Mafia's Surrogate Bride Chapter 76

Antonio’s POV

There was something about Aria Rossi that drew me to her in ways I couldn't quite explain. Perhaps it was her quiet dignity in the face of Adriana's cruelty, or the way she'd thrown herself between danger and an old man without a moment's hesitation. Whatever the reason, I found myself growing genuinely fond of this girl who showed more grace and character than my own flesh and blood.

It was a troubling admission, even to myself. Adriana was my granddaughter, the continuation of the Montrosso bloodline, raised in luxury and groomed for the responsibilities that came with our family name. She should have been the one who commanded my affection and pride.

Yet when I compared the two young women, there was no contest. Aria possessed qualities that couldn't be taught or bought—genuine kindness, moral courage, and an inner strength that had been forged in hardship rather than pampered into weakness. She reminded me of myself at her age, when survival had depended on character rather than privilege.

When Damian first informed me that Aria had been working for him, I understood immediately what that meant. The Cavalieri heir wasn't known for keeping women around for mere clerical duties. If she was living under his roof and earning his protection, there were deeper currents at play.

The knowledge should have concerned me more than it did. After all, Adriana and Damian's eventual union was crucial to maintaining the alliance between our families. Their marriage would secure decades of mutual prosperity and protection, binding our organizations together through blood and shared interest.

But I couldn't shake the feeling that forcing such an arrangement might destroy something precious in the process. Adriana's increasingly spoiled behavior and sense of entitlement made her ill-suited for the kind of partnership someone like Damian would require. She expected worship rather than earning respect, demanded loyalty without offering it in return.

Still, family obligations trumped personal preferences. Which was why I'd decided to invite Aria to dinner under the pretense of having Adriana apologize for her earlier behavior. It was a calculated cruelty, I admitted to myself—showing the girl a glimpse of the world she could never truly belong to, making it clear that whatever feelings she might harbor for Damian were futile fantasies.

Better to hurt her now with gentle honesty than allow her to suffer greater pain later when reality inevitably intruded.

The conversation had gone more or less as I'd expected. Aria was polite, gracious, and clearly intelligent enough to understand the subtext of my words about family alliances and appropriate matches. I'd seen the pain flicker across her expressive features when I mentioned Damian's future with Adriana, though she'd hidden it admirably.

Such remarkable composure for one so young, I thought as we spoke in the library's comfortable intimacy. If she were truly my granddaughter, I would be proud indeed.

The strange thought had barely formed when the first shot shattered the evening's tranquility.

The crack of gunfire was unmistakable to someone who'd lived my life. Even as my mind processed the sound, I was already calculating trajectories and threats, instincts honed by decades of survival kicking in automatically.

But I was eighty-three years old, and my reflexes were no longer what they'd once been. The bullet that came through the library window was aimed with deadly precision at my chest, and I knew with crystalline clarity that I wouldn't be able to move fast enough to avoid it.

That's when Aria threw herself between death and me.

The impact sent us both crashing to the floor behind the heavy leather chairs, her sharp cry of pain cutting through my shock like a blade. Blood immediately began seeping through the pale silk of her dress, dark and warm against my hands as I tried to assess the damage.

"Merda!" I gasped, my voice thick with alarm and something that felt disturbingly like paternal panic. "Aria! Cara mia, are you—"

"Stay down," she commanded through gritted teeth, pressing her uninjured hand to her shoulder in a futile attempt to stem the bleeding. "Just stay low until security arrives."

Even wounded, even in agony, her first concern was for my safety.

When was the last time anyone had put themselves at risk for my sake without being paid to do so? When had someone chosen to protect me simply because I mattered to them as a person rather than as an asset or a symbol of power?

More gunfire erupted outside, the sharp reports mixing with shouted commands as my security teams mobilized.

"You're bleeding," I said unnecessarily, my hands trembling slightly as I tried to apply pressure to her wound without causing additional pain. "You saved my life."

"Just... just an instinctive reaction," she managed, though her face was growing alarmingly pale. "Anyone would have done the same."

But that wasn't true, and we both knew it. In my world, people calculated risks and potential rewards before acting. They weighed personal safety against political advantage, considered the consequences of heroism against the benefits of self-preservation.

Aria had seen danger approaching and reacted with pure, selfless courage. No calculation, no hesitation, no concern for anything beyond protecting someone she cared about.

Someone she cared about. The phrase echoed in my mind as the sounds of combat gradually faded, replaced by the efficient movements of security teams securing the perimeter. This remarkable young woman, who had every reason to hate our world and everything it represented, had risked her life for mine without a moment's thought.

"Help is coming, piccola," I murmured, using the endearment that felt natural despite our lack of blood relation. "You're going to be fine. I promise you're going to be just fine."

But even as I spoke the reassuring words, I could see the blood loss was becoming serious. Her skin had taken on a waxy pallor, and her breathing was becoming more labored with each passing moment.

Damian arrived within minutes of the shooting, his face a mask of controlled fury as he assessed the scene. Behind him came his most trusted men, weapons drawn and eyes scanning for remaining threats.

"Nonno," he said, dropping to one knee beside us with uncharacteristic urgency. "Are you hurt?"

"The bullet was meant for me," I replied, gesturing toward Aria's still form. "She took it instead."

Something shifted in Damian's expression as he looked down at her—a flicker of vulnerability that he quickly suppressed. But I'd caught it, that momentary crack in his carefully maintained emotional armor.

Ah, I thought with sudden clarity. So that's how things stand.

"We need to get her to a hospital," he said, his voice carefully controlled. "Now."

"My car is already waiting," I assured him, though moving her felt dangerous given the amount of blood she'd lost. "The bullet went through her shoulder—it missed anything vital, but she needs immediate attention."

Together, we carefully lifted her from the library floor, her head lolling against Damian's shoulder as consciousness slipped away. She looked so young in that moment, so fragile despite the courage she'd just displayed.

The drive to the hospital passed in tense silence, Damian holding pressure on her wound while I made calls to ensure we'd receive immediate attention upon arrival. Money and influence could work miracles in situations like this, cutting through bureaucracy and delays that might prove fatal.

Dr. Martinelli met us at the emergency entrance, his team already prepared for a trauma case. As they wheeled Aria into surgery, I caught glimpses of monitors and medical equipment that meant nothing to my untrained eye.

"She's lost a significant amount of blood," the doctor informed us after his initial examination. "We need to begin transfusion immediately, but there's a problem."

"What kind of problem?" Damian's voice carried deadly warning.

"We need to determine her blood type for compatible donors. The preliminary test indicates she has a very rare type—one that's not commonly available in our blood bank."

"What type?" I asked.

Dr. Martinelli consulted his chart, his expression troubled. "The initial screening suggests Rh-null, sometimes called 'golden blood.' It's so rare that fewer than fifty people worldwide are known to have it. We'll need to run confirmatory tests, but if that's correct..."

The words hit me like a physical blow, and for a moment, the hospital corridor seemed to spin around me. Rh-null blood type. Golden blood.

The same impossibly rare type that ran in the Montrosso bloodline.

"What?" I managed to ask the doctor, though my voice sounded strange to my own ears.

"What?"