Mafia's Surrogate Bride Chapter 71

Aria’s POV

I glanced at Damian.

Wasn't he supposed to be with the Montrosso princess tonight? Shouldn't he be with her right now?

The questions burned in my throat like acid, but I couldn't voice them. Not yet. Because if Damian wasn't with Adriana when she disappeared, where had he been? And why did he look so unnaturally calm about the woman he was destined to marry being in mortal danger?

I thought about all the times I'd heard people mention their engagement, the way everyone in Florence's high society spoke of it as an inevitability. The union of two powerful families, the strengthening of ancient alliances. According to everything I'd been told, Adriana's safety should be his top priority right now. He should be pacing the floors, making frantic phone calls, mobilizing every resource at his disposal.

Instead, he was standing there like a statue, watching the night as if nothing had happened.

"The Montrosso princess has been kidnapped," I said carefully, testing his reaction.

He turned slightly, just enough for me to catch his profile in the lamplight. The movement was deliberate, controlled, like everything else about him. "I heard. I'm not deaf."

That was it? No shock, no concern, no immediate phone calls to mobilize search efforts? I studied his face for any sign of emotion. There was nothing.

The silence stretched between us. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the glass doors that led to the terrace. The sound seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet room, like nature itself was commenting on the wrongness of this moment.

Maybe it's some kind of strategy, I told myself desperately. Perhaps he's already sent people to rescue her. But even as I tried to rationalize his behavior, something felt deeply wrong about the entire situation.

The memory of my own kidnapping flashed through my mind—the terror, the helplessness, the certainty that I was going to die. If someone I cared about was going through that right now, I wouldn't be able to stand still. I'd be climbing the walls, demanding action, doing everything in my power to bring them home safely.

I had no desire to get caught up in whatever dangerous games the Cavalieri and Montrosso families played with each other. I'd already paid the price for being an unwilling participant in their world, and I had no intention of repeating that experience. The best thing I could do was focus on my own situation, get through this arrangement as quickly as possible, and disappear back into anonymity before anyone else decided I was a threat worth eliminating.

"I want to discuss the pre-IVF medical examination," I said, forcing my voice to remain steady despite the anxiety churning in my stomach. "Jennifer mentioned you canceled it. I'd like to schedule it for tomorrow."

Damian moved away from the window, his dark eyes settling on me with that intensity that never failed to make my pulse quicken. The Italian leather of his shoes was silent against the marble floor as he approached, each step measured and deliberate.

"You're that eager to carry my child?" he asked.

He took a step closer, and I instinctively pressed back against the sofa cushions. The soft leather gave way beneath me, but there was nowhere to retreat.

"No," I replied firmly, lifting my chin to meet his gaze directly. "I'm eager to complete this arrangement and move on with my life."

Another step brought him close enough that I had to crane my neck to maintain eye contact.

The coffee table between us suddenly seemed like an inadequate barrier. I could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the slight shadow of stubble along his jaw despite his perfectly groomed appearance. There was something almost hypnotic about being this close to him, something that made rational thought significantly more difficult.

"But I'm not in any hurry," he said.

The casual admission sparked immediate anger, cutting through the confusing haze of awareness his proximity had created. A game? That's what this was to him—some form of elaborate entertainment while I tried desperately to rebuild my life and secure my sister's future?

I thought about Jessica, probably asleep in her hospital bed right now, finally healthy and dreaming of the future we could build together. I thought about the money sitting in my account, enough to give us both a fresh start somewhere far away from Florence and its dangerous families. Every day this arrangement dragged on was another day we couldn't begin our real lives.

"Tomorrow," I insisted, "The examination needs to be scheduled for tomorrow."

He leaned forward, bracing one hand on the sofa's armrest, effectively caging me against the cushions. His sleeve brushed against my arm, and I fought the urge to flinch away from the contact.

"Tomorrow," he repeated slowly, as if tasting the word. "You seem to be under the impression that you set the timeline for this arrangement."

The familiar power play made my jaw clench with irritation.

"The contract specifies—"

"The contract specifies that you'll carry my child. It says nothing about your preferences regarding the speed of the process."

His free hand moved to the back of the sofa, his fingers barely brushing against my hair. I hated how my body responded to him, hated that even when I was angry, even when he was being insufferable, some traitorous part of me was acutely aware of his masculinity.

We stared at each other in silence.

"Tomorrow," I repeated stubbornly, my voice stronger now despite our compromising position. "Schedule the examination for tomorrow."

"I do enjoy your determination, piccola. It makes the eventual submission so much more satisfying."

The endearment rolled off his tongue with practiced ease, but there was nothing affectionate about the way he said it. It was a reminder of our first meeting, of how thoroughly he'd outmaneuvered me then, of how completely I'd underestimated what I was getting myself into.

Before I could formulate a response to that infuriating statement, his phone buzzed against the coffee table. The sound cut through the tension like a knife, sharp and insistent in the quiet room.

He straightened immediately, his focus shifting entirely away from our argument.

"My father," he said, more to himself than to me.

The phone buzzed again. Insistently. Urgently.

"Come to the Montrosso estate immediately." Roberto Cavalieri's voice filled the room, carrying an authority that brooked no argument. Even through the phone, his presence was commanding, the kind of voice that had been giving orders for decades and never doubted they would be obeyed. "Now. Antonio wants to see you."