The Bodyguard Who Stole the Mafia Bride

Three hours ago, I was the revered Bianchi princess, standing at the altar in a million-dollar gown to seal New York's most powerful Mafia alliance.

Instead, my fiancé Julian Falcone didn't show up, publicly slaughtering our sacred pact for a rising actress and turning me into the laughingstock of the underworld.

In a drunken haze of humiliation, I used my silent, lethal bodyguard, Damien Moretti, to numb my pain.

But the next morning, he didn't just walk away.

He showed me a video of my willing surrender and cornered me.

"Marry me. Become Mrs. Moretti."

My own father froze my accounts, demanding I get on my knees to beg the cheating Falcone heir for forgiveness, or face a fifty-million-dollar penalty.

I was stripped of my assets, betrayed by the man I loved for a decade, and sold out by my own blood.

I had no choice but to agree to Damien's marriage of convenience to survive.

But what terrified me most was my new husband himself.

A mere bodyguard shouldn't carry an invitation-only Centurion black card.

A mere bodyguard shouldn't be able to terrify a Mafia heir with a single, murderous look.

Who on earth was Damien Moretti?

With no money and my back against the wall, I was forced to join a reality show alongside my cheating ex and his mistress.

They thought they could continue to humiliate the discarded bride on live television.

But they didn't know I was walking into this warzone with a monster at my back.