Mafia's Surrogate Bride Chapter 82

Damian’s POV

The mention of test-tube babies hit me like a physical blow, sending a surge of anger through my chest that I struggled to contain.

Her body had barely recovered from the shooting. The wound on her shoulder was still tender, the bruises from her kidnapping had only just faded, and here she was, pushing to begin the most clinical, sterile process possible to fulfill our contract. As if she couldn't wait to get it over with and disappear from my life forever.

The rational part of my mind acknowledged that this had always been the plan. We'd both agreed that IVF would be preferable to the alternative, that keeping things medical and detached would serve both our interests. But watching her sit there with such calculated determination, treating our arrangement like a business transaction that needed expediting, triggered something primitive and possessive deep in my chest.

"Your body isn't ready," I said, "Dr. Rosetti was clear about the recovery timeline."

"That was weeks ago," Aria replied, lifting her chin with that stubborn defiance I'd come to recognize. "I'm fine now. The sooner we begin the medical procedures, the sooner this arrangement can be completed efficiently."

"Why the sudden urgency?" I asked, "Are you that eager to carry my child? Or are you that desperate to escape?"

Color flooded her cheeks, but she didn't back down. "I'm eager to honor our contract and move forward with my life. Both of our lives," she corrected quickly. "This arrangement serves neither of us if it drags on indefinitely."

The reasonable tone, the practical words—they should have pleased me. This was exactly the kind of professional detachment I'd claimed to want. So why did hearing her speak about our arrangement like a business merger make me want to shake her until she showed some real emotion?

"I've been thinking the same thing," I lied smoothly, standing from my chair and moving to the window. "Which is why I'm refusing your request."

"What?" The single word cracked with surprise and frustration.

"You heard me. No medical examinations, no IVF procedures. Not yet." I kept my back to her, "You're not ready."

"That's ridiculous!" Aria's voice rose, and I could hear her standing, probably clenching those delicate fists the way she did when she was fighting not to lose her temper. "You can't just arbitrarily decide when I'm ready. My body, my recovery—"

"Your body is my responsibility now," I interrupted, turning to face her. "And I say you need more time to fully heal before we subject you to the stress of fertility treatments."

The fury that flashed in her amber eyes was magnificent. For a moment, the composed, practical woman disappeared, replaced by someone vibrant and alive and absolutely furious with me.

"This is completely unreasonable," she said, her voice shaking with controlled anger. "We agreed that medical procedures would be the preferred method. We agreed that efficiency would benefit both parties. You can't just change the terms because—"

"Because what?" I challenged, taking a step closer.

She opened her mouth, then closed it, clearly struggling to find words that wouldn't reveal too much. Finally, she settled on the most diplomatic response possible.

"Because you're not thinking clearly about what's best for both of us."

Not thinking clearly. If only she knew how clearly I was thinking. How clearly I could see that once she was pregnant, once the medical procedures were complete and successful, she would spend the entire pregnancy counting down the days until she could leave. How clearly I understood that she was trying to minimize every aspect of this arrangement that might create a genuine connection between us.

"I'm thinking very clearly," I said quietly. "You're not ready, Aria. Physically or emotionally. And I won't risk complications because you're impatient."

"Impatient?" She laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. "I'm being practical. We're not the same kind of people, Damian. We come from completely different worlds. The sooner I fulfill my part of this contract, the sooner we can both return to our separate lives. That's what's best for everyone involved."

We're not the same kind of people. The words hit harder than they should have, probably because part of me feared she was right. She was innocence and light, someone who'd thrown herself in front of bullets to protect old men and worried about orphaned children. I was darkness and control, someone who'd built an empire on fear and violence.

But watching her speak so calmly about leaving, about returning to separate lives.

"Fine," I said, making a decision that surprised even me. "One week. I'll arrange the medical consultations within one week. Dr. Rosetti can conduct whatever examinations she deems necessary." I moved closer, close enough to see the surprise flickering in her eyes. "But if I change my mind about the timeline, if I decide you need more recovery time, the deal is off entirely. The contract becomes void."

It was a calculated risk, giving myself an escape clause while appearing to capitulate to her demands. She would agree because she wanted the examinations, but the threat of losing everything would keep her from pushing too hard.

"One week," she repeated.

"One week. And Aria?" I waited until she looked directly at me. "If I'm not a man of my word, if I don't honor this timeline, then yes—the contract becomes void and you're free to leave."

She studied me for a long moment, clearly weighing the risks against the potential rewards. Finally, she nodded.

"Agreed."

The rest of the day passed quietly. I found myself checking on Aria more frequently than necessary—asking Jennifer about her lunch, walking past the sitting room where she'd settled with a book, finding excuses to be in the same areas of the house. Each time, she was polite but distant, treating me with the kind of careful courtesy she might show a business associate.

It was exactly what I'd claimed to want. So why did it feel like losing?

Dinner was a study in civilized conversation. Jennifer had outdone herself with herb-crusted lamb and roasted vegetables.

"The meal is exceptional," Aria commented, cutting her lamb with precise movements.

"Jennifer is an excellent cook," I replied, noting how she avoided direct eye contact.

"The herbs are from the estate gardens?"

"Yes. She maintains several beds specifically for culinary use."

Polite. Professional. Completely devoid of the fire and spirit I'd seen earlier when she was arguing with me about the medical procedures.

When Jennifer appeared to clear the main course, she studied both of us with those perceptive eyes that missed nothing.

"Perhaps you'd both like to take dessert in the garden?" she suggested diplomatically. "The evening is quite lovely, and the jasmine is blooming beautifully."

"That sounds wonderful," Aria said quickly, probably grateful for any opportunity to escape the strained atmosphere.

But as we moved to the terrace, I caught Jennifer's worried expression. She'd been managing this household for decades, had seen me through business crises and family obligations, and she knew something was wrong between Aria and me.

The garden was indeed beautiful, the air sweet with jasmine and roses.

"The medical examinations," she said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence. "When you arrange them, I'd prefer if we could schedule everything efficiently. Multiple appointments on the same day, if possible."

"Trying to get it over with?"

She turned to look at me directly for the first time all evening. "Trying to minimize disruption to both our lives."

Disruption. As if her presence here, the way she'd begun to fit into the rhythms of the estate, was something to be managed and contained rather than... what? Enjoyed? Cherished?

"Of course," I said coolly. "Efficiency above all else."

"I should probably get some rest," she said, setting down her barely touched glass of wine. "Thank you for dinner. And for... agreeing to honor our arrangement."

She was gone before I could respond, leaving me alone on the terrace with nothing but the scent of jasmine.

By ten o'clock, I'd had enough of my own company and the thoughts that kept circling through my mind like vultures. I found Lorenzo in the study, reviewing security reports with the kind of methodical attention that had made him invaluable over the years.

"Evening, boss," he said, looking up from his papers. "Quiet day?"

"Peaceful enough." I moved to the bar, pouring whiskey for both of us before settling into the leather chair across from his desk. "Any issues I should know about?"

"Nothing major. The Torretti situation is proceeding as expected—they're still trying to negotiate better terms for the shipping routes, but they're not pushing hard enough to create real problems." He accepted the whiskey with a nod of thanks. "Marco's been sniffing around some of our smaller operations, but it's more curiosity than actual threat assessment."

"Let him sniff. He won't find anything useful."

We drank in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the familiar ritual of end-of-day briefings providing a welcome distraction from more complicated thoughts. But Lorenzo had been reading my moods since he started working for me when I was eight years old, and he was never one to let sleeping dogs lie.

"Aria seemed quiet at dinner tonight," he observed casually.

"Did she?"

"Jennifer mentioned she barely ate. Said the conversation seemed... strained."

I shot him a warning look, but Lorenzo had been with my family since before I was born. He'd earned the right to push boundaries that would get other men killed.

"We had a disagreement about medical timelines," I said finally.

"Ah." He leaned back in his chair, swirling his whiskey thoughtfully. "She's eager to begin the fertility treatments?"

"Eager to complete them and move on with her life."

"And you're not ready for her to move on."

The observation was stated so matter-of-factly that I almost missed its significance. When it hit me, I felt something cold settle in my stomach.

"This is a business arrangement, Lorenzo. Her readiness to complete the terms efficiently should be viewed as professional competence."

"Should be," he agreed mildly. "But that's not how you're viewing it, is it?"

I drained my whiskey, focusing on the burn rather than examining the uncomfortable accuracy of his assessment. "I'm ensuring that all medical procedures are conducted safely and at appropriate intervals. That's responsible management."

"Of course it is. Though I have to ask—what happens if the medical procedures don't work?"

"What do you mean?"

"IVF success rates aren't guaranteed, especially on the first attempt. If the treatments fail, if conception doesn't occur through medical intervention..." He let the sentence hang unfinished.

The implication was clear, and it sent a jolt of something—anticipation? dread?—through my chest. If IVF failed, if the clinical approach didn't work, we would have to resort to more traditional methods. Aria would have to stay longer, would have to accept a more... intimate... arrangement.

"Success rates for women her age are quite high," I said carefully.

"But not guaranteed," Lorenzo repeated. "Failure rates exist. Sometimes multiple attempts are required. Sometimes the clinical approach simply doesn't work for particular individuals."

"Your point?"

"No point, boss. Just observing that if someone wanted to ensure a longer timeline, if someone wanted to guarantee that certain arrangements continued indefinitely, well... there are ways to influence medical outcomes."

The suggestion hung between us like poison and temptation rolled into one. It would be so easy—a word to the right medical professional, a subtle adjustment to treatment protocols, ensuring that IVF attempts failed while appearing to be natural medical setbacks. Aria would have no choice but to remain at the estate, would eventually have to accept more intimate methods of conception.

"That would be unconscionable," I said quietly.

"Would it? She signed a contract guaranteeing to provide you with an heir. The method of conception was negotiable, not guaranteed. If medical intervention fails, she's still legally obligated to fulfill her commitment through whatever means necessary."

"Lorenzo." My voice carried a warning that would have silenced most men.

"I'm not suggesting anything improper," he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Simply pointing out that biological realities sometimes override human preferences. If the treatments don't work naturally, well... that's just unfortunate timing."

But even as I rejected the suggestion, part of my mind was already calculating possibilities. How easy it would be to ensure that treatments failed without Aria ever knowing. How simple it would be to extend our arrangement indefinitely while appearing to honor all the original terms.

The thought should have horrified me. Instead, I found myself seriously considering the logistics.

"It's a terrible idea," I said finally.

"Terrible and completely unethical. But sometimes the worst ideas are the most effective ones."