The underboss’s surrogate

Chapter Two

Aria’s POV

"Mama has a sickness in her heart."

The doctor's voice is calm. Clinical. The voice of a man who has said these words a hundred times before. I press the phone harder against my ear, as if I can push myself through the line and into the room where my mother is lying.

"She needs surgery," he continues. "A valve replacement. Without it, she will not survive the year."

The hallway tilts.

I reach for the wall. My fingers find cold plaster. I slide down until my knees hit the floor. The tiles are freezing beneath me. I do not feel them.

"How much?"

A pause.

"Seven million lira."

The number lands like a fist in my chest.

Seven million.

I do not have seven thousand. I do not have seven hundred. I have twenty euros in my wallet and a bucket of gray water waiting in a villa across the city.

"Signorina Silvestri?"

"I am here."

I am not here. I am somewhere far away. I am a little girl again, watching my mother dance in the kitchen with a wooden spoon in her hand. I am sixteen, watching her fold my school uniform while I cry about a boy who does not matter anymore. I am twenty-four, watching her fade into a hospital bed while I pretend everything will be okay.

"Doctor." My voice cracks. "Please."

"Signorina"

"Please. There has to be something. A payment plan. A program. Anything."

"I am sorry, Signorina Aria." His voice softens, and somehow that is worse than if he had shouted. "There is nothing I can do."

The line goes dead.

I stare at the screen until it dims. Until my own reflection appears in the black glass. A girl with tired eyes and cracked hands. A girl who has spent six years holding everything together and has just been told she cannot hold this.

I do not know what to do.

I do not know where to start.

I stay on my knees in the cold hallway for a long time.

When I finally stand, my legs are numb.

I wipe my face with the back of my hand. There are no tears. Not yet. Crying is a luxury. Crying is what you do when you have time to fall apart.

I open the door quietly.

Matteo is still on the couch. He has not moved. He is staring at the ceiling again, but his eyes shift to me the moment I step inside.

"Where did you go?"

"Just outside." I keep my voice light. I have practiced this. I have practiced it for years. "The air helped."

"Who called?"

"No one." I cross to the kitchen and fill a glass with water I do not drink. "The hospital. Just an update."

He sits up. "Is Mama okay?"

"She is fine." The lie slides out smooth and easy. "They changed her medication. That is all."

His shoulders drop. Relief softens his face, and guilt twists inside me like a knife.

I sit beside him. I take his hand. His fingers are long and thin, and they remind me of our father's hands before the gambling ruined everything. Before the shaking started. Before the shame.

"I am going back out for a while," I say. "I will not be long."

"Where?"

"To pick up some extra shifts."

"At night?"

"Signora Ricci called. Someone is sick." Another lie. I am getting good at them. "Eat the rest of the pasta. And sleep. You have school tomorrow."

He studies me. Sixteen years old and already reading me too well.

"Are you okay?"

I smile. It feels like wearing a coat that does not fit.

"I am fine. I am just a little worried about Mama." I squeeze his hand. "But she is strong. The strongest woman I know. She will get better soon. You will see."

He nods slowly.

"Pray for her," I add softly. "That helps too."

"I do. Every night."

"I know." I stand. "That is why she will be okay."

I kiss the top of his head before I leave. He does not see my face when I turn away.

Outside, the night air is warm and heavy.

I walk without direction. Past the closed shops. Past the men smoking outside bars. Past the scooters and the stray cats and the tourists still laughing in the piazzas. Everyone is living. Everyone has somewhere to be.

I do not.

I make it around the corner before my legs give out.

I press my back against a wall and slide down. And then I cry. Not the pretty kind. The ugly kind. The kind that tears through your chest and leaves you gasping. Seven million. Seven million. The number repeats in my head like a prayer I cannot finish.

I have nothing.

I have nothing to sell. Nothing to borrow against. My father cannot even pay for his own coffee. My mother is dying in a bed she cannot afford. My brother is sixteen and already carrying the weight of a broken family.

And I am sitting on the pavement in Palermo with a handkerchief full of blue flowers and no idea how to save her.

I cry until there is nothing left.

Then I wipe my face, and I stand, and I start walking again.

--

That is when I see the woman.

She is stepping out of a restaurant. Tall. Elegant. A dress that costs more than my rent. Hair pulled back from a face that has been admired her whole life. She is talking on her phone, laughing at something, and as she reaches into her bag, a folder slips from under her arm.

Papers spill across the pavement.

She does not notice. She keeps walking. Her heels click against the stone, fading into the noise of the street.

I look at the papers.

Then I look at her retreating back.

I should leave them. It is not my business. I have enough problems of my own.

But I pick them up anyway. I smooth them out and stack them neatly and hurry after her.

"Signora?"

She does not hear me.

"Signora."

I reach out and touch her arm.

She turns.

And then she stops.

Everything about her stops. Her mouth parts slightly. Her eyes move over me slowly, from my face down to my shoulders, down to my waist, down to my legs. The way Signora Ricci looks at me. But worse. Hungrier.

I take a step back.

"You dropped these," I say, holding out the papers.

She does not take them. She keeps staring. And I feel it crawling over my skin like cold water. I pull my jacket tighter around myself.

"Thank you," she says finally. Her voice is low and smooth. She takes the papers but does not look at them. Her eyes never leave my face.

"What is your name?"

"Aria."

"Aria." She repeats it like she is tasting it. "Beautiful name."

I say nothing. I want to leave.

"Tell me, Aria." She tilts her head. "What do you think about putting your body to good use?"

The words hit me like a slap.

Your body.

The only thing I have left. The only thing no one can take from me. My dignity. My self. The thing my mother taught me to protect when I was a little girl and the world first tried to make me small.

I feel shame rise in my chest. Hot. Immediate.

"No," I say.

I turn to walk away.

Her hand closes around my wrist.

I freeze.

"Wait." She reaches into her bag and pulls out a card. Small. Cream-colored. Gold embossing that catches the streetlight. She presses it into my palm and closes my fingers around it.

"In case you ever change your mind."

She lets go. She smiles. And then she walks away, heels clicking, disappearing into the night like she was never there at all.

I stand in the street holding the card.

I should throw it away.

I should drop it in the gutter and forget this ever happened.

But I do not.

I turn it over. There is no name. Just a phone number and three words printed in black ink:

Discretion Guaranteed.

I look at it for a long time.

And then, slowly, I slip it into my pocket.

Maybe it will be of use.

I smile at the thought. A small, bitter smile. The smile of a woman who has just realized there is nothing left to lose.

Then I walk home.