The Mafia Boss Fired 10 Supermodels for a Curvy Chef
Nobody in Chicago had ever seen Victor Santoro smile.
At thirty-four years old, he ruled the city’s criminal underworld with an iron fist. Politicians feared him. Business executives obeyed him. Rival gangs disappeared whenever they challenged him.
To the public, Victor was a successful entrepreneur who owned luxury hotels, restaurants, and real-estate developments worth hundreds of millions of dollars.
To those who knew the truth, he was something far more dangerous.
He was the king of Chicago.
On a cold Monday morning, Victor sat at the head of a polished conference table inside the Santoro Tower penthouse.
Standing before him were ten of the world’s most famous supermodels.
Each woman had been flown in from Paris, Milan, or New York.
Each was breathtakingly beautiful.
Each had been selected to become the face of La Familia, Victor’s newest restaurant project.
The campaign budget alone exceeded five million dollars.
Yet Victor looked bored.
His dark eyes moved slowly from one model to the next.
Perfect hair.
Perfect makeup.
Perfect bodies.
Perfect smiles.
And absolutely no soul.
“Turn around,” he ordered.
The models obeyed.
Expensive heels clicked against imported Italian marble.
Victor leaned back in his chair.
Disappointment filled his face.
“They look like mannequins.”
The room fell silent.
His marketing director swallowed nervously.
“Mr. Santoro, these are some of the most successful models in the world.”
“I know exactly who they are.”
Victor’s voice was calm.
Too calm.
The kind of calm that made grown men nervous.
“My mother spent her life feeding hungry families.”
His fingers tightened around the armrest.
“She worked with flour on her hands and love in her heart.”
He looked at the women again.
“They wouldn’t know how to boil water.”
No one dared respond.
Then something strange happened.
A scent drifted into the room.
Warm.
Rich.
Comforting.
Victor froze.
His heart skipped a beat.
Impossible.
The smell was coming from somewhere outside the boardroom.
A smell he had not experienced in fifteen years.
The smell of home.
The smell of his mother’s kitchen.
The smell of the Sunday pasta she used to make before she died.
Suddenly Victor stood so fast his chair crashed onto the floor.
Everyone jumped.
His pulse raced.
His breathing became uneven.
For the first time in years, the feared mafia king looked shaken.
Without another word, he stormed out of the boardroom.
The executives stared in confusion.
The models exchanged nervous glances.
Victor ignored them all.
He followed the scent down the hallway.
Past the elevators.
Past the reception area.
Until he reached a small service corridor.
There, sitting alone beside a catering cart, was a young woman wearing a slightly oversized apron.
Her chestnut hair escaped from a messy bun.
A smudge of flour decorated her cheek.
She held a plastic container filled with homemade pasta.
She wasn’t glamorous.
She wasn’t famous.
She wasn’t even remotely prepared for the terrifying man suddenly standing over her.
Her name was Clara Higgins.
And she was about to change Victor Santoro’s life forever…
