The Bodyguard Who Stole the Mafia Bride

Isabella POV

"Tonight, principessa(princess), is our wedding night."

His words hung in the silver moonlight, heavy and suffocating. The sheer audacity of it snapped the last thread of my sanity. I was Isabella Blanchard. I had just lost ten years of my life to a cheating coward, and I refused to be claimed as a consolation prize by a mere Soldier.

"Get out of my apartment," I hissed, my voice shaking with pure venom.

Damien didn't blink. He took another slow, deliberate step toward the bedroom hallway.

"I said get out!" I grabbed the heavy crystal ashtray from the coffee table and hurled it at his head.

He didn't even flinch. His large hand shot out, catching the heavy crystal mid-air with terrifying ease. Before I could grab anything else, he closed the distance. I lunged at him, my nails clawing at his chest, my teeth bared. "You're nothing but my father's dog!" I screamed, thrashing wildly.

Damien didn't strike back. He simply caught my wrists in one massive hand and used his body weight to press me down onto the velvet sofa. He was an immovable mountain of muscle and heat, pinning me completely.

I gasped for air, my chest heaving against his.

He reached up, his rough thumb brushing the corner of my eye. "You cried for that Falcone at Elysium," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "I saw it. That was the last time. From tonight on, your tears belong only to me."

I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black velvet box. I turned my face away, expecting a cheap ring, but when the lid snapped open, the breath left my lungs.

Resting on the dark velvet was the "Eternal Love" pink diamond necklace. It had vanished from a Sotheby's auction months ago-the exact necklace Julian had tried to bid on for me before backing out because the price was astronomical.

"How..." I stammered, staring at the flawless stones. "Is this blood money? Did you kill a rival Don for this?"

Damien didn't answer. He pulled me up slightly, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he fastened the cold diamonds around my neck. It felt like a beautiful, heavy shackle. Before I could demand an answer, his hand tangled in my hair, tilting my head back.

His mouth crashed down on mine. It wasn't a kiss; it was a punishment, a brand of absolute ownership that tasted of dark tobacco and danger. When he finally pulled away, I was dizzy, my lips swollen.

"Do you want to fulfill your duties as Mrs. Moretti tonight?" he whispered hoarsely against my mouth.

I squeezed my eyes shut, the fight draining out of me. He stood up, leaving me trembling on the sofa, the diamonds burning against my skin.

The next morning, the bright sunlight did nothing to chase away the chill in my bones. I woke up in my bed, alone, but the moment I opened my eyes, I saw him.

Damien was sitting on the armchair in the corner of my bedroom, fully dressed in a crisp black shirt and slacks, watching me.

"Get out," I snapped, throwing off the silk covers. I marched toward the bathroom, my bare feet hitting the cold hardwood floor.

In a flash, he was out of the chair. He scooped me up into his arms before I could protest and dropped me back onto the mattress. "You run cold. Don't walk barefoot."

"Don't touch me!" I yelled, scrambling back against the headboard. "What else do you know, my personal Soldier?"

His dark eyes darkened further. "I know you never dry your hair after a shower. I know you're hot-tempered but soft-hearted. I know you eat junk food at two in the morning because your sleep schedule is a mess." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "And I know you like to hide under the covers in the dead of night, holding your mother's old photo, crying silently."

A cold wave of terror washed over me. He had stripped away every layer of my privacy. He wasn't just a bodyguard; he was a ghost who had been haunting my every move. Unable to bear his piercing gaze, I shoved past him and fled the bedroom.

Ten minutes later, I sat rigidly on the living room sofa, glaring at the dining table. A steaming bowl of my favorite seafood porridge sat there, the aroma filling the room.

"Eat," Damien commanded from the kitchen counter.

"I'm not hungry," I lied, crossing my arms.

Damien stared at me with deadpan calm. "Fine. I'll have my men throw it all away."

Just as he stepped forward, my stomach let out a loud, treacherous growl. My cheeks burned with humiliation. Damien stopped. Without a word, he walked over, picked me up like a misbehaving child, and deposited me firmly into the dining chair.

I grabbed the silver spoon, my pride demanding a final stand. "I'm only eating because you begged me!"

Damien held my gaze, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his deep, Sicilian eyes. "Yes, principessa(princess)," he murmured smoothly, taking the seat opposite mine. "I begged you."

The clinking of my spoon against the porcelain was the only sound in the penthouse, wrapping us in a suffocating, tense silence.