Mafia's Surrogate Bride Chapter 46

Damian’s POV

The call came while I was reviewing contracts in a sterile conference room in Prague, surrounded by men who measured their worth in billions and their loyalty in percentages. Lorenzo's voice carried an unusual tension that immediately commanded my attention.

"Sir, there's been an incident at the estate."

I set down my fountain pen with deliberate precision, noting how the room's conversation shifted to accommodate my obvious distraction. "What kind of incident?"

"Miss Rossi... she had an accident near the lake. She fell in and nearly drowned. We've taken her to the private medical facility, and Dr. Rosetti is overseeing her care."

Fell in. The phrase struck me as oddly phrased, but I pushed the thought aside. "And you're calling me because?"

"I thought you should be informed, given the... nature of her stay at the estate."

"Find a doctor, Lorenzo. Handle it." My tone was deliberately dismissive, designed to communicate that this was a minor inconvenience rather than something requiring my personal attention. "That's what we pay the medical staff for."

But even as I ended the call and returned my attention to the contract negotiations, I found my concentration fragmenting.

Stupid woman.

The thought came with surprising venom. How could she be so careless? So reckless with her own safety? It was exactly the kind of clumsy behavior I'd witnessed that first night at the Moon Bar when she'd spilled wine across my shirt—that same inability to navigate her environment without causing chaos.

The anger that rose in my chest was sharp and immediate. But anger at what, exactly? At her carelessness? At the disruption to my business trip? At the potential threat to the contract we'd so carefully negotiated?

At her putting herself in danger.

The thought slipped through my mental defenses before I could suppress it, and I found myself gripping my pen hard enough that the metal grooves pressed painfully into my fingers.

"Mr. Cavalieri?" One of the Czech investors was looking at me with polite concern. "Are we ready to proceed with the shipping clause revisions?"

"Actually," I heard myself saying, "we'll need to postpone this discussion. Something urgent has come up that requires my immediate attention."

Twenty minutes later, I was instructing my assistant to book the earliest possible flight back to Florence. As she made the arrangements with typical efficiency, I told myself this was purely practical. A damaged surrogate could compromise the entire timeline of my succession plans. The medical emergency needed to be assessed personally to ensure no complications arose that might affect her reproductive viability.

It had nothing to do with the image that kept flashing through my mind—Aria's pale face disappearing beneath dark water, her lungs filling with lake water instead of air.

This is business, I reminded myself firmly. Nothing more.

But if that were true, why had I cut short a negotiation that had been months in the making?

The private medical facility hummed with quiet efficiency as I strode through its polished corridors. Dr. Rosetti met me at the elevator, his expression professionally concerned but not alarmed—the face of a man delivering news that was serious but not catastrophic.

"She's stable," he reported without preamble. "Some fluid in the lungs, mild hypothermia, but no lasting complications. We're monitoring her overnight as a precaution."

"Will this affect her ability to conceive?" The question came out more sharply than I'd intended.

"We'll need to run comprehensive tests, but I don't anticipate any impact on reproductive function. The incident was brief enough that—"

"Schedule whatever tests are necessary. I want a full report within twenty-four hours."

Dr. Rosetti nodded and disappeared down the corridor, leaving me alone with my thoughts outside her room. Through the partially open door, I could see her small form curled beneath white hospital sheets, her face still pale but no longer carrying the gray pallor that spoke of oxygen deprivation.

She looked fragile. Vulnerable. Breakable.

The observation sent an uncomfortable twist through my chest—something that felt disturbingly like protectiveness, which was absurd. I protected assets that were valuable to me, not people who meant nothing beyond their biological utility.

But as I stood there watching the steady rise and fall of her breathing, I couldn't shake the memory of Lorenzo's call. The way his voice had carried genuine concern, as if her welfare mattered beyond its impact on our arrangement.

She's fine, I told myself firmly. The contract remains viable. That's all that matters.

When I returned from my discussion with Dr. Rosetti, I found her awake, propped up against pillows and looking significantly more alert than she had an hour earlier. But there was something different in her expression—a hardness that hadn't been there before, a defensive edge that immediately put me on guard.

"You're awake," I observed, settling into the chair beside her bed with calculated casualness.

She rolled her eyes—actually rolled her eyes at me—before fixing me with a look that could have cut glass. "Don't worry. For the sake of the contract, I'll take better care of my body."

The sarcasm in her voice hit me like a slap. Here I was, having cut short important business to ensure her welfare, and she was treating me like some heartless taskmaster who cared only about her reproductive capacity.

Which, I reminded myself, was exactly what I was supposed to be.

"Good," I replied, my voice growing colder to match her attitude. "Because until you deliver my heir, you don't have autonomy over that body. Take care of it—it's my property now."

The words came out harsher than I'd intended, but her defiant expression only fueled my anger. She wanted to see me as a monster? Fine. I could play that role perfectly.

Her eyes flashed with fury, two spots of color appearing on her pale cheeks. "Your property?"

"Did you forget what you signed?" I leaned forward in my chair, bringing myself closer to eye level with her indignant expression. "Every clause, every provision, every restriction—you agreed to all of it. Your body belongs to me for the duration of this arrangement."

"I didn't forget anything," she shot back, her voice rising despite the strain it clearly put on her throat. "But I'm not some broodmare you can just order around—"

"Aren't you?" The question cut through her protest with surgical precision. "Because from where I sit, that's exactly what you are. A woman who sold her reproductive capacity for money she desperately needed."

She flinched as if I'd struck her, but I couldn't seem to stop myself from pressing the advantage. Something about her defiance, her refusal to show proper deference, triggered every controlling instinct I possessed.

"Furthermore," I continued, "your little swimming adventure has demonstrated that you can't be trusted to protect what belongs to me. When you're medically cleared, you'll be moving to the master suite where I can keep a proper eye on you."

"The master suite?" Her voice cracked with disbelief. "You can't be serious."

"I'm entirely serious. You've proven you need supervision. No more wandering the estate alone, no more activities without my explicit approval. You'll stay where I can monitor your condition personally."

"That's insane!" She struggled to sit up straighter, her hospital gown slipping slightly off one shoulder in a way that shouldn't have been distracting but somehow was. "I have a right to privacy, to basic human dignity—"

"You have exactly the rights I choose to give you," I interrupted, standing up to tower over her bed. "And right now, you've forfeited most of them through your carelessness."

But even as the cruel words left my mouth, part of me recoiled at their harshness. This wasn't what I'd felt when Lorenzo called me. This wasn't the urgency that had driven me to cut short my business trip and rush back to ensure her safety.

Then why are you saying these things?

The question echoed in my mind as I watched tears of frustration and anger gather in her amber eyes. She looked small and vulnerable in that hospital bed, wrapped in sterile white sheets that emphasized her pale skin and delicate bone structure.

She looked like she needed protection, not domination. Care, not control.

But I couldn't seem to stop myself from pushing forward with the role I'd constructed. "I'll be arranging for Dr. Rosetti to conduct a full gynecological examination once you're cleared. We need to establish your baseline fertility markers before we begin the medical procedures."

"You have no choice in this matter," I said, my voice carrying the finality of absolute authority. "You signed a contract, Aria. You took my money. Now you'll fulfill your obligations exactly as specified, under whatever supervision I deem necessary. Move to the master bedroom and sleep with me. You have no choice."