Every Mafia's Favorite Girl

Chapter 33: "Notably Strange"

Silence slammed into the ballroom so abruptly it felt physical.

Micaela Accardi’s face twisted instantly — not into elegant outrage or restrained offense, but something uglier.

Raw, visceral fury.

Stripped bare and no longer interested in manner or civility.

Beside Aren, Natalia stared openly.

Farther down the table, Lucilla’s smile vanished in a single blink, while Corinna seemed to freeze mid-breath.

Even Chiara, for the span of a heartbeat, looked genuinely caught off guard.

Then, the whispers began.

Quiet at first.

Then louder.

Faster.

Spreading through the ballroom like a spark running across spilled oil.

"Did she just call Isidore Accardi ’master’?"

"Oh my God. So the rumors are true!"

"She just admitted it publicly—"

"She’s literally his purchased pet—"

The room detonated all at once.

Women leaned openly across tables to speak into one another’s ears.

Reporters bent their heads over phones and notebooks with frantic urgency.

Camera flashes burst relentlessly from every direction, capturing every second of the scandal unfolding in real time.

Lucilla now looked seconds away from achieving spiritual ascension through sheer media ecstasy.

At the edge of the commotion, Corinna saw a golden chance to shine. Without hesitation, she stepped toward the table, vicious delight already blazing across her face.

"My God, Ariana Lombardi," she announced loudly, making sure the entire ballroom could hear her. "I genuinely thought your new style meant you’d finally developed some shame."

She pressed a hand dramatically against her chest, as though personally wounded by the collapse of public morality.

"But apparently, I was very wrong."

Laughter rippled immediately through the room.

Corinna’s smile widened with deeper satisfaction. She turned elegantly toward the audience and spread one hand, as though presenting a stage performance.

"My dear ladies," she declared grandly, "I present to you the bravest and most shameless woman in Borgata."

The ballroom erupted.

Some women covered their mouths while laughing hysterically. Others made no effort whatsoever to pretend they were civilized at all.

Several reporters were now typing so quickly their fingers looked blurred. Even Natalia looked away to conceal the curl of satisfaction at the corner of her mouth.

At the center of it all, Aren stood very still.

Her expression did not change. No panic, no humiliation. Only that quiet, attentive stillness that had unsettled trained killers before.

’The people here are... notably strange.’

Her gaze drifted slowly across the ballroom, taking it all in.

Faces twisted with delight.

Women mocking someone they barely knew.

People recording humiliation like entertainment.

For the briefest moment, something softer crossed her features.

’Brothers used to laugh at me often.’

’But not like this.’

’Not this... cruelly.’

Very quickly, Aren reached a conclusion.

’This is an inefficient use of attention.’

Her focus shifted away from the women entirely and toward the servants circulating through the ballroom. The Ombra operative was supposed to be disguised among them.

Her gaze moved rapidly from one server to another as they crossed between tables, carrying silver trays with lowered gazes.

’Not this one.’

’No concealed weapon shape.’

’Nope.’

’No combat stance.’

’Not him.’

’Not him either.’

Her attention sharpened further, narrowing into the cold focus she used on battlefields...

Until Chiara suddenly stepped directly into her line of sight. ƒree𝑤ebnσvel.com

Chiara addressed the room loudly enough to reclaim everyone’s attention at once.

"Excuse me," she said, distress woven so skillfully into her voice it sounded almost sincere. "I hate interrupting everyone’s fun, but as hostess of this luncheon, I must ask for respect toward my guest."

Her expression softened with regret as she turned toward Aren.

"I’m very sorry, Ariana. Please don’t take any of this to heart."

Then, with seamless elegance, she turned toward Micaela.

"My deepest apologies, Lady Micaela. Allow me to have one of my servants escort you to the VIP lounge. I’ll personally send over a bottle from my private vintage collection."

She lifted one elegant hand and gestured toward the nearest staff member.

"You there. Escort Lady Micaela to the lounge."

One servant hurried forward at once, his head respectfully lowered.

"Right away, my lady."

Micaela still looked furious enough to bite through glass.

"You seriously think that solves anything, Chiara Leone?!" she snapped. "Are you attempting to remove me from the room now?"

The servant turned toward her and gestured politely toward the ballroom doors.

"I assure you, madam," he said calmly. "You won’t be disappointed."

Micaela’s voice sharpened instantly.

"Do you think so little of—"

The words died abruptly in her throat.

The servant was staring at her silently.

His face was expressionless.

Still.

He didn’t even blink.

For the briefest second, something strange shifted across Micaela’s face.

The hostility vanished. Her posture straightened. Composure settled back over her features so quickly it looked rehearsed.

"...Well," Micaela said coolly, smoothing one hand over her gown, "unless this wine is truly as exquisite as you claim, Chiara, perhaps I should give it a chance."

She turned away, not before throwing Aren one final venomous glare over her shoulder.

"This isn’t over, Ariana Lombardi," she warned. "Do not mistake Isidore’s interest in you for protection from me."

She followed the servant from the ballroom without another word.

Several nearby women blinked in confusion at the abrupt shift in temperament.

At the center table, Aren noticed everything.

The sudden shift in Micaela’s demeanor.

The way a servant’s silent stare had somehow subdued the Donna of House Accardi.

Most importantly—

The servant’s hands.

Rough calluses lined his fingers and palm, not the kind that came from serving trays or kitchen labor.

Those were combat calluses. The kind earned through years of firearms drills and knife training.

’Ombra’s operative: identified.’

Meanwhile, Chiara clapped her hands lightly together and smiled toward the room.

"Well now, everyone’s happy again, aren’t we?" she said brightly. "Let us begin the luncheon properly."

Soft laughter answered her almost immediately, followed by admiration, surging openly throughout the ballroom.

"Lady Chiara handled that so elegantly."

"She was born for leadership."

"So graceful under pressure..."

"Chiara Leone really is extraordinary..."

"Unlike Ariana, who just stood there doing nothing..."

Every compliment only sharpened Chiara’s poise further. She absorbed praise naturally, like breathing.

Then—

Aren raised her hand.

The motion was so unexpected that Chiara paused mid-smile. She turned toward Aren gracefully.

"What is it, Ariana darling? Is something bothering you?"

"No," Aren replied politely. "May I know where the restroom is?"

Her gaze drifted toward the doorway Micaela and the servant had exited through.

"I’ll be back shortly."

As Aren rose from her chair and moved toward the ballroom doors, a pair of sharp blue eyes tracked her every movement from a table tucked near the corner of the hall.

The woman’s lips curved with quiet amusement as she took another sip of champagne before setting the glass aside entirely. Slowly, elegantly, she rose to her feet.

The woman seated beside her immediately turned with playful curiosity, softened by social respect.

"Lady Liviana," she teased lightly, "are you bored of the luncheon already?"

Liviana smiled, warm and effortlessly charming as always.

"Oh no, not at all," she said pleasantly. "I spotted a friend I haven’t seen in quite some time. Perhaps I’ll go catch up with her for a while."

Liviana slipped gracefully from her chair and picked up her purse.

"Please, continue enjoying yourselves, ladies. No need to wait for me."