matter. They are ghosts, Beatrice. You are the only real thing in this room.”
Beatrice looked up into his dark, fathomless eyes.
For the first time in her life, she didn’t feel the desperate urge to hide her body.
She didn’t feel the need to cross her arms over her stomach or shrink her shoulders.
Under Arthur’s burning, reverent gaze, her curves felt like weapons.
She felt powerful.
She felt entirely, dangerously visible.
“You enjoyed putting Sofia in her place,” Beatrice observed, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through her nerves.
“I enjoyed watching her realize that she is utterly irrelevant to me,” Arthur corrected smoothly.
He spun Beatrice outward before pulling her flush against his chest in a fluid motion.
“My brother thinks power is about bloodlines and skinny women in expensive jewelry. Power is about intellect. It is about loyalty. You have more spine in your little finger than the entire Moretti family possesses in their collective ancestry.”
The music swelled, and for a few blissful minutes, Beatrice forgot about the snipers likely positioned on the roof, the federal indictments she managed daily, and the looming debt her brother had nearly died over.
But peace in the Costello syndicate never lasted long.
As the waltz ended to scattered, nervous applause, a man intercepted them before they could reach the relative safety of their private table.
It was Judge Harlan Crawford of the 7th Circuit, a man notorious for his harsh sentencing of lower-level criminals while secretly dining with syndicate bosses.
He was a tall, skeletal man with cold eyes and a vicious reputation.
“Arthur,” the judge drawled, blocking their path.
He swirled a glass of scotch, his gaze flicking toward Beatrice with blatant dismissal.
“A lovely dance. Though I must admit, I am surprised to see you prioritizing charity work over business tonight. The Spatafora trial starts next week, and the DA is pushing for a conviction.”
Arthur’s jaw clenched.
A lethal stillness came over him.
“Judge Crawford, tonight is a wedding. Business can wait for Monday.”
“Business never waits, Arthur,” Crawford sneered, stepping closer. “And considering your capo’s sloppy handling of the South Side contracts, I expected you to be groveling for my favor, not parading around a plus-size secretary.”
The silence that fell around them was absolute.
Arthur’s hand dropped from Beatrice’s waist and moved slowly toward the inside lapel of his tuxedo.
It was a subtle movement, but everyone in the life knew what it meant.
Arthur was about to kill a federal judge in the middle of a crowded ballroom.
Before he could draw his weapon, Beatrice stepped directly between them.
She didn’t cower.
She squared her shoulders, her crimson dress catching the light, and looked the corrupt judge directly in the eye.
“I am not his secretary, Judge Crawford,” Beatrice said, her voice clear, icy, and carrying the unshakable confidence of a woman who knew exactly where the bodies were buried. “I am his forensic accountant. And speaking of sloppy handling, I was reviewing some offshore transfers yesterday. Specifically, the Cayman Islands shell company, Apex Global Holdings.”
Crawford’s smug smile faltered instantly.
The color began to drain from his face.
Beatrice stepped closer to the judge, towering in her stilettos.
“It’s fascinating, really. Apex Global has been receiving untraceable crypto deposits that miraculously mirror the exact dates you dismissed the racketeering charges against the O’Malley crew in 2023. I also noticed that Apex Global pays the property taxes on a very lovely, very private 6-bedroom villa in Tuscany. A villa registered to your wife’s maiden name.”
Crawford was now completely white.
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
“Mr. Costello doesn’t need to grovel for your favor, Judge,” Beatrice continued, her tone conversational but deadly. “Because if you don’t ensure the Spatafora trial ends in a swift, quiet dismissal on Monday morning, a comprehensive, anonymized ledger of your treasonous financial history will be accidentally emailed to The New York Times, the FBI director, and the IRS Criminal Investigation Division by Tuesday at noon.”
She smiled.
It was a sweet, terrifying expression.
“Enjoy the caviar, Your Honor.”
Beatrice turned her back on the utterly paralyzed judge and slipped her arm through Arthur’s.
“I need a drink,” she murmured.
Arthur stared at her.
His eyes were wide, completely blown out with a mixture of shock, awe, and a possessive hunger so intense that it made Beatrice’s breath catch.
He didn’t just want her.
He worshipped her.
“Let’s go,” Arthur said hoarsely.
“To the bar?”
“No,” Arthur replied.
He led her briskly past the remaining stunned guests toward the exit.
“We are leaving.”
Part 3
The ride away from the Biltmore estate was entirely different from the ride there.
The heavy partition window between them and the driver was raised, plunging the back seat of the Maybach into profound privacy.
The neon lights of the Chicago skyline flashed through the tinted windows, illuminating the thick, charged silence between them.
Beatrice stared out the window as the adrenaline slowly drained from her system.
She had just blackmailed a federal judge.
She, a girl from the South Side who clipped coupons, had just threatened a man who could order her execution with a stroke of his pen.
And she had loved every second of it.
“You are incredible.”
Arthur broke the silence, his voice raw.
Beatrice turned to look at him.
He had discarded his bow tie and undone his collar, making him look less like a polished CEO and more like the ruthless mob boss he truly was.
“I was just protecting the company’s interests,” Beatrice said, deflecting the compliment as she suddenly felt incredibly shy. “Like I said, I don’t miss a deadline. And you cleared Tommy’s debt. I owed you.”
“Stop,” Arthur commanded gently.
He shifted across the wide leather seat until he was sitting directly beside her.
His massive presence commanded the space, but he didn’t crowd her.
“Do you truly think I brought you tonight just to settle a ledger, Beatrice?”
She looked down at her hands.
“You needed a date to appease the Morettis. I was a convenient, shocking alternative to Sofia.”
Arthur let out a harsh breath.
He reached out with his large, calloused hands and gently cupped her face.
He lifted her chin until she was forced to look into his eyes.
“Beatrice, I have been looking for an excuse to bring you into my life outside that boardroom for 2 years,” Arthur confessed, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. “When my brother gave me that ultimatum, I didn’t see a problem. I saw an opportunity. I didn’t want a runway model. I didn’t want a mafia princess who cares only about designer bags and gossip. I wanted a woman who could stand in a room full of monsters and make them bow.”
Beatrice’s heart hammered against her ribs.
“Tommy,” she whispered.
“I bought Tommy’s debt from the O’Malleys 6 months ago,” Arthur admitted softly. “I’ve been holding it, keeping him safe from a distance, waiting for the right moment to step in. The Spatafora ledger mistake, I let it happen. I needed you in my office. I needed you angry and passionate and standing right in front of me.”
Beatrice gasped.
He had orchestrated the entire thing.
The debt.
The crisis.
The invitation.
It wasn’t a spontaneous business transaction.
It was a meticulously calculated campaign to win her.
“You manipulated me,” she breathed, although she couldn’t find it in herself to be angry.
“I secured my most valuable asset,” Arthur corrected, his gaze dropping toward her lips. “I live in a world where everyone lies to me, Beatrice. Everyone cowers. But you—you barged into my boardroom, yelled at me about a fake wildlife preserve in Maine, and demanded respect. You are brilliant. You are fearless. And tonight, standing there in that dress, completely unashamed of who you are, you are the most magnificent creature I have ever seen.”
He leaned closer, the scent of bergamot and danger wrapping around her.
“I don’t want you to be my fake date, Beatrice. I want you to be my equal. I want you to run this city by my side.”
Beatrice looked at the man who terrified millions, the man who had laid his empire at her feet.
She thought about the tiny apartment, the endless struggle, and the constant feeling that she was too big, too loud, too much for the normal world.
There in the darkness with Arthur Costello, she wasn’t too much.
She was exactly enough.
“If I do this,” Beatrice whispered, her hands slowly rising to grip the lapels of his tuxedo jacket, “I don’t take orders. I balance the books, and I make the calls with you.”
Arthur smiled.
It was a devastating, triumphant expression that reached his eyes.
“Partner. 50/50. Always.”
“Then kiss me, boss,” she demanded.
Arthur didn’t hesitate.
He crushed his mouth to hers, entirely consuming her.
The kiss was explosive, tasting of expensive champagne and raw, untamed possession.
His hands slid downward to grip her thick, curved hips, pulling her forcefully into his lap.
Beatrice didn’t shrink away.
She straddled him, letting the heavy silk of her dress pool around them as she tangled her fingers in his dark hair and kissed him back with equal ferocity.
They weren’t merely a boss and an accountant anymore.
They were the new king and queen of Chicago.
And God help anyone who stood in their way.
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