Mafia's Surrogate Bride Chapter 23

Aria's POV

Villa Benedetti loomed against the stormy night sky.

The sound of laughter and conversation drifted from the main dining room as I approached the front entrance. Through the tall windows, I could see figures in expensive evening wear, crystal glasses catching the light from an ornate chandelier. Marco's new world—the world he'd chosen over me.

My finger trembled as I pressed the doorbell, whether from cold or nerves, I couldn't tell. The ornate chimes echoed through the house, and within moments, a uniformed servant appeared at the door.

"Miss?" His voice was polite but questioning as he took in my bedraggled appearance—soaked hair plastered to my head, makeup smeared, uniform wrinkled and stained.

"I need to speak with Marco," I said, trying to inject some authority into my voice despite my pathetic state. "It's urgent."

The servant's expression grew wary. "I'm afraid the family is hosting a private dinner this evening. Perhaps you could call tomorrow—"

"Aria?"

The familiar voice came from behind the servant, and my stomach clenched as Marco appeared in the doorway. He looked exactly as I remembered—handsome in that polished way that money could buy, his dark hair perfectly styled, his expensive suit tailored to perfection. But his expression when he saw me was pure horror.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he glancing nervously back toward the dining room. "I told you to stop calling me. We're done."

"You owe me money," I said, my voice stronger now that I was face to face with him. "Two hundred euros. You promised to pay me back."

"Are you insane? You can't just show up at my girlfriend's house looking like some vagrant and demand money."

"I'm not demanding anything. I'm asking for what's rightfully mine." I wiped rain from my face, trying to maintain what little dignity I had left. "You borrowed that money from me, Marco. I have every right to collect it."

"You have no rights here. Look at yourself, Aria. You're soaking wet, you smell like cheap perfume and desperation, and you're causing a scene at one of the most important dinners of my career."

Before I could respond, another voice joined the conversation.

"Marco? Is everything alright out here?"

A woman appeared beside him—tall, blonde, elegant in the way that only came from a lifetime of privilege. Claudia Benedetti, the woman who'd taken my place in Marco's bed and his heart.

"It's nothing, cara," Marco said quickly, but Claudia's sharp eyes had already catalogued my appearance with obvious distaste.

"I see," she said coolly. "And who might this be?"

"Someone from my past," Marco replied, his voice heavy with embarrassment. "She was just leaving."

"Actually, I wasn't." The words came out before I could stop them, fueled by weeks of humiliation and desperation. "We were discussing the money he owes me. Two hundred euros that he borrowed three months ago."

Claudia's eyebrows rose with aristocratic disdain. "Money? How... unfortunate. I wasn't aware my boyfriend had debts to... people like you."

People like you. The casual dismissal in her voice made my cheeks burn with shame and anger.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I demanded.

"Well," Claudia said, her gaze travelling over my sodden uniform with obvious disgust, "one can tell quite a lot about a person from their appearance. And yours suggests you're not exactly... refined company."

"Claudia, please," Marco said, though whether he was trying to protect me or simply avoid a scene, I couldn't tell. "Let's just go back inside. The dinner—"

"No," I interrupted, my voice rising. "I'm not leaving until you pay me what you owe me. That money isn't a gift, Marco. It's a loan that you promised to repay."

"You want to talk about debts? Let's talk about everything you owe me. Two years of my life wasted on someone who could never fit into my world. Two years of pretending your pathetic background didn't embarrass me in front of my friends and family."

Each word hit like a physical blow, but I forced myself to stand straighter. "I never asked you to be embarrassed by me. I never asked you to pretend to be anything other than what you were."

"What I was?" He laughed harshly. "I was an idiot who thought love could overcome the reality of class differences. You're an orphan from the streets, Aria. You have no family, no connections, no future worth investing in. I wasted two years learning that lesson."

"It's fine," I said, though my voice shook with suppressed emotion. "Say whatever you need to say. It doesn't change the fact that you owe me money."

"Money I used to fix a car that drove us both around for months," Marco shot back. "Money that paid for dates you couldn't afford, for gifts you couldn't reciprocate. I'd say we're more than even."

"That's not how borrowing works, and you know it. You asked for that money specifically for car repairs. You promised to pay it back. I have text messages—"

"Text messages from a desperate ex-girlfriend," Marco interrupted. "Who do you think people will believe? A respected member of Florence society or some club hostess who probably serviced half the men in this city?"

The accusation hit me like a slap. "How dare you—"

"How dare I what? Tell the truth? Everyone knows what kind of work girls like you do. Standing around in skimpy costumes, letting drunk men paw at you for tips. Don't pretend you're some innocent victim."

"I worked as a hostess to pay for my sister's medical bills. I did what I had to do to survive. Unlike you, I don't have a trust fund to fall back on."

"Your sister?" Claudia laughed, the sound sharp and cutting. "How convenient. Every sob story needs a dying relative to justify the desperation."

That was the final straw. Something inside me snapped completely.

"Don't you dare talk about Jessica," I snarled, taking a step toward Claudia. "You don't know anything about my life, about what I've sacrificed—"

"Get away from her," Marco demanded, moving to block my path. When I tried to step around him, he shoved me backward with both hands.

I stumbled, my wet shoes slipping on the marble steps. My ankle twisted as I fell, sending sharp pain shooting up my leg, and I cried out as my knees hit the stone. The impact tore through my stockings, leaving scrapes that immediately began to bleed.

"Marco!" Claudia gasped, but her shock seemed more about the public nature of the violence than any concern for my welfare.

"Stay down," Marco warned, standing over me with an ugly expression. "And stay away from us. If you come back here, I'll call the police and tell them you're stalking me."

I struggled to my feet, ignoring the pain in my ankle and the blood seeping from my scraped knees. "You pushed me."

"I defended my girlfriend from an unstable ex who was making threats," Marco corrected smoothly. "That's what I'll tell anyone who asks."

Before I could respond, the sound of sirens cut through the night air. Someone—probably a neighbor who'd heard our shouting—had called the police.

Within minutes, two officers approached the villa, their expressions professionally neutral as they took in the scene. Marco immediately stepped forward, his entire demeanor shifting to helpful citizen mode.

"Officers, thank God you're here," he said, his voice full of relief. "This woman has been harassing my girlfriend and me. She's demanded money, made threats, and when I asked her to leave, she became violent."

"That's not what happened. He owes me money, and when I asked for it back, he pushed me down the stairs."

The officers looked between us, taking in Marco's expensive suit and respectable appearance versus my bedraggled state and obvious injuries. I could see them making judgments, filing me under the category of "unstable ex-girlfriend" before I'd even finished explaining.

"Ma'am, do you have any proof of this alleged debt?" one of the officers asked.

"Text messages," I said quickly, pulling out my phone with trembling fingers. "He asked for the money three months ago for car repairs."

The officer examined my phone briefly, then handed it back. "This shows a request for money, but not a formal loan agreement. Without documentation of the terms of repayment—"

"She's a prostitute," Marco interrupted, his voice carrying just enough volume to ensure Claudia and the officers heard clearly. "She works at one of those clubs where women sell themselves to men. She's been harassing me for weeks, trying to get money by claiming we had some kind of relationship."

I stared at Marco in shock, unable to believe he'd sink to such depths of cruelty.

"That's a lie."

"Ma'am," the officer said, his tone now carrying official warning, "we're going to need you to move along. If you continue to harass these folks, we'll have to arrest you for disturbing the peace."

"But he pushed me," I said desperately. "I'm injured. You can see—"

"You fell," Marco corrected calmly. "After becoming agitated and threatening my girlfriend. The officers saw you stumble."

I looked between the police officers, seeing the same judgment in their eyes that I'd faced from Signora Russo, from the other servants, from everyone who'd ever looked at me and seen only my humble origins and desperate circumstances.

No one was going to help me. No one was going to force Marco to honor his debt or acknowledge what he'd done. In their world, I was exactly what he'd called me—a nobody whose word meant nothing against his respected position in society.

I limped away from the villa, my ankle throbbing with each step and blood from my scraped knees seeping through my torn stockings. Behind me, I heard Claudia's voice, artificially sweet as she thanked the officers for their help.

As I reached the bottom of the hill, pain and exhaustion finally overcame my stubborn pride. I sat down on a low stone wall, trying to catch my breath and assess my injuries. The rain had finally stopped, but I was soaked through and shivering violently.

That's when I saw the black car.

It was expensive—the kind of vehicle that spoke of serious money and serious power. The engine was running, and as I watched, the rear window rolled down with smooth precision.

My heart stopped as I recognized the figure sitting in the back seat.

Damian Cavalieri.

His dark eyes found mine across the distance, taking in my injured state, my defeated posture, the blood on my knees. For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then he spoke, his voice carrying clearly in the quiet night air.

"Get in."

I shook my head instinctively, trying to rise to my feet. "No. I can't. I need to—"

"Aria." The way he said my name stopped me cold. There was something different in his tone—not the cold command I was used to, but something almost... gentle. "Get in the car. We need to talk."