The Mafia Queen Fell for Her 300-Pound Nanny

My ex-wife said no woman would ever want a three-hundred-pound guy like me. The day we divorced, she smashed my hot dog cart to pieces. Broke and jobless, I was carrying everything I owned when I saw several gunmen shove a little girl into a van. I chased them for two blocks, grabbed a propane tank, and knocked all three men flat. The little girl curled up in my arms. She whispered, "Mister... I'm hungry." I spent my last six dollars on sausages and buns, and made her a hot dog to eat. The next morning, several luxury cars pulled up outside my apartment. They wanted me to become her stepdad. A woman in a wheelchair said calmly, "My daughter refuses to eat anything unless you make it. Name your price." I was walking down the street with my bags when I saw several men forcing a little girl into a van. "Help! I don't know them!" she screamed, struggling desperately. I dropped my bags and ran after them. The van had just started moving when I grabbed the door. It dragged me several yards before the driver swerved sharply, throwing me onto the roadside. Someone nearby was unloading propane tanks. I grabbed one, chased after the van, and smashed its window. The driver lost control and crashed into a guardrail. Three men climbed out, cursing. "You fat bastard! You got a death wish?" I flexed my wrists. My ex-wife always complained that I was fat and rough, nothing like a respectable gentleman. Well, she wasn't wrong. They opened fire. I dodged the bullets, swung the propane tank into one man's chest, and sent another flying into the van. Less than two minutes later, all three men were sprawled on the ground. I pulled open the van door. The little girl was huddled in a corner, trembling. I held out my hand. "It's okay. The bad guys are all down." She stared at me for a long moment before crawling over and clutching my sleeve. At the police station, every time she heard footsteps, she pressed against me and trembled. Then her stomach growled. "Mister... I'm hungry," she whispered. I checked my pockets. Six dollars. That was all I had left. I bought some sausages and buns, then borrowed the station kitchen to make her a hot dog. She stared at the hot dog without touching it. I gently patted her head. "Go ahead. I'm right here." Only then did she pick it up and start eating, taking one small bite after another. She didn't leave a single crumb. The officer contacted her family and told me I could leave. But the moment I stood up, her face went pale. She clung desperately to my leg. "Don't go..." I tried to reassure her. "Your mom will be here to pick you up soon." Her eyes filled with tears. "Will you come back?" I opened my mouth, but I couldn't bring myself to make a promise I might not be able to keep. So I forced myself to gently pry her hands off my leg. When I got back to my apartment, my landlord was waiting at the door. "Pay your rent by tomorrow, or get out!" The apartment was close to both my hot dog stand and the hospital. I sold hot dogs during the day and cared for my ex-wife's paralyzed mother at night. She'd only married me to get a free caregiver for her mother. Two weeks ago, her mother died. The moment she no longer needed me, she immediately kicked me out, and went straight back to her old flame. Now even my last six dollars were gone. The next morning, I was about to head out and look for odd jobs when several black luxury cars suddenly screeched to a stop right in front of me.