Mafia's Surrogate Bride Chapter 70

Damian’s POV

Adriana practically glowed with triumph when I picked her up for our "date."

She'd spent obvious hours preparing—her blonde hair arranged in perfect waves, her makeup flawless, and her designer dress probably worth more than most people's cars. When she slid into the passenger seat of my Maserati, her smile was radiant with satisfaction.

"I knew you'd come to your senses eventually," she said, settling into the leather seat like she belonged there. "We're perfect for each other, Damian. Everyone says so."

"Do they?" I kept my voice neutral, pleasant even. "And what do they say, exactly?"

"That we're the ideal match. Two powerful families, compatible backgrounds, shared values." She reached over to touch my arm possessively. "Plus, we look incredible together. Did you see the photos from the charity auction last month? We could have been on the cover of Vogue."

"Where are we going?" she asked, checking her reflection in the side mirror. "I told Grandfather we might be late coming home. I wanted to make sure we had plenty of time to... reconnect."

In her mind, this evening was the beginning of something permanent. A romantic dinner, perhaps a nightcap at my estate, maybe even an engagement announcement by Christmas.

How disappointed she's going to be.

"I thought we'd start with coffee," I said smoothly. "There's a lovely little place in the historic district. Very... authentic."

The café I chose was exactly what I needed—small, crowded, staffed by overworked university students trying to make ends meet. The kind of place where patience ran thin and service could be slow during the evening rush.

Adriana's expression soured the moment we walked in. This clearly wasn't what she'd expected from a romantic evening with Italy's most eligible bachelor.

"This place is so... common," she murmured, wrinkling her nose at the mismatched furniture and indie music playing from speakers that had seen better days. "Couldn't we go somewhere more... appropriate?"

"Sometimes the best experiences come from unexpected places," I replied, guiding her to a small table near the back.

The young barista who approached our table looked exhausted. Her name tag read "Elena," and there were coffee stains on her apron that suggested she'd been dealing with the dinner rush for hours.

"What can I get you?" Elena asked, pulling out a worn notepad.

"I'll have an espresso," I said simply.

"And you, miss?"

Adriana looked up from her phone with obvious irritation. "I'll have a cappuccino. But make sure the milk is properly steamed—I don't want that foam garbage you served the last customer. And I want it in a proper cup, not those hideous paper things. Also, the table is sticky. Someone needs to clean it immediately."

Elena blinked, clearly taken aback by the imperious tone. "Of course, miss. I'll... I'll get that cleaned right away."

"Also," Adriana continued, not bothering to look at the girl directly, "when you bring the cappuccino, make sure it's actually hot. The last place I went, they served me lukewarm garbage and expected me to pay full price."

"Yes, miss."

When Elena returned with our drinks, her hands were shaking slightly. The day had clearly been long and difficult, and Adriana's attitude wasn't helping.

"Here's your espresso, sir," she said to me, her voice carefully polite.

"Thank you."

"And your cappuccino, miss." Elena set the cup down carefully, but as she did, a tiny drop of foam spilled onto the saucer.

Adriana's reaction was immediate and vicious.

"Are you kidding me?" she snapped, her voice rising enough to draw stares from other customers. "Look at this mess! You've completely ruined the presentation!"

"I'm so sorry," Elena stammered. "I can get you a fresh—"

"Fresh cup? Fresh saucer? Or maybe just someone competent to serve it?" Adriana's voice dripped with disdain. "Do you have any idea who you're serving? I could buy this entire establishment with what I spend on coffee in a month!"

Several other customers were now openly staring. The café had gone quiet except for Adriana's increasingly shrill voice.

"Miss, please," Elena tried, "I'll fix it right away—"

"Don't touch it!" Adriana stood up, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. "I want to speak to your manager. This is completely unacceptable!"

"Perhaps we should go," I suggested calmly. "The service here seems... inconsistent."

"Absolutely not. This girl needs to learn that there are consequences for incompetence." Adriana's eyes glittered with malicious satisfaction. "People like her need to understand their place."

From across the room, I watched Elena's face crumble. She couldn't have been more than twenty, probably working two jobs to pay for university, and now she was being publicly humiliated by a woman whose monthly allowance could fund a small country.

"You're absolutely right," I said, standing and placing a reassuring hand on Adriana's shoulder. "Some people do need to learn about consequences."

The rest of the evening unfolded like a beautifully orchestrated symphony of small disasters.

First, her car wouldn't start when we returned to it—something about a mysteriously dead battery. Then the restaurant I'd chosen for dinner had "lost" our reservation, forcing us to wait an hour for a table that happened to be right next to the kitchen doors and the restroom.

The wine she ordered was "off," the pasta was overcooked, and the dessert was mysteriously unavailable despite being listed on the menu. By the time we left, Adriana's perfect hair was wilting from the humidity, her dress had somehow acquired a small stain from a server's "accident," and her expensive heels had developed a squeak from stepping in a conveniently placed puddle.

"This has been the worst evening of my life," she complained as we walked to my car. "Everything that could go wrong has gone wrong!"

"Sometimes these things just happen," I replied sympathetically. "Murphy's Law, you know. What can go wrong, will go wrong."

"But nothing like this ever happens to me! I'm starting to think someone is doing this deliberately."

"Who would do such a thing?" I asked with perfectly feigned innocence.

The final touch came as we approached her grandfather's estate. A black van was waiting in the driveway—Lorenzo and his team, ready for the last phase of the operation.

"What's that?" Adriana asked, squinting at the unfamiliar vehicle.

"I have no idea," I lied smoothly. "Perhaps you should go check?"

What happened next was swift and professional. Adriana was bundled into the van before she could process what was happening, her protests muffled by surprise rather than fear. She'd be taken to a secure location—nothing dangerous, just... educational. Long enough for her to experience what it felt like to be powerless, to be at someone else's mercy.

Long enough for her to understand what she'd put Aria through.

I arrived home several hours later to find the main living room softly lit, the television murmuring quietly in the background.

On the screen, a serious-faced news anchor was speaking in grave tones: "In a shocking turn of events, Adriana Montrosso, granddaughter of prominent businessman Antonio Montrosso, has been reported missing. The young heiress was last seen leaving a restaurant in the historic district around nine PM. Police are treating this as a potential kidnapping and have launched a full investigation..."

Aria was curled up on the sofa wearing one of the silk robes I'd provided, her dark hair spilling over the cushions like ink.

She looked up when I entered.

Her eyes moved from the television screen to my face, then back to the screen, then back to me. Her expression was a masterpiece of dawning realization—eyes widening, lips parting slightly, color draining from her cheeks.

She looked like someone who'd just seen a ghost. Or maybe like someone who'd just realized she was living with one.

I loosened my tie, settling into the chair across from her. "What are you watching?"

"Just the news.Kidnapped," She repeated slowly, as if testing the word. "The Montrosso princess. How... terrible."