Mafia's Surrogate Bride Chapter 21

Aria's POV

I woke to an ache that seemed to penetrate every fiber of my being.

The unfamiliar room came into focus slowly—elegant furniture, expensive fabrics, the kind of luxury I'd only glimpsed in magazines.

The room was empty. Damian was nowhere to be seen.

But the memories crashed over me like a relentless tide, each wave more devastating than the last.

"You're going to regret asking me for this favor."

"Tell me exactly what you need."

"I need you to make it stop burning. I need you to—"

"To what? To fuck you? Is that what you're begging for, piccola?"

The fragments came in vivid, shameful flashes. My voice, desperate and broken, pleading for his touch. The way I'd stripped naked in that shower, water streaming down my flushed body while I begged like some pathetic creature driven mad by need. The mirror—God, that mirror—reflecting back my own degradation as he controlled every inch of me with calculated precision.

"Watch yourself cum in my hands."

"Clean them."

I pressed my palms against my burning cheeks, trying to block out the memories that wouldn't stop coming. The drug Adriana had slipped me might have worn off, but the humiliation remained crystal clear. I'd thrown myself at Damian Cavalieri like some desperate animal in heat, and he'd taken what I offered with the cold efficiency of a man collecting a debt.

How could this have happened again? How could I have been so weak, so stupid, so completely unable to control myself around him?

The first time, I'd had the excuse of alcohol and heartbreak. This time, drugged or not, I'd made a choice. I'd begged him to help me, knowing exactly what kind of help he would provide.

What made it worse was the lingering sensation of his hands on my skin. Even now, hours later, I could feel the ghost of his touch between my thighs.

I forced myself to sit up, wincing at the soreness that reminded me of exactly how thoroughly he'd claimed me. The silk sheets slipped away, revealing marks on my skin—purple bruises on my wrists where he'd held me, red patches on my throat where his mouth had worked with possessive hunger.

Focus, Aria. The practical voice in my head cut through the spiral of shame and self-recrimination. You have bigger problems than your wounded pride.

The charity gala. I was supposed to be working, serving drinks and staying invisible among Florence's elite. Instead, I'd disappeared for hours, lost in Damian's bed while my absence was undoubtedly noticed by the very people who controlled my paycheck.

Three hundred euros. Jessica's treatment money. The sum that had driven me to accept this job in the first place, now hanging in jeopardy because I couldn't control myself around a man who represented everything dangerous in my world.

They wouldn't understand or care what had happened to me. They wouldn't want to hear about drugs or coercion or the complicated web of power that had led me to this moment. All they would see was an unreliable servant who'd abandoned her post during the most important event of the year.

I scrambled out of bed on unsteady legs, gathering my scattered uniform from where it had been discarded across the expensive furniture. The fabric was wrinkled and torn in places.

My hands shook as I tried to make myself presentable, smoothing down the white shirt that bore the unmistakable marks of passionate encounters. There was no hiding what had happened, but I could at least try to appear professional when I returned to my duties.

I had to get back to work. Had to salvage what remained of this opportunity. Jessica's life depended on the money I could earn tonight.

I'd barely taken three steps toward the door when a sharp voice cut through the hallway like a blade.

"And where exactly are you coming from?"

I froze. Signora Russo stood at the end of the corridor.

"I... I was looking for the restroom, signora," I stammered, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue. "I got turned around in the hallways."

Her cold eyes swept over me with the precision of a predator cataloging weaknesses. She took in my wrinkled uniform, my tangled hair, the flush that still colored my cheeks from memories I couldn't quite suppress.

"The restroom," she repeated, her voice dripping with disbelief. "For over three hours?"

"I wasn't feeling well," I tried again, desperation creeping into my voice. "The champagne earlier—I think something disagreed with me."

"How unfortunate." Signora Russo stepped closer, her expression shifting from suspicion to something far more dangerous. "Empty your pockets."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me clearly. A servant who disappears during service and emerges from the guest quarters looking thoroughly... disheveled... requires a security check. Empty your pockets immediately."

"Signora, I haven't taken anything—"

"Now."

The single word carried enough authority to make my hands move automatically to my pockets. But as I reached for the small items there—my phone, a tissue, the emergency twenty euros I always carried—Signora Russo's eyes narrowed with what looked like satisfaction.

"Maria! Francesca!" she called sharply. "Come here immediately."

Two maids appeared as if they'd been waiting in the wings, their faces carefully neutral but their eyes bright with curiosity.

"This girl requires a thorough search," Signora Russo announced. "She's been absent from her duties and has been discovered in compromising circumstances."

"That's not necessary," I protested, backing away from the advancing women. "I told you, I haven't stolen anything—"

"Remove her jacket," Signora Russo commanded, ignoring my protests. "Check every pocket, every seam. Thieves can be remarkably creative in their hiding places."

The maids moved forward with professional efficiency, their hands pulling at my uniform jacket before I could react. I tried to pull away, to maintain some shred of dignity, but they were stronger and had the advantage of numbers.

"Please," I whispered, tears starting to burn behind my eyes. "This is humiliating. I haven't done anything wrong."

But it was too late. As they stripped away the jacket, my shirt collar shifted, revealing the marks Damian had left on my throat.

Signora Russo's gasp was theatrical in its shock. "Well, well. Look at this, ladies."

Her voice carried through the hallway with deliberate volume, designed to draw attention from anyone within earshot. "This is what happens when we hire girls from those establishments. Look at these marks! Look at the evidence of exactly what kind of work she's been doing instead of serving our guests!"

The tears I'd been fighting finally spilled over, hot trails of shame running down my cheeks as the women stared at me with a mixture of disgust and fascination. I could practically hear the gossip spreading already, my reputation being dissected and destroyed by people who knew nothing about the circumstances that had led me here.

"I can explain—" I started, but the words died in my throat.

How could I possibly explain? That I'd been drugged by the granddaughter of one of Italy's most powerful crime families? That I'd sought help from Damian Cavalieri and found myself utterly consumed by needs I couldn't control? That every mark on my body was proof of my complete surrender to a man who could destroy me with a single word?

I couldn't say any of that. Speaking Damian's name would shift the target from Signora Russo's petty cruelty to something far more dangerous—the jealous rage of a mafia princess who'd already proven she was willing to use poison to eliminate perceived threats.

"I'm sorry," I whispered instead, my voice breaking with defeat. "Please, signora. I need this job. My sister—she's sick, and the medical bills—"

"Your sister?" Signora Russo's laugh was sharp and merciless. "Your sister isn't my concern. My concern is maintaining the reputation of this household, which you have thoroughly compromised with your shameless behavior."

She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a hiss that only I could hear. "Did you think no one would notice? Did you imagine you could prostitute yourself in our guest rooms and return to work as if nothing had happened?"

"It wasn't like that—"

"Wasn't it?" Her voice rose again, ensuring our audience could hear every word. "Then explain these marks, girl. Explain how a servant ends up looking like she's been thoroughly used by some wealthy patron."

I couldn't. There was no explanation I could give that wouldn't make everything worse—for me, for Jessica, for the fragile hope I'd built around earning enough money to save my sister's life.

"I'm sorry," I repeated, the words feeling hollow and inadequate. "Please. Give me another chance. I'll work extra shifts, I'll take on additional duties—"

"You'll do nothing. You're fired. Immediately. And you certainly won't be receiving the three hundred euros we promised for tonight's service."

"Please," I begged, no longer caring about dignity or pride. "My sister needs that money. She's dying without treatment, and I—"

"Should have thought of that before you decided to play the whore in our guest quarters." Signora Russo's smile was cold and satisfied. "Now get out. Before I call security to remove you."