Every Mafia's Favorite Girl

Chapter 1: "The Soul Known as Aren"

The soul known as Aren didn’t arrive in her next life through a tunnel of light or the singing of angels.

One moment, she had been trapped in the searing heat of a thermal detonator inside a subterranean bunker — a final, selfless act to save her brothers-in-arms.

The next, she woke to the cloying scent of expensive lilies and high-grade narcotics.

Aren blinked.

The ceiling above her stretched high, vaulted and ornate. Nothing like the reinforced concrete and exposed steel of the bunker she remembered dying in.

Everything felt wrong. freewebnøvel.coɱ

Her body, most of all.

Where there should have been the hardened muscle of a lifetime spent in elite combat, there were only slender limbs, delicate skin, and unfamiliar softness.

Aren looked down.

’Oh?’

She froze.

’No clothes?’

"Finally, you’re awake."

The male voice cut through the silence like a blade, low and edged with unmistakable contempt.

"I was beginning to think I’d need to call Moretti’s cleaners to drag your corpse out of my bed."

Aren instinctively turned toward the sound. A man stood near a tall wardrobe, his back turned to her as he buttoned a black silk shirt.

The muscles across his shoulders shifted beneath the fabric with a predatory grace she recognized:

’Balanced stance.’

’Controlled movement.’

’He knows how to kill. And does it often.’

As though sensing the weight of her gaze, the man, Caio Sartori, turned.

Blue eyes met hers.

Cold eyes.

Sharp enough to carve flesh from bone.

To him, the woman lying in his bed was Ariana Lombardi — a frivolous socialite whose value extended no further than her family name and her predictable addictions.

His gaze swept over her with habitual disdain, already expecting the usual behavior: a glass-shattering scream, a loud demand for attention, maybe a desperate plea for another hit of the drugs his House specialized in.

Something irritating.

"The Summit, Ariana," he said, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. "Are you planning to attend, or have you finally managed to fry your brain entirely?"

Aren processed the words in silence.

’Summit. Ariana. Brain.’

None of them meant anything to her.

Conclusion: ask.

"What Summit?"

Caio paused mid-motion. The button in his hand stopped halfway through the loop.

He turned to her fully then, suspicion hardening his features.

"The Borgata Summit," he replied irritably. "At The Hub. The one your House hosts."

Aren quietly stored the information away.

’Borgata. The Hub. House.’

Her thoughts halted abruptly as her attention drifted back to the man.

A flicker of something unexpected surfaced in her chest.

Pity.

For him.

In her past life, Aren had been the youngest member of a mercenary organization.

Eighteen, when she died.

Her life had been brutal, ugly at times, stripped of comfort and luxury, yet her squad brothers had surrounded her in a fierce kind of love that had never once made her question her worth.

This man, however, was looking at her with a level of loathing that made her skin crawl. Handsome as he was, he looked like someone in desperate need of a hug.

Or perhaps a strong sedative.

She pushed herself upright, pulling the silk sheet securely across her chest.

"May I ask where I am, exactly?" she asked politely. "And why am I... naked?"

Silence descended over the room, immediate and heavy.

Caio stared at her.

Then, he moved.

Two strides closed the distance between them. His shadow swallowed her as he leaned down abruptly, fingers snapping forward to grip her chin.

Hard.

"Ariana Lombardi," he hissed, a sharp warning, "if this is another game to squeeze more product out of me, it’s a boring one."

He tilted her face upward, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"You’ve been high for three days. You’re sober now. Act like it."

Aren didn’t flinch. She sat perfectly still, observing the man.

In her world, grabbing someone by the chin was a fatal mistake. It left the throat exposed and the wrist vulnerable to a break.

Her mind automatically mapped out three ways to disable him in under two seconds. Yet as she looked into his eyes, she saw no intent to kill.

Only exhaustion. Irritation. And a deep, ingrained hatred for the woman he thought she was.

"I’m sorry," she said again, more polite this time. "I seem to have lost my way. May I have my clothes? My current state is not suitable for... um, a conversation."

Caio’s grip loosened.

Something about her tone unsettled him.

He had spent the last three nights with Ariana Lombardi. He knew the look she wore whenever she wanted something — hazy, clinging, always reaching.

This was not that look.

This was clear. Still. Unnervingly calm.

"...Your clothes," he muttered at last.

His hand dropped from her chin, then gestured vaguely toward the nearby couch.

A chaotic pile of lace and sheer fabric lay there, half-spilling onto the floor.

"There isn’t anything else. And I have a meeting with the Bankers."

Aren stared blankly at the "clothes."

In her mind, she assessed them:

’Tactical utility: zero.’

’Concealment: zero.’

’Dignity: negative.’

"Um... is there a bathrobe?" She glanced back toward him. "Please."

Caio stared at her for a moment too long.

"In the closet," he finally said.

He wasn’t entirely sure why the harshness had drained from his voice, nor why he had bothered answering at all.

Before he could examine the thought further—

Ring. Ring.

His phone rang.

Caio took the call, spoke in clipped commands, then grabbed the jacket draped over a chair. He crossed the room to leave, but as he reached the door, his gaze flicked back toward her one last time.

For the briefest second, confusion crossed his face.

He quickly smoothed it away.

"Your driver is downstairs," he said, one hand already on the doorknob. "For once, don’t be late to the Summit, Ariana Lombardi."

He didn’t wait for a reply. The door opened, then clicked shut with finality.

Aren waited until the echo of his footsteps vanished completely.

Then, she slid out of the bed.

Her legs nearly buckled beneath her weight — the body was weak, likely from a lack of proper nutrition and too much "product" — but she forced it to hold.

She began a quick sweep of the room.

She found a phone, which was locked.

She found a wallet, which contained cash and multiple identification cards belonging to "Ariana Lombardi."

Finally, she found the mirror.

A stranger stared back at her.

The face was delicate, matching the photos in the identification cards. Soft features, almost doll-like. Eyes heavily lined with makeup, slightly smudged. Long platinum hair spilled past her waist, smooth and bright like silk.

Aren tilted her head slightly.

"So... you are Ariana Lombardi."

Her gaze then fell on a pair of scissors on the vanity, sitting next to a line of white powder.

The powder didn’t matter.

The hair did.

It was too long — something for an enemy to grab. She preferred her old hair. Without a moment’s hesitation, she picked up the scissors.

Snip.

The strands came away in heavy, lustrous heaps, pooling at her feet.

When she finished, the long platinum curtain was gone. In its place — a sharp bob, clean at the chin.

Next, she grabbed a bottle of makeup remover and scrubbed until the colors were gone. The face revealed underneath was disarmingly young, with wide, clear eyes the color of gunmetal gray.

Aren studied the reflection for a moment.

Then, she straightened.

"Thank you for lending me this body, Ariana Lombardi."

She bowed to the mirror.

"I promise to use it well."

Carefully, she gathered the fallen hair from the floor, not leaving a single strand out of place.

On the vanity, she left a note:

Hi Mister,

I am very sorry for using your scissors without asking. They are very sharp and good. Thank you.

— A.