The Mafia Heir's Surrogate

The first lie did not sound like a lie. That was the strange thing about betrayal. It never walked into your life wearing a dark coat and announcing itself. It slipped in quietly, dressed like routine, hidden inside ordinary things you stopped paying attention to. Like late-night phone calls. Like tired voices. Like a husband saying, “I miss you, baby. I’ll be home soon.” At first, I believed James. I mean, why wouldn’t I? We had been married for almost four years, and in those four years, I had learned to trust him so deeply that questioning him felt wrong. He worked in international logistics, which meant traveling was part of his job. Italy had become one of his regular destinations during the last year, and every time he left, he always came back with stories, small gifts, and promises to make up for lost time. The first few trips had only lasted a week. Then two. Then suddenly, Italy started keeping my husband for almost a month at a time. “Work’s been crazy,” he told me over the phone one evening. I sat alone at our kitchen counter, stirring tea I had already forgotten to drink. “Again?” I asked quietly. He sighed into the phone, sounding exhausted. “I know, sweetheart. I hate it too. The more I think I'm done with tasks and business meetings, the more it seems like I'm just getting started.” “You work too much, James,” I had said. “You barely even sleep.” “I’ll rest when I get home.” That answer should have comforted me. Instead, something inside me shifted—a small feeling, tiny enough to ignore. Still, I carried it. Days later, I woke up and realized James had forgotten our anniversary. When I called him, he laughed awkwardly. “God, Aria, I’m sorry. My schedule’s been insane.” I smiled even though he could not see me. “It’s okay.” But after the call ended, I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall longer than I meant to. James never forgot important dates. Never. Weeks passed, and his calls became shorter. His excuses started sounding the same—meetings, office pressure, late-night reports, unexpected travel changes. It was always work. Always something. And every time I asked when he was coming home, his answer changed. “Maybe Friday.” Then, when Friday came, he'd have another tale to tell. “I think I'll have to postpone my trip,” he would say. “I know you're not pleased, but trust me I'd have run away from here if I could.” It soon became a pattern, with him having ready excuses to give, all of them always relating to work. I tried not to overthink it. Marriage had hard seasons. Everyone said that. Still, there were things I could not explain. He stopped video calling at some point too, and whenever I asked, he put the blame on weak internet connection or fatigue from work. His messages became shorter too. Sometimes he disappeared for hours without replying. One night, while we spoke on the phone, I heard soft laughter in the background. A woman’s laughter. I froze. “Who’s that?” I asked. “What?” “The voice.” “Oh.” He laughed quickly. Too quickly. “Nahh, it's just a video I was watching on my laptop before your call came in.” Something about the answer settled badly in my chest. After we hung up, I barely slept. I kept replaying his voice in my head; not what he said but how he said it. It sounded too smooth and too rehearsed, like he had already practiced the explanation. Three days later, I made a decision. I stopped waiting. If James was too busy to come home, then I would go to him. I told nobody—not my friends nor my colleagues at work. I booked a plane ticket, packed up a suitcase, and flew to Italy with only one thought in my mind. To surprise him. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe work really had swallowed him whole. Maybe we only needed time together. I held onto those thoughts during the flight because the alternative felt unbearable. The address James had given me was in Florence. He had mentioned it casually during one of our calls. “The company rented me a place closer to the office,” he had said. So after landing, exhausted and nervous, I took a taxi there. The building looked beautiful with its old stone walls, flowers hanging from balconies and warm sunlight touching every corner. For a second, relief rushed through me. Maybe everything was fine. Maybe I had imagined all of it. I stood outside apartment 4B and knocked. I got no answer. I knocked again. Then the door opened, but the person standing there was not James. A middle-aged woman frowned at me. “Yes?” “I…uh…” I swallowed hard. “I’m looking for James Vale.” Her expression changed. “James?” “Yes. He lives here.” The woman blinked. “No one by that name lives here.” My stomach tightened. “I think there’s a mistake.” “There isn’t,” she said carefully. “My husband and I moved in three weeks ago.” My heart dropped. “What?” “The apartment was sold.” I stared at her. “No,” I whispered. “That can’t be right.” She hesitated before stepping aside slightly. “You should probably speak to Marco downstairs.” “Marco?” “Yeah. He handled the sale.” I barely remembered thanking her. My hands shook as I walked downstairs. Marco turned out to be an older man with silver hair and kind eyes. The moment I mentioned James, confusion crossed his face. “James Vale?” he repeated. “Yes.” “You know him?” “He’s my husband.” The silence that followed felt strange—too heavy and too uncomfortable. Marco stared at me for a moment before sighing. “I worked with James,” he said quietly. My breath caught. “Worked?” “Yes.” “What do you mean worked?” His expression softened. “James quit over two months ago.” I felt the world tilt. “No, that’s impossible.” My voice shook. “He’s here for work.” Marco slowly shook his head. “He left the company.” “What company?” “The same one we both worked for.” The air disappeared from my lungs. “That doesn’t make sense,” I whispered. “He disappeared after resigning,” Marco added carefully. “No one has really heard from him ever since.” My chest tightened painfully. Disappeared? No. That could not be true. I had spoken to him just yesterday. I thanked the man and stepped outside before I completely broke apart. My fingers trembled as I called James. He answered in the third ring. “Hey, sweetheart.” His voice sounded normal, comfortably normal. I hated that. “Hi,” I said softly. “You okay?” “Yeah.” I swallowed. “What are you doing?” He yawned dramatically. “Just got home from the office. Long day.” The lie hit me so hard I nearly dropped the phone. Office? The same one he had quit from two months ago? I looked up at the building again, and suddenly, I realized something terrifying. I had no idea where my husband was. “Oh,” I said softly. “You sound tired.” “You have no idea.” I forced my voice to be steady. “Oh well, get some rest. I just called to say Hi.” “Thank you, baby,” he responded. I hated the way he continued to sound perfectly normal. “I'll talk to you later, okay? I love you.” “Love you more.” The call ended soon after that, the words “I love you” replaying in my head. I stood frozen. Then I cried quietly, tears trickling down my face as I stood on a street in a country that suddenly felt too big. Because somewhere between the lies and the disappearance, I had lost my husband without realizing it. I filed a missing person report the next day. The police listened politely, but their answer stayed the same. “He’s an adult,” one officer said gently. “Adults can leave if they want.” “But something’s wrong,” I argued. “Do you have proof he’s in danger?” I didn’t, and just like that, my report was dismissed. I didn't know what to do at this point. I couldn't just travel back to America pretending all was well, and yet I didn’t know where to find the one man whom I had flown over 8 hours for. So, I stayed, because I needed answers and because somehow, going home without James felt impossible. My cash started running low after a few days, and eventually, I found work at a shopping mall to keep body and soul together. The pay was terrible. The hours were long too, but at least it helped me survive. Weeks passed, and still I had no idea where James was. Then one afternoon, while organizing items near the front entrance, I looked up and forgot how to breathe. Because right there, walking into the mall in flesh and blood, was James. My husband. He walked through the mall wearing clothes I had never seen before—a sharp black coat, an expensive watch, and shoes that probably cost more than our monthly rent. Beside him was a beautiful Italian woman, looking elegant and rich. Her arm wrapped around his like she belonged there. I dropped everything in my hands that instant, and my heart pounded so hard it hurt. “James!” He turned, and our eyes met. Recognition flashed across his face only for a second. Then it disappeared. I rushed toward him. “James!” As I reached him, he shoved me hard, and the force sent me crashing to the polished floor. A sharp pain shot through my arm, and people gasped. I looked up at him, shocked. “James…” He stared down at me coldly, like I meant nothing to him. Like I was dirt. The woman beside him frowned. “You know her?” James looked at me again, then his face twisted with disgust. “No,” he said flatly. He slipped his arm around the woman’s waist. “She’s just some stranger. Must have probably mistaken me for someone else.” My ears felt like wax as they heard those words, and for a moment, I just stared at him, completely dazed.