Mafia's Surrogate Bride Chapter 28

Aria’s POV

"Your face is so... familiar. You look exactly like..."

What had she been about to say? And why had her companion stopped her so abruptly? The hatred in Adriana's eyes had been so visceral, so personal, yet we'd barely interacted before that night at the gala. It made no sense.

I pressed my palms against my temples, trying to push away the confusion and focus on what mattered. Jessica was inside that room, probably still upset from witnessing the ugly scene. I needed to go back in, comfort her, explain away the strange woman's cruel words. But first, I needed to calm down enough to project the strength she needed from me.

The antiseptic smell of the hospital seemed stronger now, mixing with the lingering scent of Adriana's expensive perfume to create something nauseating. I leaned against the wall, taking deep breaths and trying to center myself.

Focus on Jessica. Everything else is just noise.

But even as I told myself that, I couldn't shake the image of Adriana's face when she'd looked at me—that flash of something almost like recognition, followed immediately by disgust. It was as if she'd seen a ghost, and the ghost had somehow personally offended her.

I was about to push away from the wall and return to Jessica's room when my phone rang, the sound jarring in the quiet hallway. The caller ID made me frown—Sant'Anna Orphanage. Why would Sister Mary be calling me in the middle of the afternoon?

"Hello?" I answered.

"Aria! Oh, my dear child, I have the most wonderful news!" Sister Mary's voice was breathless with excitement, more animated than I'd heard her in years. "You need to sit down for this."

"I'm at the hospital with Jessica. What's wrong? Is everything—"

"Nothing's wrong, dear. Everything is absolutely right for once!" She laughed. "Aria, someone wants to pay for Jessica's medical treatment. All of it."

"What?" The word came out as barely a whisper.

"A benefactor, dear. An anonymous donor who contacted us just an hour ago. They said they wanted to cover all of Jessica's medical expenses—the dialysis, the transplant surgery, everything. They've already spoken to the hospital administration and arranged for immediate payment."

My mind reeled, unable to process what I was hearing. This kind of thing didn't happen to people like us. Mysterious benefactors were the stuff of fairy tales, not the harsh reality of life in Florence's shadows.

"Sister Mary, are you sure? This isn't some kind of mistake?"

"I've confirmed everything myself, child. Dr. Martinelli called personally to tell me."

I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor, my phone pressed against my ear as tears began to stream down my face. After weeks of desperation, after watching Jessica fade a little more each day while I scrambled helplessly for solutions, this felt like a miracle.

"Who?" I managed to ask. "Who would do something like this?"

"They insisted on complete anonymity. But Aria, they specifically mentioned Jessica by name, knew details about her condition. You need to come to the orphanage immediately," Sister Mary continued. "There are documents to sign, formalities to complete. The donor's representative is here now, waiting to finalize everything."

"I'll be right there," I said.

The taxi ride to Sant'Anna Orphanage passed in a blur of city streets and racing thoughts. Part of me wanted to feel nothing but gratitude—Jessica would live, would have the surgery she needed, would grow up healthy and strong. That should have been enough. That should have been everything.

The orphanage looked exactly as it had when I'd left all those years ago—gray stone walls covered in ivy, narrow windows that let in just enough light to chase away the worst of the shadows, the small courtyard where children played games with worn toys donated by various charitable organizations.

Sister Mary met me at the front door, her weathered face glowing with happiness. She was a small woman who had dedicated her life to caring for Florence's unwanted children, and seeing her joy made my chest ache with complicated emotions.

"Aria, my dear!" She embraced me warmly, her hands patting my back the way they had when I was a frightened five-year-old. "Isn't it wonderful? After all these years of struggle, finally some good fortune."

"Yes," I said, "It's... incredible."

She led me through familiar hallways toward her office, chattering excitedly about the donor's generosity and how quickly everything had been arranged. But as we walked, a growing sense of unease settled in my stomach.

"The representative is waiting in my office," Sister Mary said as we approached the closed door. "Such a professional young man. He had all the paperwork ready, knew exactly what needed to be done."

She opened the door, and my heart stopped.

The man sitting behind Sister Mary's desk wasn't Damian, but I recognized him immediately. Lorenzo—Damian's bodyguard and right-hand man. He rose as we entered, his expression carefully neutral, but I caught the slight nod he gave me.

"Miss Rossi," he said formally. "Thank you for coming so quickly. We have several documents that require your signature."

Sister Mary beamed, completely oblivious to the undercurrents in the room. "Isn't this wonderful, Aria? Mr. Lorenzo here has explained everything. Jessica will receive the finest care available."

Lorenzo spread several papers across the desk—hospital authorizations, payment confirmations, medical consent forms. Everything was legitimate, professional, exactly what it appeared to be on the surface.

"There's one additional document," Lorenzo said, producing a sealed envelope from his jacket. "Personal correspondence from the donor. To be opened privately."

"The donor hopes you'll consider their message carefully," he said, his meaning unmistakable.

My name was written across the front in Damian's distinctive handwriting. Inside was a thick document, professionally formatted with legal letterhead. The title at the top made my blood run cold:

**SURROGACY AGREEMENT - CONFIDENTIAL**

My hands began to shake as I read the opening paragraphs. This wasn't a simple note—it was a complete contract, meticulously detailed and legally binding. Terms of pregnancy, medical care protocols, financial compensation schedules, confidentiality clauses. Everything laid out with the cold precision of a business transaction.

*Two million euros upon successful delivery of a healthy male heir.*

*Complete relinquishment of all parental rights.*

*No contact with the child following birth.*

*Breach of contract results in immediate financial penalties and legal action.*

The chapel around me seemed to spin as the full scope of what he'd done hit me like a physical blow. This wasn't charity—it was manipulation of the cruelest kind.