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."

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.

Isabella POV

I watched in stunned, suffocating silence as Damien bypassed my designer gowns and pulled out a sleek, ivory silk dress. Then, his large hand reached into my intimates drawer, retrieving a set of black lace lingerie.

The sheer audacity of it snapped me out of my shock. I pulled the duvet tighter around my bare chest, my cheeks burning with a volatile mix of rage and humiliation. "You don't have permission to touch me," I snapped, my voice trembling but laced with all the aristocratic venom I could muster.

He turned, the delicate lace looking absurdly fragile against his calloused, lethal hands. His expression was terrifyingly blank. "Permission is irrelevant, principessa(princess)," he stated, his voice a dark, unyielding rumble that vibrated in the quiet room. "There isn't an inch of you I haven't already claimed. You are mine."

I grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at his chest. He didn't even blink as it bounced off his solid frame. He merely set the clothes on the edge of the mattress and turned his back, a silent, immovable command that I had no choice but to obey.

Ten minutes later, I stood in the marble foyer, the silk dress clinging to my curves. I needed to regain some semblance of control. The contract said outside the bedroom, he was my soldier. I pointed to my Jimmy Choo heels resting on the floor and extended my silk-stockinged foot.

"My shoes, Soldier," I ordered, lifting my chin.

Damien's deep, ocean-blue eyes locked onto mine. For a second, he simply stared, the silence stretching until it felt dangerous. Then, he bent down. A flicker of triumph ignited in my chest-until his massive hands bypassed the shoes entirely, gripping my thighs.

With a sudden, effortless surge of power, he hoisted me into his arms. I gasped, my hands instinctively flying around his thick neck to keep from falling. He scooped up the heels with two fingers of his free hand and strode toward the private elevator, completely subverting my pathetic attempt at authority. My rebellion was nothing but a game to him.

The ride in his armored black G-Wagon was suffocating. When we pulled up to the stone steps of the New York City Marriage Bureau, my heart hammered against my ribs. Before Damien could even open my door, tires screeched. A sleek black Maybach swerved to a halt right behind us.

Julian Falcone practically threw himself out of the driver's seat. His usually perfect hair was disheveled, his aristocratic face pale with panic. "Bella!" he shouted, rushing toward me as I stepped onto the pavement. "Bella, please, you have to listen to me. Chloe was in a terrible accident, I had to-"

"Save it, Julian," I cut him off, my voice dripping with absolute ice. The sight of him no longer brought butterflies, only a sickening wave of betrayal. "The Blanchard-Falcone alliance is dead. And so are we."

"No, you don't mean that," he pleaded, desperation making him reckless. He reached out, his fingers wrapping tightly around my upper arm.

Before I could pull away, a shadow eclipsed the morning sun. Damien moved with the lethal speed of a striking viper. His hand clamped down on Julian's wrist like a steel vise.

"Take your hands off my wife," Damien commanded. The sheer, murderous intent in his voice made the air drop ten degrees.

Julian froze, his eyes darting from Damien's lethal grip to my face. "Wife?" he choked out. Then, his gaze snapped back to Damien, confusion morphing into something uglier. "Where is Chloe? Why aren't you answering her calls?"

My breath hitched. Chloe? Why would Julian's mistress be calling my bodyguard? A cold seed of doubt planted itself in my chest.

Julian sneered, trying to mask his intimidation with Falcone arrogance. "A common Soldier thinks he can take what belongs to the Falcone family?"

Damien didn't release him. Instead, he stepped closer, his towering frame dwarfing Julian. "What belongs to a Falcone is destined for ashes," Damien said softly, the promise of violence vibrating in every syllable. "What is mine... I protect at all costs. You will learn the difference."

He shoved Julian's arm away with a look of utter disgust, placed a heavy, possessive hand on the small of my back, and guided me up the steps toward the judge who would seal my fate.