The Jilted Bride's Secret Mafia King

Isabella POV

The scent of white lilies inside St. Patrick's Cathedral was suffocating. I stood alone at the altar, the heavy silk of my wedding dress feeling more like a shroud with every passing second. Three hundred of New York's elite watched me in a hushed, expectant silence.

My phone, hidden in the folds of my bridal bouquet, vibrated for the third time in two minutes. My hands trembled slightly as I pulled it out.

*I can't do this. Carmella is pregnant with my child, a Doyle heir. I'm sorry.*

Brayan. My fiancé. And Carmella—my maid of honor, my supposed best friend. The double betrayal hit me like a physical blow, shattering the marble floor beneath my feet. This wasn't just a broken heart; in our world, this was a public execution of my dignity.

Before I could even process the sheer magnitude of the humiliation, a hand clamped onto my arm. Griselda Doyle, the matriarch of the Doyle family, dug her manicured claws into my bare skin.

"A woman who can't even attract her own man, how is she worthy of the Doyle name?" she hissed, her venomous whisper perfectly pitched for the front row to hear. "My son needs a wife who can bring glory to the family, not a draftsman who only knows how to draw blueprints."

The sheer audacity of her hypocrisy ignited something dark and dormant inside me. The terrified, abandoned orphan vanished, replaced by a woman pushed to the absolute edge.

I yanked my arm free from Griselda's grip. Reaching up, I tore the expensive lace veil from my hair and let it drop to the cold floor. I walked straight to the podium and grabbed the microphone.

"The wedding is canceled," my voice echoed through the cavernous cathedral, cold and steady. "It seems the Doyle family has a special preference for a *Rat*. As for the groom, he is currently busy with my former maid of honor. Please, enjoy the drinks. After all, a coward's money is still money."

I didn't wait for the gasp of the crowd. I turned my back on the altar and walked down the aisle, dragging my ruined dress like a solitary queen leaving a burning kingdom.

The moment I pushed through the heavy bronze doors onto Fifth Avenue, the adrenaline crashed. My heel caught on the stone steps, and I stumbled forward.

I braced for the impact, but a pair of strong, unyielding arms caught me. I looked up into the stoic face of a massive man—Elias Bolton, a *Soldier*. Without a word, he guided me toward a black, armored Maybach idling in the shadows.

The tinted rear window rolled down.

Damiano Moretti. *The Ghost.*

He sat in a custom wheelchair, a man exiled by his own blood. He possessed high cheekbones, a jawline carved from granite, and storm-gray eyes that radiated pure, suffocating danger. He had been watching the spectacle.

A reckless, desperate idea seized me.

"Marry me," I blurted out, my chest heaving. "Let the