Mafia's Surrogate Bride Chapter 8

Aria's POV

The Montrosso estate loomed. I'd never seen wealth displayed so casually, so completely.

My palms were sweating as I approached the servants' entrance, clutching the email confirmation I'd printed at an internet café. Three hundred euros for one night's work. It was more money than I'd ever made at once, enough to cover Jessica's treatment for almost a week.

I can do this, I told myself, smoothing down my best black dress—the same one I'd worn to job interviews back when I'd thought my college degree might actually lead somewhere respectable.

The servants' entrance led to a bustling preparation area where other potential hires waited nervously. There were perhaps twenty of us, mostly women in their twenties and thirties, all wearing the kind of careful, desperate politeness that came with needing money badly.

"Candidates for temporary positions, please form a line," announced a voice with crisp authority.

The woman who emerged from an office doorway was the picture of professional elegance. Tall and imposing, she wore a tailored navy suit that probably cost more than my monthly rent. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe chignon, and her makeup was applied with the precision of someone who'd never had a hair out of place in her life.

"I am Signora Benedetta Russo, head of household staff," she announced, her gaze sweeping over us with the kind of assessment usually reserved for livestock at market. "Today's interviews will determine who is suitable for service at tomorrow evening's gala."

She began calling names from a list, and one by one, the candidates disappeared into the office for their individual assessments.

"Aria Rossi," she called finally.

I stood on shaking legs and followed her into the office. The space was smaller than I'd expected but meticulously organized, with filing cabinets lined against one wall and a desk that looked like it had never seen a coffee ring or scattered papers.

Signora Russo seated herself behind the desk and looked up at me. The moment our eyes met, something shifted in her expression. She went very still, her pen freezing halfway to the application form in front of her.

For a long moment, she simply stared at my face.

"Your name again?" she asked, though I was certain she'd already heard it clearly.

"Aria Rossi, signora."

"And your family background?"

"I'm from Sant'Anna Orphanage," I replied honestly. "I've been there since I was five years old."

Something flickered across her features. But when she spoke again, her voice was carefully neutral.

"I see. And what experience do you have in service?"

"I worked at Moon Bar for two weeks as a hostess, and before that, I had part-time jobs during university—"

"A hostess?" She made the word sound like something distasteful. "At one of those establishments where young women parade around in costumes for men's entertainment?"

Heat flooded my cheeks, but I kept my voice steady. "It was legitimate work, signora. I served drinks and provided conversation for patrons."

"I'm sure you did." Her tone dripped with condescension. "Very well. Let's see if you can handle more... refined... service."

What followed was the most humiliating hour of my life.

She had me arrange and rearrange a tea service six different ways, criticizing each attempt. "Too crowded. The spoons are at the wrong angle. Do you even know the difference between a dessert fork and a salad fork?"

She made me practice carrying a tray loaded with delicate china across the room while she deliberately walked in my path, forcing me to navigate around her without disturbing a single teacup.

"Your posture is atrocious. A proper servant maintains perfect deportment at all times. Again."

She tested my knowledge of wine service, flower arrangement, and formal dining protocol, growing increasingly sharp with each task I completed successfully. It was as if she wanted me to fail, was actively looking for reasons to dismiss me.

"Polish these silver pieces. I want to see your attention to detail."

I polished each piece meticulously, making sure every surface reflected light perfectly. When I finished, she examined my work with a magnifying glass, searching for flaws that didn't exist.

"Adequate," she said grudgingly. "Though hardly exceptional."

"Signora," I said carefully, "I've completed every task you've given me. I've followed every instruction precisely. What more can I do to demonstrate my capabilities?"

"Young woman, you seem to be under the impression that completing basic tasks entitles you to employment in one of Florence's most prestigious households."

"I'm not entitled to anything," I replied, my patience finally wearing thin. "But I am qualified, and I need this work."

"Need?" She laughed, the sound cold and cutting. "Do you think we hire servants based on their needs? This is the Montrosso estate, not a charity."

"I understand that, signora, but—"

"But nothing." She stood abruptly, smoothing down her skirt with sharp, angry movements. "You are not suitable for this position. Please collect your things and leave."

The injustice of it hit me like a physical blow. I'd done everything she'd asked, performed every task perfectly, and she was dismissing me for reasons that had nothing to do with my capabilities.

"This isn't fair," I said, my voice shaking with suppressed emotion. "You decided not to hire me the moment you saw my face, didn't you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You looked at me like you'd seen a ghost. You've been trying to make me fail from the first moment, and when I didn't, you decided to reject me anyway. I don't know what about my appearance offends you, but I deserve to be judged on my work, not on whatever prejudices you're harboring."

For a moment, I thought she might actually slap me. Her face went pale, then flushed with rage.

"How dare you speak to me that way? Security will escort you from the premises immediately."

I left the estate with as much dignity as I could muster, but once I was out of sight of those pristine grounds, the composure I'd been fighting to maintain crumbled completely.

I found myself in a small café on the outskirts of town, hunched over a cup of coffee I couldn't afford, finally allowing the tears to fall. Everything was falling apart. Jessica was dying, my savings were gone, and I couldn't even get hired for a single night's work as a servant.

What am I going to do? The question echoed in my mind as I stared at my reflection in the café window, wondering what it was about my face that had triggered such hostility in Signora Russo.

"Scusi, signorina," came a gentle voice beside me.

I looked up to see an elderly man standing near my table, leaning heavily on an elegant walking stick. He was impeccably dressed in a suit that spoke of old money and good taste, his silver hair perfectly styled despite his obvious age.

"Are you all right, my dear?" he asked in accented English, his voice carrying the refined cadence of someone who'd been educated in the finest schools.

I wiped my eyes quickly, embarrassed to be caught crying in public. "I'm fine, thank you. Just... a difficult day."

He gestured to the empty chair across from me. "May I? These old bones aren't what they used to be."

Despite my emotional state, something about his gentle manner made me nod. As he settled into the chair with careful movements, I noticed he was favoring his left leg.

"I don't mean to intrude," he continued, "but you look like someone who's carrying the weight of the world. Sometimes a kind ear can help lighten the load."

There was something so genuinely compassionate about him that I found myself wanting to confide in this stranger. "I just had a job interview," I admitted. "It... didn't go well."

"Ah." He nodded sagely. "The curse of needing work in a world where employers hold all the cards. May I ask what sort of position you were seeking?"

"Temporary service for a private event. Nothing glamorous, just... well-paying enough to help with some medical bills."

His expression softened with understanding. "Family?"

"My sister. She's very sick." The words came out thick with tears I was trying not to shed.

"I'm sorry to hear that. There are few burdens heavier than watching someone we love suffer." He paused, studying my face with those kind eyes. "Forgive me for asking, but... where was this interview?"

"The Montrosso estate. They were hiring for tomorrow night's gala."

"I see. And what happened, if you don't mind my asking?"

"The head of staff decided I wasn't suitable," I said bitterly. "Though I suspect it had more to do with my appearance than my qualifications."

He was quiet for a long moment, his weathered hands clasped around his coffee cup. When he spoke again, his voice was thoughtful.

"Sometimes, my dear, the people who judge us harshest are fighting battles we know nothing about. That doesn't make their cruelty acceptable, but it might help explain it."

"You're very kind," I said, meaning it. "But kindness doesn't pay medical bills."

"No," he agreed with a gentle smile. "It doesn't. But it can sometimes open doors we didn't know existed."

Something about the way he said it made me feel like he understood more about my situation than a casual conversation should have revealed. But before I could question him further, he was struggling to rise from his chair, wincing as he put weight on his injured leg.

"Let me help you," I said instinctively, moving to steady him despite my own troubles.

"Thank you, cara mia," he said warmly. "You have a good heart. In a world that often rewards selfishness, that's a rare and precious thing."

As I helped him toward the door, he paused and looked at me with those perceptive eyes.

"Why did you help me?" he asked quietly. "You're clearly dealing with your own difficulties, yet you chose to assist a stranger."

"Because," I said finally, "you seem like someone who would have been kind to my sister. And... I don't know, there's something about you that feels... familiar. Safe."

He smiled then, a expression of such genuine warmth that it transformed his entire face. "You remind me of someone very dear to me. Someone I lost long ago."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"As am I for yours."

I started to ask how he knew my name, but he was already limping toward a sleek black car that had pulled up to the curb.

My phone buzzed as I walked toward the bus stop.

The message was from an unknown number: Miss Rossi, we are pleased to inform you that you have been selected for the Montrosso household position. Please report tomorrow at 9 AM for a three-day training period. Congratulations.

I stared at the screen in disbelief, reading the message three times to make sure I wasn't imagining it.

Somehow, impossibly, I'd gotten the job.