Every Mafia's Favorite Girl

Chapter 17: "I Know Him Too Well"

Borgata was a city built on ports.

Whoever controlled the ports controlled the city’s lifeblood, and that power belonged to House Porto.

The Marchettis manufactured weapons.

The Portos moved them across oceans without governments ever noticing.

For decades, the two families had profited side by side, perfectly intertwined.

Jordan Marchetti attended his first Marchetti-Porto dinner when he was ten years old. At twenty-one, he found himself trapped in another.

Tonight’s venue was a private restaurant overlooking the harbor — dark wood walls, crystal chandeliers, wine older than most governments.

Jordan stood at the far end of the room, nursing a drink. His appearance remained flawless: tailored charcoal suit, tie perfectly aligned, brown hair brushed neatly back from his forehead.

Only his expression ruined the picture. Every line of his face had tightened into restrained irritation.

Beside him stood Diego, silent and composed as always. Jordan stepped slightly closer toward the man, lowering his voice enough that nearby guests could not overhear.

"Has Lady Ariana returned safely to the hotel?"

Diego stiffened almost instantly.

"She has, Young Boss."

After the briefest hesitation, he added,

"You should avoid asking about Lady Ariana tonight. Porto men are everywhere."

Jordan glanced sideways, one brow lifting lazily.

"You sound more worried my father might overhear."

Diego’s face remained smooth and neutral.

"The alliance between House Porto and House Marchetti has been considered inevitable for years. It is viewed as... favorable."

Jordan took a slow sip of liquor.

"Favorable for everyone except me."

The burn of whiskey lingered sharp against his throat.

Across the room, laughter drifted between politicians, capos, and House members wrapped in designer silk. Everything smelled expensive — aged wine, perfume, polished wood, cigar smoke buried deep into the walls.

Jordan suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe inside any of it. His gaze shifted across the gathering and landed on Natalia Porto.

She moved through the room with effortless elegance, black evening gown hugging her figure without a single excessive detail. Her dark hair had been pinned flawlessly away from her face, exposing diamond earrings that caught the chandelier light each time she turned her head.

And she fit.

That was the worst part.

Natalia stood beside his sisters laughing softly at something Sofia had said, smiling with the ease of someone already accepted into the family.

Like she had always belonged there.

Like the marriage had already happened.

Jordan looked away before the irritation twisting beneath his ribs became any more visible than it already had.

At precisely eight o’clock, dinner began.

Everyone gathered around the impossibly long dining table overlooking the harbor. Giovanni Porto seated himself beside Eduardo Marchetti at the center, like two kings dividing territory.

Naturally, Natalia was seated beside Jordan.

Naturally, Jordan looked like he would rather be shot.

Dinner began smoothly enough.

The older generation discussed cargo movement, while Jordan’s sisters teased Natalia about how well she fit into the Marchetti household already.

Natalia handled every comment with perfect grace — every smile measured, every laugh soft and feminine, every response exactly appropriate.

Jordan contributed nothing.

He sat rigidly in his chair, nursing yet another glass of liquor while conversation moved around him like background noise.

Then, someone from farther down the table spoke casually.

"The Summit this year was quite refreshing."

The shift in atmosphere was immediate.

Jordan felt it instantly.

His fingers unconsciously tightened around his glass. He already knew where this conversation was heading.

"If you mean Ariana Lombardi," one Porto capo laughed into his wine, "then I found her terrifying."

Another man snorted. "Who would’ve thought the Lombardi girl could fight like that?"

"Maybe she’s been pretending all along," someone mused. "Playing the idiot while hiding real talent."

"Or maybe the narcotics finally granted her enlightenment."

Laughter rippled around the table. freewebnσvel.cѳm

Jordan stared silently at the liquor in his glass.

He could still remember Ariana Lombardi standing inside the workshop earlier that afternoon — pistol in her hands, childlike excitement on her face, her fingers brushing lightly against his own, hidden in Biscuit’s fur.

She was not drugged, not stupid, not weak.

Just... entirely herself.

And that memory only made the laughter around him unbearable.

"I heard House Accardi purchased her as some sort of private pet," a woman added casually while cutting into her steak. "Apparently Isidore Accardi has very... particular tastes."

Another scoffed immediately.

"An Accardi pet? Please. I heard she’s moving into the Sartori estate permanently."

"A mistress?"

"A hostage?"

"A slave, maybe."

More laughter.

One of the younger Porto scions leaned forward eagerly, clearly enjoying the conversation.

"You’re all outdated," he announced loudly. "Castellano signed her for the Pit."

The table exploded.

"No way."

"You’re joking."

"The Lombardi heiress? Fighting in a cage?"

"Borgata has officially lost its mind."

"She’d chip a nail and sue someone."

"Hahaha—!"

Laughter burst louder this time.

Even Giovanni Porto let out an amused sound beneath his breath. Jordan’s siblings laughed openly now. Beside Jordan, Natalia laughed too, like every other Porto at the table.

Jordan didn’t.

Something ugly coiled slowly tighter beneath his ribs.

His jaw tightened hard enough to hurt. The crystal glass creaked audibly beneath the pressure of his grip.

Then—

CRACK.

The sound slammed through the dining room like a gunshot.

Red wine splashed across the white cloth.

Silence followed instantly.

Every conversation died.

Every head turned toward the Marchetti heir.

Across from Jordan, Eduardo’s eyes sharpened immediately.

"Jordan," he said, a sharp warning, "what is it now?"

Jordan rose so abruptly his chair scraped against the floor.

"My apologies."

The words carried absolutely no apology.

Without another glance at the table, he turned and walked out of the private dining room.

The tension he left behind lingered heavily in the air.

Natalia watched the door close behind him. Then, with perfect composure, she folded her napkin onto the table.

"Excuse me for a moment."

She stood gracefully and followed after him.

No one stopped her.

─ •✧• ─ ✿ ─ •✧• ─

Outside, the harbor wind carried the scent of salt, smoke, and cold seawater across the narrow stone terrace behind the restaurant.

Natalia found Jordan exactly where she expected him to be.

He stood near the stone railing overlooking the docks, one hand in his pocket, a cigarette already burning between his fingers.

A pleasant smirk touched her lips.

’I know him too well.’

The expression vanished before she reached him.

"Already bored with the drinks?" she asked lightly. "I told Father we should’ve hosted at Bellarosa instead. But apparently Don Eduardo is emotionally attached to this place."

Jordan didn’t turn to look at her. He had recognized the sound of her heels against the stone long before she spoke.

The cigarette glowed as he took another drag, released with a slow, deliberate exhale.

"You weren’t supposed to visit Marchetti District earlier today," he said, irritation rolling underneath. "Why came?"

A small smile touched Natalia’s lips.

"My father thought it would be nice if we arrived together tonight."

She stepped closer, voice lowering into something softer, more intimate.

"Is it strange for me to visit my future fiancé?"

"Natalia."

The warning in Jordan’s voice cut sharp enough to draw blood.

He finally looked at her then, face tight with displeasure.

"There is nothing official between us," he said, each word deliberate. "You, your family, and apparently mine are the only people pretending this arrangement already exists."

The softness disappeared from Natalia’s face instantly. A quiet sigh escaped her, the kind reserved for exhausting conversations repeated too many times.

"I’m not doing this again tonight, Jordan," she said. "You’re still too young to understand the value of alliances."

Another plume of smoke drifted into the cold night air.

"Mm."

The dismissal didn’t sit well.

Natalia’s mood soured instantly, her patience thinning.

She folded both arms, watching him with the tolerance one might show an especially difficult child.

"Now," she said coolly, "shall we return before our families start speculating?"

Jordan took another long drag from the cigarette.

"After I finish this."

"Be quick," Natalia muttered.

She turned and walked back inside without waiting for a response.

The moment she stepped into the corridor leading back toward the dining hall, every trace of warmth vanished from her face like it had never existed.

"Diego."

The Marchetti soldier appeared almost instantly from the shadows beside the entrance.

"Yes, my lady?"

Unlike most men in House Marchetti, Diego had never belonged entirely to Eduardo Marchetti.

For years, House Porto had quietly maintained leverage inside Marchetti operations through him.

Adjusted shipping routes.

Rerouted manifests.

Siphoned percentages from overseas weapons profits through Porto-controlled docks.

All without Eduardo Marchetti ever noticing.

Natalia continued walking as she spoke.

"The shadow manifests from last month."

"Already corrected," Diego answered smoothly. "No discrepancies were flagged during Marchetti accounting review."

"Good."

Her tone stayed calm, until she added,

"Now, tell me something more interesting."

Diego remained silent.

He knew exactly what Natalia was asking. He also knew the answer was too ugly to be voiced aloud.

Natalia noticed his hesitation immediately, yet her voice remained perfectly calm.

"My evening was just interrupted by Jordan Marchetti publicly losing his temper over Ariana Lombardi. I dislike not understanding why."

Diego lowered his voice carefully.

"...The Lombardi heiress visited the compound this afternoon."

Natalia stopped walking.

Slowly, she turned toward him.

"...Excuse me?"

"She inspected the workshop facilities personally," Diego continued cautiously. "Young Boss escorted her himself."

For the first time that evening, Natalia’s composure fractured. She stared at Diego in silence, green eyes frighteningly cold.

"She visited the workshop," she repeated.

"Yes, my lady."

"How long?"

"Several hours."

"And Don Eduardo allowed this?"

"Yes." Diego hesitated briefly. "Don Eduardo later offered Lady Ariana a consulting contract."

Silence.

Natalia stood perfectly still in the middle of the corridor.

Below the hem of her sleeves, however, her nails bit into her palms until they left marks.

"A consulting contract," she repeated.

Diego wisely said nothing.

Natalia inhaled once through her nose. When she spoke again, her voice had already returned smooth and pleasant.

"Thank you, Diego. Continue informing me of anything unusual concerning the Marchetti estate."

"Of course, my lady."

Natalia walked away without another word.

Once she reached an empty corner near the private stairwell, she pull out her phone and place a call.

The other end answered almost immediately.

"Oh?" came the amused female voice. "Natalia darling. You’re the last person I expected to call first. Has the sun started rising from the west?"

Natalia ignored both the amusement and the teasing. "When is the women’s luncheon?"

A delighted laugh instantly rolled through the speaker.

Chiara Leone sounded like someone who had just been handed front-row seats to a disaster.

"Next Sunday," she purred. "Should I arrange cannoli for dessert? Or lilies in the reception hall? You adore both."

"I want neither," Natalia replied flatly.

Then, sharp as cut glass,

"Seat me next to Ariana Lombardi."