The Bodyguard Who Stole the Mafia Bride

Isabella POV

"Marry me."

The words hung in the sunlit room, absurd and suffocating. I let out a harsh, breathless laugh, clutching the duvet tighter against my chest. "Are you insane?" I spat, my voice dripping with all the aristocratic venom I had been raised to wield. "Get out before I have my father's men put a bullet in your skull."

Damien didn't blink. His expression remained carved from stone as he reached into his pocket. He pulled out his phone, tapped the screen, and turned it toward me.

A soft, desperate moan filled the quiet room. My moan.

I froze, the blood draining from my face. On the screen, illuminated by the city lights of the night before, was me. Tangled in the sheets against the floor-to-ceiling window, arching into him, my face a portrait of willing, shameless surrender.

"If this gets out," Damien said, his voice a lethal, even calm, "you won't just be Julian Falcone's discarded bride. You will be a disgraced woman available to all. The underworld's favorite punchline."

Panic clawed at my throat, sharp and suffocating. He was right. In our world, a broken engagement was a scandal; a sex tape with a subordinate was a death sentence to a woman's reputation. I would be stripped of my name, my assets, and my protection.

My mind raced, calculating the ruins of my life. The Falcone alliance was dead. My father had already frozen my accounts, and the fifty-million-dollar breach of contract hung over my head like a guillotine. I needed a husband to salvage the Blanchard name, to prove I wasn't broken by Julian's betrayal, and to buy time to pay off the debt.

I looked at the man standing over me. I could use him.

"Fine," I choked out, forcing my chin up. "Six months. A marriage of convenience. In public, you remain my bodyguard. You follow my orders. After six months, we divorce quietly." I expected him to argue, to demand more.

Instead, his dark eyes locked onto mine. "Done."

"And you delete the video," I demanded, trying to claw back some semblance of control.

"No."

"You bastard," I hissed, my anger flaring again. "You're doing this for the Blanchard fortune. You want a payout."

Damien's jaw tightened, a flash of genuine dark amusement crossing his features. "I have no interest in Blanchard's money." He leaned in, his massive frame pressing me further into the mattress, the scent of mint and danger overwhelming my senses. "Let's add a clause. Outside this room, I'm your soldier. You give the orders. Inside, you're my wife. You take mine."

Before I could gasp, his mouth crashed down on mine. It wasn't a kiss of a subordinate; it was a punishing, possessive claim that tasted of absolute dominance. He devoured my protest, his hand tangling in my hair, holding me in place until my head spun.

When he finally pulled back, my lips were swollen and my chest heaved. He stared at my mouth, his thumb brushing my lower lip. "You were my first," he murmured, the raw intensity in his voice sending a confusing shiver down my spine.

First? My brain short-circuited. I pushed against his solid chest, desperate to wound his pride and reestablish the hierarchy. "And how exactly will you pay for this wedding, Soldier? Can your bodyguard salary even cover the fee at City Hall?"

Damien didn't say a word. He reached into his jacket draped over the armchair, pulled out a sleek leather wallet, and tossed a solid black card onto the nightstand.

It landed with a heavy, metallic clink. No numbers. No bank logo. A Centurion Card. An invitation-only symbol of limitless, untouchable wealth.

I stared at the black metal, the air completely leaving my lungs. A bodyguard didn't carry a black card. Who the hell was Damien Moretti?

"Get dressed," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "My judge is waiting. You'll be Mrs. Moretti before noon."

Without waiting for my response, he turned his back on my shock and walked straight toward my walk-in closet.