“Wrong Girl…” the Mafia Boss Realized His Mistake—Then Refused to Let Her Go

What would you do if you were thrown into the back of a van only to realize your kidnapper was a ruthless mafia boss who grabbed the wrong girl? Sloan Jenkins was supposed to be a hostage. Instead, he looked her up and down and said, “I’m keeping you anyway.” The freezing November rain of Marco was relentless, soaking straight through the cheap wool of her cardigan.

Sloan Jenkins was 28, a size 18 bookkeeper, and entirely ordinary. Her Friday night plans consisted of a picking up a deep dish pizza from Lou Malnati’s, going back to her cramped apartment in Logan Square, and feeding her overweight tabby cat Meatball. She was not the kind of woman who got kidnapped. Kidnappers wanted ransom, leverage, or political power.

Her bank account currently boasted a fragile $342.70 and the only leverage anyone had on her was her Netflix password. But as she hurried down the affluent sidewalks of Astor Street, cutting through the Gold Coast neighborhood after dropping off some tax files for a wealthy client, a matte black Mercedes Sprinter van screeched to a halt beside her.

Before she could even register the heavy thud of the sliding door opening, a pair of massive leather-gloved hands clamped down on her shoulders. Sloan didn’t scream. She couldn’t. The wind was knocked entirely out of her lungs as she was hoisted off the pavement. She was a heavy woman, not easily moved, but the man who grabbed her lifted her like she was nothing but a bag of feathers.

A rough, scratchy burlap was yanked over her head, plunging her into suffocating darkness. Thick plastic zip ties bit viciously into her wrists as they were wrenched behind her back. “Got her.” a gruff voice grunted over the roar of the van’s engine. “Jesus, Leo, she’s heavier than I thought.” another voice muttered, the sound of the van door slamming shut echoing like a gunshot.

“Shut up and drive.” “The boss wants her at the West Loop safe house in 10 minutes. The O’Donnell family is going to pay out the nose for their precious little princess.” Princess? Her heart hammered frantically against her ribs, a cold sweat mingling with the rainwater on her skin. So, she tried to speak, but the words choked in her throat.

She was terrified, trembling so violently the metal floor of the van rattled beneath her knees. They thought she was a princess. An O’Donnell. She didn’t even know any O’Donnells. The ride was a blur of sharp turns, screeching tires, and the overwhelming scent of cheap cologne and gun oil. When the van finally halted, she was dragged out, less delicately this time, and hauled up a flight of echoing concrete stairs.

Sloane was thrown into a heavy wooden chair. The zip ties were cut, only to be replaced by thick abrasive rope binding her to the armrests. “Boss is here.” the one named Leo announced. A heavy steel door clicked open. The sound of expensive leather shoes echoing on a hard floor sent a fresh wave of nausea through her stomach.

The footsteps were slow, deliberate, and predatory. “Take the hood off.” a voice commanded. It was a voice that demanded absolute obedience. Deep, resonant, and laced with a chilling authority. It didn’t belong to a street thug. It belonged to a kingmaker. The rough burlap was ripped from her head, taking a few strands of her wet, tangled brown hair with it.

The harsh glare of fluorescent overhead lights blinded her for a second. As her vision cleared, she found herself in the center of a massive, aggressively modern loft. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Marco skyline, but all her attention was anchored on the man standing 10 ft in front of her. Vincent Moretti.

She didn’t know his name then, but the aura radiating from him screamed money, power, and violence. He wore a perfectly tailored midnight blue suit that clung to broad shoulders and a lean, muscular frame. His jaw was sharp, marred slightly by a faded white scar that only accentuated his devastating, ruthless good looks. Dark, assessing eyes stared down at her.

He looked at her soaking wet, frizzy hair. He looked at her flushed, tear-stained face. He let his gaze drag down to her thick thighs pressed against the chair, the cheap floral dress clinging to her curves, and the scuffed loafers on her feet. Vincent’s dark eyebrows slowly knit together. The terrifying calm in his eyes fractured into cold, absolute fury.

He turned his head slightly, not taking his eyes off her. “Leo.” Yeah, boss. The hulking man stepped forward looking entirely too proud of himself. Grabbed her right outside the O’Donnell brownstone on Astor Street. Just like you said. Sloan O’Donnell. Leo. Vincent repeated. His voice dropping an octave. Becoming a lethal quiet hiss.

Does this woman look like a 22-year-old 90-lb socialite who spends her weekends doing lines of coke in Miami? Silence blanketed the room. It was so quiet she could hear the rain lashing against the floor-to-ceiling glass. Leo squinted at her. I mean. She was carrying the umbrella we were told to look for. The bright red Burberry one.

It was a gift. Sloan finally sobbed out. Her voice cracking. Pathetic and terrified. My boss gave it to me for Christmas. Vincent took a slow step toward her. She shrank back as far as the ropes would allow. Squeezing her eyes shut. She expected a bullet. She expected him to order his men to dump her in the Marco River.

What is your name? Vincent asked softly. S-Sloan. She stammered. Fresh tears spilling over her cheeks. Sloan Jenkins. I’m a bookkeeper. I don’t know any O’Donnells. Please, I just want to go home to my cat. I won’t tell anyone. I swear to God I didn’t see anything. You saw my face. Vincent interrupted gently. It wasn’t a threat.

It was a simple damning statement of fact. She’s a nobody, boss. Leo panicked, realizing the magnitude of his colossal screw-up. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll make it quick. No loose ends.” Sloane’s breath hitched. This was it. She was going to die because a billionaire gave his fat bookkeeper an expensive umbrella.

Vincent stood perfectly still, his dark eyes tracing the frantic pulse beating at her throat, then drifting down the soft, terrified curve of her jaw. For a man who lived his life surrounded by engineered perfection and hollow beauty, there was something in his gaze that shifted. It wasn’t pity. It was intrigue. “No.

” Vincent said smoothly, reaching into his jacket to pull out a silver Zippo lighter, flipping it open with a sharp clink. “Wrong girl.” He snapped the lighter shut and looked her dead in the eye, the corners of his mouth twitching upward into a dangerous smirk. “But I’m keeping you anyway.” “You can’t just keep me.” The words flew out of Sloane’s mouth before her brain could filter them.

Fear had momentarily been eclipsed by sheer, unadulterated disbelief. She was a human being, not a stray dog he could decide to foster. Leo looked just as stunned as she was. “Boss, with all due respect, what are we supposed to do with her? She’s a civilian. A liability. The O’Donnells are still out there. And we blew our one shot at grabbing their daughter.

” Vincent ignored his right-hand man entirely. He stepped closer to her chair, the scent of expensive sandalwood and something distinctly metallic washing over her. He leaned down, placing one hand on each of her armrests, boxing her in. His face was inches from hers. “I don’t make mistakes, Ms. Jenkins.” Vincent said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in her chest.

“And I certainly don’t let the mistakes of my men dictate my business. If I let you walk out that door, you go to the police. If you go to the police, my operations in the West Side are compromised. And since I am not in the habit of slaughtering innocent women who bake cookies and pet cats, I don’t bake.

” She whispered defensively, utterly paralyzed by his proximity. Vincent’s smirk deepened. “Rule number one of surviving this room, Sloane, do not interrupt me.” He straightened up, snapping his fingers. “Leo, cut her loose.” “Boss?” “Do it.” Leo muttered a string of colorful Italian curses under his breath, drawing a switchblade from his pocket.

Sloane flinched, but he only sliced through the thick ropes binding her. She rubbed her raw wrists, shivering violently as the dampness of her clothes clung to her skin. “Stand up.” Vincent ordered. She pushed herself up on shaky legs. She was 5’4″, making her entirely dwarfed by Vincent’s imposing 6’3″ frame.

She crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly hyper-aware of her body. The dress she wore was practical, but soaked. It clung to her heavy stomach, her wide hips, and her large chest. In the presence of these men who undoubtedly dealt with models and assassins, she felt entirely exposed and grotesque.

Vincent’s gaze, however, didn’t hold an ounce of disgust. It was analytical, heavy, and oddly appreciative as it dropped to the soft curve of her hips before snapping back to her eyes. “You said you were a bookkeeper,” Vincent noted, walking over to a sleek mahogany wet bar in the corner of the room. He poured amber liquid into two crystal glasses.

“Where?” “Apex Logistics,” she mumbled, keeping her eyes glued to the floor. “It’s a shipping company down in the South Loop.” The sound of clinking glass abruptly stopped. Sloan looked up. Vincent had frozen, his hand still resting on the decanter. He slowly turned his head to look at Leo. The two men exchanged a look that sent a new icy spike of terror straight through her heart.

“Apex Logistics,” Vincent repeated, his voice completely void of emotion. He picked up both glasses and walked back over to her, holding one out. She shook her head. “I don’t drink.” “Drink it,” he commanded quietly. “You’re going to need it.” Her trembling hands took the glass. She took a tiny sip. The whiskey burned a trail of fire down her throat, making her eyes water.

“Ms. Jenkins,” Vincent began, taking a measured sip of his own drink. “How long have you balanced the books for Apex?” “Three years,” she said, her voice shaking. “Why?” Vincent let out a dark, breathless chuckle, running a hand through his perfectly styled dark hair. He looked at her as if she were a winning lottery ticket that had just blown through his front door.

Because, Sloane, Apex Logistics is a front, Vincent stated, his eyes gleaming with a predatory light. It is the primary money laundering hub for Arthur O’Donnell, the very man whose daughter my men were supposed to grab tonight. The whiskey glass nearly slipped from her fingers. No, no, that’s impossible. We ship medical supplies and auto parts.

I process invoices. I pay vendors. I don’t She trailed off, her mind racing back to the strange offshore accounts, the dummy corporations she was told never to question, the cash influxes that her boss always wrote off as private investments. She had known something was weird. She wasn’t stupid. But she needed the health insurance, and she never asked questions.

You hold the entire financial architecture of my greatest enemy in your pretty little head, Vincent said, closing the distance between them once more. He reached out, his knuckles brushing lightly against her cheek. The touch was so startlingly gentle, she gasped. Leo didn’t bring me a pawn tonight. He accidentally brought me the queen.

I don’t know anything, she cried out, stepping back, desperate to put distance between his overwhelming gravity and herself. I just use QuickBooks. I don’t know about the mafia. You know the account numbers, Vincent countered, his voice turning deadly serious. You know the routing codes. You know the dummy corporations.

With you, I don’t just hurt the O’Donnells. I bankrupt them. I destroy their entire empire. He turned to Leo. Set up the guest suite. Secure the perimeter. Nobody goes in or out of this penthouse without my express permission. “Wait.” She shouted, a sudden desperate anger overriding her fear. “You can’t do this.

I told you I have a cat. He needs special diet food. My neighbor thinks I’m at home. If she doesn’t see me tomorrow, she’ll call the cops.” Vincent looked at her, tilting his head slightly. The defiance in her voice seemed to amuse him rather than anger him. Most people, she assumed, cowered before Vincent Moretti. She was too panicked to remember her manners.

“Give Leo your keys. He will fetch your cat and your things.” Vincent said smoothly. “I’m not giving him my keys. This is kidnapping. This is illegal.” “Sloane.” Vincent said softly, stepping so close his chest brushed against hers. He looked down into her eyes, all amusement fading, replaced by a dark possessive intensity.

“You work for the O’Donnells. Whether you knew it or not, you are in the game now. If I let you go back to that apartment, Arthur O’Donnell will find out you’ve been taken by me. And when he realizes you have his financial secrets, he won’t just kidnap you. He will torture you until you give up the passwords, and then he will put a bullet in your head.

” Her breath hitched. The reality of her situation crashed down on her, heavy and suffocating. Vincent reached out, his thumb gently wiping away a stray tear from her cheek. You are staying here with me under my protection. You are going to help me drain his accounts. Before she could formulate a response, a deafening crack shattered the tension.

The floor-to-ceiling window behind Vincent exploded into a million glittering shards of glass. The force of the impact threw her backward, but before she could hit the floor, Vincent’s massive arms wrapped around her waist, tackling her to the hardwood. Sniper! Get him down! Leo roared over the sound of automatic gunfire ripping through the penthouse walls.

The O’Donnells hadn’t waited. They already knew where they were. Move! Vincent snarled, shielding her body with his own as bullets tore through the expensive leather furniture. He dragged her across the floor, his grip on her ironclad, hauling her toward a reinforced steel door at the back of the room. The panic room.

As the heavy vault door slammed shut behind them, sealing them in the dark, her heart pounded a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She was trapped in a box with Marco’s most dangerous man, and for the first time in her life, she realized he was the only reason she was still breathing. The heavy steel door sealed shut with a deafening hydraulic hiss, plunging them into absolute dark.

For a terrifying suspended second, the only sound in the world was the violent hammering of her own heart and the ragged sound of her breathing. Then the backup generators kicked in with a low hum. Weak amber emergency [clears throat] lights flickered on, illuminating the cramped 10 by 10 titanium box.

Vincent was leaning against the far wall, his midnight blue jacket torn at the shoulder. Blood, dark and thick, was seeping through the expensive fabric. “You’re shot.” Sloane gasped, the shock temporarily overriding her fear. “A graze.” Vincent muttered, his jaw clenched tight as he shrugged off the ruined suit jacket.

He He tore open his crisp white dress shirt, revealing a torso that looked like it had been carved from marble, save for the angry bleeding gash across his left collarbone. “There’s a first aid kit under the steel bench. Grab it.” Her hands shook so violently, she could barely pry the red plastic latches open.

She pulled out gauze rolls and antiseptic, crawling across the cold floor toward him. She was acutely aware of how much space she took up in the tiny room. Her thick thighs pressing against the concrete, the cheap floral fabric of her dress riding up. She felt clumsy, large, and entirely out of her element. “I don’t know how to do this.

” She whispered, holding the antiseptic wipe like it was a live grenade. “Just press it against the wound, Sloane.” He said, his voice surprisingly gentle given the circumstances. She pressed the gauze to his collarbone. He didn’t even flinch, though his sharp intake of breath betrayed the sting. As she leaned in, her soft stomach brushed against his hard abdomen.

She instantly tried to pull back, deeply embarrassed, but his large uninjured hand shot out, gripping her hip firmly. “Don’t pull away, hey.” He murmured, his dark eyes locking onto hers. “I’m heavy. I’m squishing you.” She stammered, her face burning with a fiery blush. Vincent’s thumb stroked the curve of her hip, his gaze dropping to her lips.

“In my world, everything is sharp edges, cold steel, and starvation diets. Everyone is hollow. You are soft, Sloane. You are warm. You are exactly what I need right now.” Sloane swallowed hard, the sheer intensity in his eyes making her head spin faster than the whiskey had. But the romantic tension shattered the moment Leo’s voice crackled through the intercom on the wall.

“Boss, you good?” Vincent reached up and hit the receiver button. “I’m breathing. Status? The shooters are gone. They repelled off the roof of the adjacent building. But boss, I found one of their shell casings. It’s custom-milled armor-piercing. The O’Donnells don’t use this supplier. Only we do.” Vincent’s expression turned to ice.

He pulled away from her, moving to a secure terminal embedded in the wall. He typed in a passcode and a large monitor flickered to life, displaying a cascade of bank accounts, security footage, and financial ledgers. “The O’Donnells didn’t authorize this hit,” Vincent said, his voice deadly quiet. “Someone inside my own family used the Astor Street kidnapping as a distraction.

They knew I’d bring you here. They used you as bait to trap me. Sloan stared at the screen over his shoulder. Her eyes dragged across the numbers. She was a bookkeeper. She didn’t know how to shoot a gun or interrogate a rival mobster, but she knew numbers. Numbers were a language she spoke fluently. “Scroll down.

” She said suddenly, stepping closer to the screen. Vincent glanced at her, surprised by the sudden authority in her tone, but he tapped the keyboard. “Stop.” She pointed a trembling finger at a specific routing code under a dummy corporation labeled Triton Holdings LLC. “That account, who owns it?” “It’s an offshore holding company we use to clean the casino money.

” Vincent replied. “Managed by my underboss, Dominic.” “No, it isn’t.” She said, her mind clicking into gear. The fear momentarily replaced by the absolute certainty of her profession. “I audited a subcontractor for Apex Logistics last month, a company registered under the name of Richard T. Bowden, a real estate developer with ties to the South Side.

That routing code, it matches the exact offshore account Richard Bowden was funneling money into. But here’s the twist. The signature on the authorization forms wasn’t Bowden’s.” “Whose was it?” Vincent demanded, turning fully toward her. “It was Arthur O’Donnell’s right-hand man.

” She breathed, the pieces falling into place. “Dominic isn’t just stealing from you, Vincent. He’s been working with the O’Donnells for over a year. He funded this hit tonight using your own money, hoping to blame it on the Irish so he could take over the Moretti family when you were dead. Vincent stared at her, an unreadable emotion crossing his face.

She had just unraveled a multi-million-dollar conspiracy in 3 minutes using nothing but her memory of tax codes. “You really are a queen.” he whispered, a terrifying, beautiful smile spreading across his face. He hit the intercom. “Leo, gather the men. We aren’t going to war with the O’Donnells tonight. We’re going to pay my cousin Dominic a visit.

” The next 48 hours were a blur of calculated, ruthless violence that she only witnessed the aftermath of. Sloane was moved to an impenetrable, sprawling estate in the suburbs of Lake Forest. It was a gilded cage complete with a private chef, marble bathtubs, and a wardrobe filled with custom-tailored silk dresses in size 18. True to his word, Vincent had Leo retrieve her cat.

Meatball was currently asleep on a $2,000 Persian rug, entirely unbothered by his sudden change in socioeconomic status. Sloane sat by the grand fireplace, clutching a mug of tea, wearing a plush velvet robe that felt like a hug. She was safe, but her mind was a chaotic mess. She had helped a mafia boss dismantle an internal coup.

Dominic had been handled, a term Vincent used that made her shudder, and Arthur O’Donnell was currently facing federal indictment after she anonymously emailed the Apex Logistics ledgers to the District Attorney, Harrison Finch. The heavy mahogany doors to the library swung open. Vincent stepped in. He looked exhausted.

The sharp lines of his face shadowed with a dark stubble. But his eyes were blazing with victory. The war was over. He had won. He walked slowly across the room and knelt in front of her chair. The ruler of Marco’s underworld dropping to his knees before a plus-size bookkeeper from Logan Square. It’s done. Vincent said softly. The family is secure.

The feds are tearing the O’Donnells apart. And it is entirely because of you. Sloane looked down at her hands. So, what happens now? Do I go back to my apartment? Find a new job? Vincent reached out, taking her hands in his. His thumbs brushed over her knuckles. His touch sending a jolt of electricity straight to her core.

If you walk out that door, Sloane, I will give you a new identity. I will put 10 million dollars in a Swiss account for you. You will never have to work a day in your life. And you will be completely safe from my world. Her heart squeezed painfully. She didn’t want the money. She didn’t want a new identity. In the past two days, beneath the blood and the danger, she had seen a man who listened to her.

A man who didn’t look at her body and see a flaw to be tolerated, but a woman to be worshipped. And if I stay, she whispered, her voice trembling. Vincent’s grip on her hands tightened. His dark eyes burning into hers with an obsessive, possessive fire. If you stay, you’ll become mine entirely. I will build an empire around you.

I will burn this city to the ground to keep you warm. You will sit at my right hand, not as a hostage, and not as a civilian, but as my equal, my queen. He reached up, cupping her cheek. You were the wrong girl, Sloane. The biggest mistake my men ever made. But you are the only right thing that has ever happened to me.

Tears pricked her eyes. She thought about her lonely apartment. She thought about the men who had looked right past her her entire life. And then she looked at the dangerous, beautiful man kneeling before her, offering her the world. She leaned down and pressed her lips to his.

Vincent let out a low groan, his arms wrapping around her thick waist, pulling her down onto the rug beside him. He kissed her like he was starving. His hands roaming over her soft curves with a desperate reverence that made her skin catch fire. It was chaotic, terrifying, and deeply intoxicating. She was Sloane Jenkins. She was a bookkeeper.

She baked terrible cookies, and she had an overweight cat, but she was also the woman who held the heart of the devil in the palm of her hand, and she wasn’t ever letting it go. Enjoyed Sloane and Vincent’s unexpected mafia romance? If you loved this twisty, enemies to lovers story about finding power and passion in the most dangerous places.

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