Jilted Fiancée To The Underworld Queen

"Siena, the syndicate's European expansion needs a bodyguard. Let me borrow your fiancé for three years."

Exactly seven days before my high-profile mafia wedding, the best friend I considered a sister sat comfortably on my custom Italian sofa and made this absurd demand.

She tapped the faint scar on her collarbone, the supposed proof that she had taken a bullet for me, now weaponized to guilt-trip me.

"You owe me a life, remember? I'm not asking for your money or your territory. I'm just borrowing a man."

Any honorable man would have sternly refused at a moment like this.