SURROGATE FOR THE MAFIA LORD

Armani leaned back in his chair, looking out the window as the smell of fried fish filled the small restaurant. He was in Seattle, a place he'd only visited once before for a fancy party years ago. That event hadn't left much of an impression, but this trip was different. It was important.

The fish on his plate was crispy and fresh, just like Benedict had promised. Benedict always said it was the best in the world, and maybe he was right. But Armani barely tasted it. The uncomfortable chair and cheap table didn't bother him as much as the thoughts running through his head.

Armani del Rossi was no ordinary man. He ruled his world from the shadows, the name "Del Rossi" whispered with fear and reverence across continents. He was a mafia lord-a ruthless, calculating figure who commanded loyalty through power and fear. Possession was his creed. Control was his doctrine. And anything he wanted, he took.

Recently, his mind had been elsewhere. Benedict had a daughter, and even Xavier-of all people-had a son now. When Benedict's baby was born, Armani hadn't thought much of it. Babies cried, made messes, and didn't interest him. But Xavier's son was different. Seeing how Xavier changed after becoming a father had made Armani think about his own future. Maybe he wanted a child too-an heir to carry on his name.

This idea surprised him. Armani had spent most of his life avoiding serious relationships. Settling down had never been part of his plan. But now, the thought of a child had taken root. He wanted someone to continue his legacy, but he didn't want the complications that came with a relationship.

That's why he was here. Earlier that day, he had visited a legal firm in Seattle that specialized in surrogacy-helping people have children with the help of a surrogate mother. They were known for being private and professional. Armani had spent hours looking through profiles of potential surrogates, but none of them felt right.

One woman had seemed promising. She was smart, accomplished, and beautiful. But there was a problem-she wanted to share custody of the child. That was a deal-breaker. Armani's plan required the surrogate to give up all rights to the child. No strings attached.

He sighed and stared out at the water. "Why does this have to be so complicated?" he muttered. The waves outside didn't offer any answers.

Armani's frustration grew as he thought about the lawyer's words earlier. The man had told him he was being unrealistic. "At some point, your child will want to know who their mother is," the lawyer had said. Armani had disagreed. He wanted a clear and simple arrangement, but finding the right person was proving harder than he expected.

A loud voice from the booth behind him broke through his thoughts. "That's ridiculous!" the woman said. Her tone was sharp and filled with frustration. Armani couldn't help but listen.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw her. She was stunning, with long black hair and striking blue eyes. She held a phone to her ear, her face tight with anger as she argued with someone. "This has to be a joke," she said, disbelief clear in her voice.

Armani quickly looked away, reminding himself that he hadn't come to Seattle to be distracted by anyone, no matter how beautiful they were. But something about her caught his attention. Her voice rose again, this time sounding almost desperate.

"A million dollars?" she said, her tone sharp and incredulous. "Where am I supposed to get a million dollars?"

Her words lingered in the air, and Armani found himself thinking about her, even though he knew he shouldn't. He tried to focus on his original purpose, but his mind kept drifting back to the woman with the fierce blue eyes and the

frustration in her voice.

Rena

I dropped my phone onto the table with a dull thud, the sound barely audible over the low hum of chatter in the diner. My fingers trembled as I stared at the screen, my mind spinning with the weight of the phone call. A million dollars. It felt like some cruel punchline to a joke I didn't understand. My stomach twisted as I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to steady my breathing. Crying wasn't an option. Not here, not now. I forced the tears back, even as they threatened to spill over.

The fries in front of me sat untouched, the once-crispy edges now soft and limp. Normally, fries were my go-to comfort food, a reliable remedy for bad days. But today, they tasted like ashes in my mouth. Even my milkshake-a creamy orange Creamsicle blend-had lost its usual appeal, the condensation forming lazy trails down the glass. My finger traced absent patterns in the moisture ring on the table, but my thoughts were a million miles away.

Where the hell was I supposed to find a million dollars? My father's health was hanging by a thread, and this experimental treatment could save him. But the price tag felt like an insurmountable wall. I'd barely been scraping by as it was, juggling rent, bills, and the growing costs of his care. Now this? It was a cosmic joke, and I was the punchline.

"Rennie, something bothering you?"

I startled slightly and looked up to find Joyce standing beside me, her ever-present coffee pot in hand. The middle-aged waitress had been a steady presence in my life these past two years, offering comfort and unsolicited advice in equal measure. Her sharp eyes scanned my face, her expression softening with concern.

"That looked like one heck of a phone call," she added, tilting her head.

I opened my mouth to respond but quickly closed it, unsure of what to say. Normally, Joyce was my go-to for venting about life's misfortunes. She had a knack for listening without judgment and offering just the right mix of sympathy and tough love. But this... this felt too big. Too raw.

"It's nothing," I muttered, shaking my head.

"You sure?" Joyce pressed, setting the coffee pot on a nearby table and planting her free hand on her hip. "Forgive me for saying so, but you look like you're about to have a full-on meltdown. Is it that manager of yours again?"

"Donald..." The name alone was enough to pull a groan from me, but I shook my head again. "No, it's not him. Well, not this time."

"Then what is it?" Joyce asked, lowering her voice as she slid into the booth across from me. Her presence felt steadying, a small anchor in the storm raging inside my chest.

I hesitated, chewing on the inside of my cheek. But the weight of it all was too much to keep bottled up. "It's about my dad," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

Joyce's expression softened immediately. She nodded for me to continue, her eyes kind and patient.

"Remember the experimental treatment I told you about?" I asked.

"The one from that fancy German doctor?"

I nodded, picking up a fry and dipping it into the ketchup more out of habit than appetite. "He got approved."

Joyce's face lit up with cautious hope. "Rennie, that's great news."

For a fleeting moment, I let myself feel it too. The hope I'd felt at the beginning of the phone call came rushing back, fragile but present. But the crushing reality wasn't far behind.

"It's not," I said flatly, dropping the fry onto the plate. "They won't give it to him."

Joyce blinked, confused. "Why not?"

"Insurance won't cover it," I explained, my voice tight with frustration. "It's 'experimental,' so they can just write it off. And the cost... it's $1.2 million out of pocket."

Joyce's jaw dropped. "A million dollars?"

"More than that," I corrected bitterly. "Dad's savings are gone. Retirement, too. I'm already covering as much as I can for his physical therapy and care facility, but it's not enough. Unless Donald suddenly decides to give me a raise-which we both know isn't happening-I'm bleeding dry. I probably shouldn't even be eating out right now."

Joyce frowned, her lips pursed in disapproval. "You deserve a raise," she said firmly. "You practically run that library by yourself."

I sighed, brushing a strand of hair from my face. "If anyone deserves a raise around here, it's you," I said, trying to inject some levity into the conversation. "I can't even imagine the kind of crap customers put you through."

Joyce chuckled, the sound warm and familiar. "Speaking of, I should probably get back to work before Mr. Baldy at the counter starts a riot over his empty coffee cup." She gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze as she stood. "But don't give up hope just yet, Rennie. Sometimes these things have a way of working out."

I nodded, offering her a weak smile as she walked away. But as soon as she turned her back, my face fell. Hope felt cruel, distant, unattainable. Not for me. Not since the accident three years ago that flipped my father's life-and mine-completely upside down.

The buzz of my phone pulled me from my spiraling thoughts. My stomach dropped when I saw the name on the screen: Donald.

"Where are you?" his sharp voice barked as soon as I answered.

"I'm not scheduled until one today," I replied, frowning.

"I left you a message to be here at eleven," he snapped. "The reference section is trashed. Get here and clean it up."

I clenched my jaw, trying to stay calm. "I'll handle it when I get there. Did Professor Kingsbury pick up the materials I prepared?"

"How should I know?" he said, irritation clear in his tone. "Just get here."

Click. He hung up.

"Fucking pencil-dick," I muttered, shoving my phone into my tote bag. I slapped a twenty onto the table to cover the bill and tip, then grabbed my untouched fries and milkshake and dumped them into the trash. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I stormed toward the door, my frustration bubbling over.

Lost in my thoughts, I didn't see the man walking toward me until I collided with him. Hard. My tote bag slipped off my shoulder, spilling books and papers across the diner floor.

"I'm so sorry," I said, kneeling to gather my things.

The man crouched to help, his voice calm and deep. "No, it's my fault. I wasn't paying attention."

I looked up, and my breath caught. He was stunning. Sharp blue eyes, red-gold hair, and a jawline that looked like it could cut glass.

"Rough day?" he asked, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"Were you eavesdropping?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Not intentionally. You weren't exactly whispering."

Heat rose to my cheeks. I mumbled a quick thanks as he handed me my books, but as I stood, I stumbled, my foot catching on something. Before I could hit the ground, his arms shot out, steadying me.

For a moment, everything stilled. I collided with his chest, and somehow, our faces ended up close-too close. Then, as if the universe decided to play one more cruel joke, our lips brushed.

Warm. Soft. Unexpected.

"Oh my God!" I scrambled back, my face flaming. "That was an accident," I stammered. "I'm so sorry."

His amused smile didn't waver. "If that was an accident, it was a pleasant one."

I gaped at him. "It wasn't..." I trailed off, shaking my head. "I need to go."

"Wait," he said, his tone soft but firm. "I'll give you $2,000 to stay and talk to me."

I froze, turning to face him fully. "What?"

"Two thousand dollars," he repeated. "And if the conversation goes well..." His lips curved into a faint smile. "I might be able to give you the million dollars you need."

Chapter 3

Her eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating as she said, "Prove it."

I blinked, caught off guard. "Prove what?" My voice was steady, but I genuinely didn't know what she was asking for.

"The money," she said, her gaze flicking down toward my midsection. For a brief moment, I thought she was checking me out, but no-she was expecting to see a bulging wallet or something. Her eyes snapped back to mine. "Prove it."

I felt a smile tug at the corners of my lips. Interesting. She wasn't going to make this easy. Fair enough. I gave her a slight nod and reached into the inner pocket of my jacket. Slowly, deliberately, I pulled out my wallet. It was sleek, black leather-understated but unmistakably expensive. I counted out twenty crisp bills and nodded toward the booth she'd just vacated. "Shall we?" I asked, gesturing politely.

I wasn't convinced this would lead anywhere. Honestly, the whole situation felt surreal. After years of searching for the right woman, was it possible she'd just walk into my life in a diner, of all places? And not only that-she'd already kissed me. My thoughts flicked back to the memory of her lips, soft and full. A wave of unease stirred in my chest. If she was the one, the perfect surrogate, why did I feel this pull toward her? It complicated everything.

"And all I have to do is answer questions?" she asked, her voice cautious as her eyes darted between me and the stack of cash in my hand. "Nothing... kinky, right?"

A laugh almost slipped out, and for a second, I was tempted to say something witty-something that, under different circumstances, would've had her in my bed before the hour was up. But I bit it back. This wasn't about that. She wasn't here for that, and if this worked out, she might be carrying my child in a few months. Our lives would be intertwined in ways I wasn't sure I was ready to think about.

Instead of responding, I tilted my head and gestured toward the booth again. This time, she slid into the seat, still watching me with those wary eyes. I followed, settling into the seat across from her, keeping my movements calm and measured.

"What do you want to know?" she asked, her attention lingering on the cash, now stacked neatly on the table beside me.

I placed the money down, pinning it beneath a saltshaker for good measure. "Your name, to start."

"Rena Foster." Her voice was steady, but her eyes didn't stop studying me, like she was trying to figure out my angle. "Is that it?"

A chuckle escaped me. "Ten minutes of your time. It'll be painless, I promise."

She tilted her head slightly. It was a simple gesture, but it drew my attention in ways I wished it didn't. My body reacted instinctively, and I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to focus. If I weren't so intent on finding the right woman for this arrangement, I might've invited her back to my hotel instead.

And if she didn't pass this little "interview," maybe I still would.

Her eyes narrowed again, like she could sense my train of thought. "This is some weird sex thing, isn't it?"

"No," I said quickly, shaking my head. "Not at all." Although, in another life, I wouldn't have minded if it was.

She didn't look convinced but decided to let it go. "Okay. Then can we get on with it? I need to get to my bus."

I leaned back in my seat, glancing toward the diner's front door. "I'd be happy to give you a ride once we're done. My car's just outside."

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she frowned. "Hm." She studied me again, just as warily as before. "Where is that accent from? It's not quite German. Not quite Austrian." Her head tilted again, curiosity breaking through her guarded expression. "Montovia?"

My smile widened. Impressive. "You've heard of it?"

She nodded, though her expression remained guarded. "What is this about?"

"We'll get to that," I said, drumming my fingers lightly on the tabletop. "Now, your father's illness... it was the result of an accident?"

Her face darkened, her sharp gaze locking onto me. "You know, it's rude to eavesdrop..."

"Be that as it may," I cut in, my tone firm but steady, "I'm in a position to help you."

Her eyes flickered with something softer, though she still seemed hesitant. "Yes," she admitted quietly, emotion threading through her voice. "He and my mother were in a car accident three years ago. She didn't make it." Her eyes glistened, but her tone hardened as she added, "He wishes he hadn't."

I studied her, noticing the way her eyes narrowed, suspicion clear as day. She shifted in her seat, the tension between us palpable. It wasn't like I blamed her-anyone in her position would be on edge. Hell, I probably came off as some sort of lunatic.

"Any other family members?" I asked, keeping my tone calm, measured.

She tilted her head slightly, her eyes glued to mine like she was trying to read between the lines. "I have a brother," she said slowly. Then, with a sharper edge, "What is this about?"

I ignored the question for now, pressing forward. "Any mental health problems?"

Her response was quick, laced with sarcasm. "Other than him being an asshole? No."

I let out a faint chuckle despite myself, nodding to acknowledge her humor, but I wasn't about to be derailed. "Any cancer or genetic issues in your family?"

Her brows furrowed, and she shifted in her seat, clearly uncomfortable. "Not that I know of. Why?"

"Did your mother have any difficulties with her pregnancies?" My gaze stayed on her, watching every flicker of emotion that crossed her face.

"No," she said, her voice firmer now. "This is weird," she added, blinking a few times. "Why-"

"And what about you?" I cut in, leaning forward slightly, the weight of the moment pressing between us. "Any pregnancies?"

Her eyes widened, and I could feel the disbelief rolling off her. "No!" she snapped, a mix of indignation and shock in her tone. "I knew this was a weird sex thing-"

"It's not at all, I promise," I said quickly, holding up my hands in reassurance. "I know how it sounds, but it's not like that."

Her jaw tightened as she looked at me, unease written all over her face. "This is really... weird," she muttered, shaking her head. Then her eyes darted toward the stack of money on the table. Before I could react, her hand shot out toward it.

I reached out instinctively, my hand covering hers. The moment our skin touched, a spark shot through me-a rush of warmth that I hadn't expected. It startled me, almost as much as it seemed to surprise her. For a second, her gaze locked on mine, searching for something, though I wasn't sure what.

"A few more things," I said softly, not letting my voice waver.

She pulled her hand back, her movements slow, deliberate. "Well, make it quick," she said, her tone edged with defiance. "I need to get to work. You have no idea what my boss is going to do when I show up late."

"What is it you do for work?" I asked, forcing my voice to stay steady.

Her eyes narrowed again, like she was daring me to judge her. "I'm a librarian. And yes, it's harder than you think. I pretty much have to know a lot about a lot of things. I-"

"I have no doubt you're quite intelligent," I interrupted, offering her a small, genuine smile. And I meant it. The fact that she'd placed my Montovian accent earlier had been impressive. Most people couldn't even place the country on a map.

She snorted softly, her skepticism obvious. "Hm. So, what's this all about? You're asking me health questions, genetic questions... It's almost as though you're shopping for a-" Her voice faltered, her eyes widening as realization hit. "Forget it."

She bolted up from her seat before I could say a word, clutching her belongings and making a beeline for the door. I swore under my breath, grabbing the stack of bills and sliding out of the booth to follow her.

"You forgot something!" I called after her, my voice cutting through the ambient noise of the street as she stormed into the cool evening air.

She spun around, her eyes blazing with anger. She snatched the bills from my hand, shoving them into her pocket. "You've got some nerve, you know that?"

"Why would you say that?" I asked, shaking my head. "I offered you quite a sum of money, only to answer my questions-"

"You think I'm going to... what? Donate my eggs to you and your partner? Forget it," she snapped, taking a step back.

The implication hit me, and I quickly corrected her. "Me and my...?" I sighed, exasperated. "No, no. I don't have a partner. I just need-"

"Ohh, you and your wife then," she cut in, her gaze flicking to my left hand and back to my face. "I don't have time for this." She turned sharply, heading toward the bus stop.

"But you need the money. For your father," I called after her, quickening my steps to catch up. "It could be a mutually beneficial proposition."

She stopped dead in her tracks, turning to face me with an incredulous look. "You're going to give me a million dollars. For my eggs," she scoffed, her tone dripping with disbelief.

"No, not for your eggs," I said, desperation creeping into my voice.

She paused, her eyes narrowing as she looked at me. "No?"

"A million dollars-or whatever the final cost of your father's treatment," I said, my words deliberate. "To bear my child. My son."