Mafia's Surrogate Bride Chapter 10

Aria's POV

The servant's quarters at the Montrosso estate buzzed with nervous energy as fifteen temporary workers gathered for our first day of training.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Signora Russo announced, "today begins your intensive preparation for tomorrow evening's gala. Those who fail to meet our exacting standards will be dismissed immediately."

Her cold gaze swept over our assembled group before landing on me with unmistakable hostility. Even though I'd somehow secured this position, it was clear she hadn't forgotten our confrontation during the interview process.

"Miss Rossi," she called out, her voice carrying just enough volume to ensure everyone heard. "Since you seem so confident in your abilities, you can demonstrate proper service technique for the group."

My stomach clenched, but I stepped forward. "Of course, signora."

What followed was three hours of the most deliberately punishing instruction I'd ever experienced.

While the other trainees practiced with standard wine glasses and serving trays, Signora Russo equipped me with a selection of the most delicate, unwieldy pieces from the Montrosso collection. Crystal champagne flutes so thin they seemed to bend under their own weight, wine glasses with stems longer than my forearm, and serving platters that required perfect balance to navigate without disaster.

"Posture straight, shoulders back," she commanded as I attempted to carry six champagne flutes across the training room. "A professional servant moves with grace, not like a peasant stumbling through a marketplace."

The glasses chinked together ominously as I adjusted my grip, trying to distribute the weight evenly across the silver tray. Each step felt like defusing a bomb—one wrong move and hundreds of euros worth of crystal would shatter on the marble floor.

"Faster," Signora Russo snapped. "Our guests will not wait for servants who move at a glacial pace."

I quickened my steps, focusing intently on keeping the tray level. The other trainees watched with a mixture of sympathy and relief that they weren't in my position. We all understood the game being played—I was being set up to fail publicly, to justify whatever personal vendetta Signora Russo was harboring against me.

But I was determined not to give her the satisfaction.

I completed the circuit successfully, setting the tray down with only the slightest tremor in my hands. A few of the other trainees offered encouraging smiles, but Signora Russo's expression remained coldly disapproving.

"Adequate," she said dismissively. "Again. This time with the burgundy service set."

I loaded six glasses carefully, checking and rechecking the balance before lifting the tray. The weight was considerable, and I could feel my arms starting to shake from the sustained effort of the morning's exercises.

"This time, you'll navigate the obstacle course," Signora Russo announced with obvious satisfaction. "In tomorrow night's service, you'll need to move efficiently through crowded rooms, around furniture, between guests engaged in conversation."

I started forward carefully, turning sideways to slip between two high-backed chairs. The glasses clinked softly against each other, but held steady. Left around a marble pedestal, right to avoid a low coffee table, forward through a gap barely wider than my shoulders.

I was almost through the course when disaster struck.

A young woman appeared in the doorway to my left—not one of the trainees, but clearly someone who belonged in this elegant environment. She was breathtakingly beautiful, with dark hair styled in perfect waves and clothing that spoke of unlimited resources and impeccable taste. Even without Sofia's description, I would have known immediately that this was someone important.

She stepped directly into my path without warning, apparently expecting me to simply materialize elsewhere rather than inconvenience her with my presence.

I tried to stop, tried to adjust my trajectory, but the momentum of the heavy tray and the sudden change in direction was too much for the delicate balance I'd been maintaining.

The liquid splashed across the front of the young woman's cream-colored dress, a designer piece that had probably cost more than I'd make in a year even with this job.

For a moment, the entire room fell into absolute silence.

Then the woman's face twisted with fury, and her hand cracked across my cheek with a sound like a gunshot.

"You clumsy little bitch!" she shrieked, her cultured accent failing to mask the venom in her voice. "Do you have any idea what you've done? This dress is Valentino couture!"

My cheek burned from the slap, but I forced myself to remain standing, to meet her rage with as much dignity as I could muster.

"I'm so sorry, signorina," I said, setting down the tray carefully before any more damage could be done. "It was an accident. Please, let me help you clean—"

"Don't you dare touch me!" She raised her hand again. "You're not fit to breathe the same air as your betters, let alone serve in a respectable household!"

"Miss Montrosso is absolutely right," Signora Russo said, her voice dripping with false sympathy as she rushed to the young woman's side. "This is exactly the kind of incompetence we cannot tolerate. Some people simply lack the breeding necessary for this level of service."

Miss Montrosso. This was Adriana, the granddaughter Sofia had warned me about. The woman who'd been promised to Damian Cavalieri since childhood, who saw any other woman as a potential threat to her claim.

"You should be grateful we don't send you straight to the authorities," Adriana continued, her voice rising to a pitch that echoed off the marble walls. "This kind of carelessness borders on criminal negligence!"

"With respect, signorina," I said, finding my voice despite the fear and humiliation, "you walked directly into my path without warning. I was completing a training exercise as instructed, following the route Signora Russo had established. If you had looked before entering the training area—"

Adriana's eyes widened with shock and fury that I would dare defend myself. Her hand rose again, this time clearly intending to deliver a blow that would do more than just sting.

"How dare you—"

"Stop."

The voice was familiar, gentle yet commanding in a way that brooked no argument.

"Nonno!" she said, her fury instantly transforming into something that might have been respect tinged with fear. "I didn't know you were here. This servant—this incompetent girl—she ruined my dress and then had the audacity to argue with me about it!"

Nonno. Grandfather.

The room seemed to spin around me as the implications crashed over me like a tidal wave. The kind old man who'd helped me in my darkest moment, who'd listened to my troubles with such genuine compassion, who'd given me his card with gentle encouragement to call if I ever needed anything—he was Antonio Montrosso. The patriarch of one of Italy's most powerful crime families.

For some reason, I found myself feeling an inexplicable warmth toward this powerful old man. It wasn't just because of our brief encounter, but something more—something that felt carved into my very blood, as if he were my long-lost grandfather. I immediately shook my head. What was I thinking? I would never have any connection to someone so powerful and influential.