The Bodyguard Who Stole the Mafia Bride

Isabella POV

The silence of my penthouse was deafening compared to the mocking whispers that still echoed in my head.

Three hours ago, I was the Bianchi princess, standing at the altar of The Plaza Hotel in a million-dollar gown. I was supposed to seal the most powerful Mafia alliance in New York. Instead, Julian Falcone didn't show up. He publicly slaughtered our families' sacred pact for a rising actress. The photo of him and Chloe Abbott intimately entangled at a downtown party had spread through the grand ballroom faster than a wildfire.

In a matter of seconds, I went from a revered bride to the laughingstock of the underworld. A discarded pawn.

I had returned to my apartment overlooking Central Park and drowned my humiliation in expensive amber liquid. I needed to destroy something. I needed to prove I wasn't just a helpless victim. My eyes had landed on Damien Moretti. My bodyguard. A silent, lethal shadow who had trailed me for years.

I had stalked toward him in the dimly lit living room, my sly, fox-like eyes challenging him as I tore at his crisp uniform. I thought I was playing a game, using his calloused hands and sharp, pale throat to numb my pain against the cold glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows. I thought I was the predator taking what I wanted.

A blinding ray of morning sunlight dragged me back to reality.

I woke up tangled in silk sheets, my head pounding. I looked down at my bare, porcelain skin, covered in faint, bruise-like marks. My black designer lace lingerie lay discarded on the rug.

And standing at the foot of the bed, fully dressed in a pressed black shirt and slacks, was Damien.

A wave of absolute horror and revulsion washed over me. I had slept with my subordinate. My employee.

"Get out!" I screamed, grabbing the heavy crystal ashtray from the nightstand and hurling it at his head.

He didn't even flinch. His large hand shot out, catching the crystal effortlessly. His face, carved from granite beneath a harsh crew cut, remained terrifyingly blank. His calm only fueled my hysteria. I grabbed my phone, a pillow-anything I could reach-and threw them. He dodged them with the predatory grace of a wolf.

"I will have my father skin you alive!" I shrieked, pulling the duvet up to my chin, my chest heaving. "I will ruin you for touching me!"

Damien set the ashtray down. He closed the distance between us in two long strides, his sheer size and the scent of his cold cologne suffocating me. He leaned over the mattress, trapping me in the corner of the bed.

"You initiated this, Isabella," he stated, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated in my chest. "Are you planning to take responsibility for me?"

I swallowed hard, my heart hammering against my ribs. I was a Bianchi. I would not cower before the help. I had to regain control of this nightmare. I lifted my chin, forcing a haughty glare to mask my trembling.

"Fine," I spat, trying to sound condescending. "Consider it a promotion. You can be my secret lover. But you will never speak of this to anyone, and you will remember your place."

A dark, mocking smirk curved his lips. He saw right through my fragile bravado. He stepped even closer, his broad shoulders blocking out the sunlight, his shadow completely swallowing me.

"Marry me," he commanded, the absolute authority in his tone freezing the blood in my veins. "Become Mrs. Moretti."