07/09/2026
"The Mafia Boss Paid a Plus-Size Etiquette Coach to Fix His Wild Brother, but She Took One Look at Him and Said He’d Hired Her for the Wrong Man
The first time Camille Brooks put her hand on Lucian Moretti’s chest and ordered him to say please, three armed men stopped breathing, a housekeeper dropped a silver spoon, and Lucian’s younger brother nearly fell out of his chair laughing.
Lucian did not laugh.
Chicago’s most feared crime boss simply looked down at Camille’s fingers resting against the burgundy silk of his tie and said, very quietly, “Move your hand.”
“No.”
Across the formal dining room of the Moretti estate, twenty-seven-year-old Nico Moretti covered his mouth with his napkin.
Lucian’s gaze shifted toward him.
Nico immediately became fascinated by his water.
Camille ignored both brothers. She was thirty-two, five-foot-six, unapologetically plus-size, dressed in a fitted cream blouse and an emerald skirt that celebrated rather than concealed the shape of her body. She had spent enough of her adolescence being taught that elegance meant making herself smaller. Now she made a living teaching powerful people that good manners had nothing to do with disappearing.
She tightened Lucian’s tie by half an inch.
“There,” she said.
“My tie was fine.”
“It was crooked.”
“It was not.”
“It was.”
Lucian’s jaw tightened.
Nico made a strangled noise behind his glass.
Camille stepped away and studied Lucian with the professional seriousness of a surgeon examining an unpleasant X-ray.
Lucian Moretti was thirty-six, tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, and famous for making people nervous without raising his voice. Tattoos disappeared beneath the collar of his tailored shirt. A silver watch flashed at his wrist. His family controlled nightclubs, freight companies, construction firms, and enough quiet influence throughout Chicago that people lowered their voices before saying his last name.
He had hired Camille for one reason.
Nico.
The Moretti Foundation was hosting its largest charity weekend in history—three days of private dinners, donor meetings, press appearances, and a final gala expected to raise several million dollars for neighborhood scholarship and housing programs.
Nico would deliver the keynote speech.
According to Lucian, that was a disaster waiting to happen.
According to Camille, the real disaster was standing in front of her.
She turned toward Nico.
“Your brother is improving.”
Nico straightened proudly.
Lucian frowned. “And me?”
Camille looked at him.
Then she looked at the elaborate table set for twelve people, even though only four were present.
Then back at Lucian.
“You’re going to take longer.”
Nico’s forehead hit the table.
Lucian closed his eyes for one slow second.
Marco Bell, Lucian’s security chief, suddenly found the ceiling fascinating.
“I hired you,” Lucian said, “to correct Nico.”
“Yes.”
“And yet you keep correcting me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Nico’s biggest problem is that he knows the rules and ignores them when he thinks kindness matters more.”
Lucian crossed his arms.
“That sounds like an etiquette problem.”
“No. It sounds like judgment that occasionally needs restraint.”
She gestured toward him.
“You have the opposite problem.”
Lucian’s eyes narrowed.
“What problem?”
“You follow every rule perfectly and still make dinner feel like a hostage negotiation.”
Nico made the mistake of laughing aloud.
Lucian turned.
Nico stopped instantly.
Camille pointed at Lucian.
“That.”
“What?”
“That expression.”
“I am looking at my brother.”
“You’re looking at him like his remaining life expectancy is under review.”
Marco coughed into his fist.
Lucian stared at Camille.
Most people looked away when he stared at them.
Camille smiled.
That was the moment Nico Moretti realized something before either of them did.
His older brother was in serious trouble.
Six days earlier, Camille had arrived at the Moretti estate expecting Nico to be exactly what Lucian’s emails described—spoiled, reckless, charming enough to survive consequences and privileged enough not to understand them.
Instead, Nico had entered the marble foyer carrying coffee for Maria, the longtime house manager.
“Oat milk, cinnamon, no sugar,” he told her.
Maria smiled. “You remembered.”
“You threatened me last time.”
“I reminded you firmly.”
“You pointed a serving spoon at my face.”
“It worked.”
Nico kissed her cheek, then crossed to Camille and waited for her to offer her hand before shaking it.
“Ms. Brooks?”
“Camille is fine.”
“Excellent. Lucian has called you Ms. Brooks so many times that I assumed you were coming to audit us.”
“Nico.”
His brother’s voice came from the staircase.
Nico glanced at Camille.
“There. That tone.”
Camille’s mouth twitched.
Lucian noticed.
Of course he noticed.
Lucian seemed to observe every movement in every room as though the entire world were a possible security breach.
Within twenty minutes, Camille discovered something else Lucian had failed to mention.
Nico knew formal etiquette exceptionally well.
He knew who should be introduced first. He understood donor hierarchy, press positioning, dining protocol, diplomatic titles, and conversational transitions. When Camille invented a difficult scenario involving an elderly donor being seated beside three executives discussing an industry she knew nothing about, Nico immediately said he would change seats with someone and talk to her himself.
Lucian frowned.
“He did exactly that last year.”
“What happened?”
“He disrupted the seating plan.”
Nico raised his hand.
“The woman donated another hundred thousand dollars.”
Camille slowly turned toward Lucian.
“That seems relevant.”
“That is not the point.”
“It increasingly feels like the point.”
“She was assigned a seat.”
“She was also eighty-two years old and being ignored.”
“The staff had a plan.”
“The staff apparently survived.”
Nico smiled.
“I like her.”
“You,” Camille told Nico, “need restraint.”
His smile disappeared.
Lucian’s almost appeared.
Then Camille looked at him.
“And you need warmth.”
The almost-smile vanished.
“I have warmth.”
Nico coughed.
Lucian stared at him.
Nico became silent.
Camille asked Lucian to demonstrate a basic greeting.
He stood, adjusted his jacket, crossed the room, offered the correct handshake, used perfect posture, remembered every fictional detail Camille had given him about the imaginary donor, and completed the exercise without a single technical mistake.
When he finished, Camille said, “That was excellent.”
Lucian nodded.
“Technically.”
His nod stopped.
“Socially, you sounded like you were confirming an arrest warrant.”
Nico turned away so his brother would not see him laughing.
Lucian’s gaze hardened.
“I said the man’s name.”
“You made his name sound like an accusation.”
“What do you suggest?”
(I know you’re all very curious about the next part, so if you want to read more, please leave a comment below with a word starting with the letter ""S""!) 👇 "
