The Mafia Boss Demanded a Fake Wife for His High-Stakes Dinner—She Stole the Whole Show

The private study of Dominic Moretti’s Manhattan townhouse smelled of aged mahogany, espresso, and expensive bourbon. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city lights flickered like distant neon stars against the midnight-blue sky, casting long, dramatic shadows across the Persian rug.

At the center of it all sat Clara Higgins, unbothered, her posture straight, her emerald-green dress catching the amber light of the desk lamp.

Across from her, Dominic Moretti leaned back in his leather executive chair. His slate-gray eyes were locked onto her with a mixture of intense scrutiny and begrudging fascination. For a man accustomed to people cowering, stuttering, or fainting at his mere presence, Clara’s absolute refusal to be intimidated was a foreign, intoxicating shock.

"It isn't enough," Clara repeated, her voice steady, her chin tilted up.

Dominic’s eyebrow arched. A slow, dangerous smile curved the corner of his lips. "Two million dollars for four hours of your time, Miss Higgins, is more than most people make in a lifetime. What could possibly make you think it’s insufficient?"

"Because," Clara said, leaning forward and resting her elbows on his pristine desk, invading his personal space with absolute confidence, "you aren't just hiring a prop, Mr. Moretti. You're hiring a shield. You're hiring a woman who has to sit across from a Sicilian mob boss named Salvatore Romano—a man who reportedly uses a meat cleaver for minor inconveniences—and convince him that you're so wildly, blissfully domestic that you bring your wife to high-stakes syndicate summits."

Dominic let out a low, gravelly chuckle. "You know who Romano is."

"I read the news, I watch the court filings, and I survived working backstage on Broadway for ten years during a live production of Macbeth with a lead actor who threw a tantrum on opening night," Clara retorted sharply. "Trust me, a mafia dinner is just dinner theater with higher stakes and worse wardrobe options."

Dominic studied her for a long, agonizing moment. He liked her mind. He liked the fire in her brown eyes. Most of all, he liked that she didn't blink when he stared her down.

"Name your terms," Dominic said quietly, resting his chin on his intertwined fingers.

Clara didn't hesitate for a second. "First, the two million stays. Second, my shop—Stitch & Style on Atlantic Avenue—gets a full, unconditional property acquisition buyout. My landlord has been trying to evict me for six months to build luxury condos. You make sure the deed is transferred to my name, free and clear, by midnight."

Dominic nodded once. "Done."

"Third," Clara continued, her eyes narrowing slightly, "you provide me with an absolute guarantee of safety for my mother and my younger brother for the next year. If any of your enemies try to use them to get to you while I'm playing your wife, your men are the ones taking the bullets."

The air in the room grew noticeably colder. Dominic’s expression hardened into carved granite. For a split second, the terrifying, ruthless underworld boss overshadowed the handsome man in the custom suit.

"My security will guard them as if they were my own blood," Dominic said, his voice dropping an octave into a low, rumbling vow. "No one touches them."

Clara searched his eyes, looking for a lie, a flicker of deceit, or arrogance. She found none. Just raw, unyielding truth.

She exhaled slowly, leaning back into her chair. She reached out, picked up the gold fountain pen resting beside the check, and pulled the paper toward her.

"Then we have a deal, husband," Clara said, a dry, sarcastic edge to her voice.