Every Mafia's Favorite Girl

Chapter 39: "Candies?"

The Accardi Tower. Accardi District.

2:30 PM.

Inside the main lobby, the receptionist sat behind the curved desk, drowning beneath three monitors, two incoming calls, and a stack of documents thick enough to ruin her afternoon.

She looked exhausted, until the elevator doors opened. Years of professional composure snapped into place the moment she recognized Ariana Lombardi stepping into the lobby.

’Right. The Lombardi girl.’

’She actually has a scheduled meeting with the Consigliere today.’

That part was manageable.

But the moment her gaze shifted to the right, every trace of calm abandoned her body.

’What the hell is he doing here?!’

Caio Sartori walked beside Aren with one hand in his pocket, blue eyes already sweeping across the lobby with visible impatience.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees just from his presence alone.

Aren approached the desk first, offering a polite nod.

"Good afternoon," she greeted warmly. "I’m here to see Master Accardi."

The receptionist straightened so fast she nearly slammed her knee against the desk.

"Y-yes, Miss Lombardi," she stammered. "I was informed of your appointment."

Her trembling fingers reached for the intercom. Her fingernail barely hovered over the button—

"Wait."

Caio’s voice cut cleanly through the silence of the lobby.

The receptionist froze, finger suspended in midair like she’d been struck by lightning.

Aren glanced toward Caio.

He was already looking at her.

"I’m coming up with you."

For one reckless second, the receptionist’s professional instincts overrode her survival instincts.

"I’m afraid that’s not possi—"

Her voice died on the spot when Caio’s gaze shifted toward her.

It was not merely a glare. It was the kind of look that belonged to men moments before they put a bullet into someone’s skull.

The message couldn’t have been clearer:

’Speak again and it’ll be your last mistake.’

Without another word, the receptionist’s finger slammed the intercom button.

The line connected instantly.

"Sir," she said carefully, "Miss Lombardi is here to see you."

The answer came back instantly — fast, clipped, entirely devoid of warmth.

"Send her up."

The receptionist swallowed hard.

"There’s... one more thing, sir," she managed weakly. "Mister Sartori also requested to head up to your office..."

Three seconds passed.

Three agonizing seconds in which the entire lobby seemed to stop breathing.

Then, Isidore’s voice returned.

Cold enough to frost glass.

"No."

Caio didn’t hesitate. He leaned toward the console, voice carrying clearly through the still-open line.

"She’s not going up without me."

The receptionist opened her mouth to de-escalate, but Isidore had already heard every word.

"Only the girl comes up."

The line went dead with a sharp click.

The receptionist slowly lowered the receiver, looking moments away from spiritual collapse.

Aren turned fully toward Caio then, looking up into his blue, stubborn eyes.

"Please," she said, a soft plea. "This is my personal contract with House Accardi. I have to go up alone."

Caio stared down at her.

Aren stared back without wavering.

For a long, agonizing moment, neither of them blinked, both fighting an intense staring match that tested the absolute limit of his patience.

Finally, Caio exhaled sharply through his nose.

"I’ll be in the waiting room."

Aren brightened at once.

"Thank you!"

She offered a grateful nod toward the receptionist before turning toward the private elevators, leaving Caio behind with his jaw clenched and enough irritation to poison the air around him.

─ •✧• ─ ✿ ─ •✧• ─

Ding.

The elevator doors opened and slid shut shortly afterward.

The car rapidly climbed toward the eighty-second floor.

Aren stood quietly inside the mirrored interior with her hands folded behind her back. The higher she went, the quieter the city became beneath her.

A moment later, the elevator hissed to a stop. The digital display flashed:

Floor 82.

The doors opened, and Aren moved through a maze of empty corridors, meeting not a single soul until she finally reached the Vice Chairman’s office.

The executive suite beyond looked exactly as Aren remembered — sterile, freezing cold, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the entirety of Borgata beneath a gray afternoon sky.

At the center of it all sat Isidore Accardi.

He sat at his massive desk, his posture immaculate, every line of him precise enough to resemble machinery rather than a human being.

He didn’t look up. Didn’t acknowledge the sound of the doors sliding open or the click of her heels.

He just kept writing.

Aren crossed the office quietly and sat in the same chair she’d occupied during their last meeting.

"Good afternoon, Master Accardi," she greeted warmly. "I’m sorry about earlier. Don Caio insisted on coming up with me."

Isidore still didn’t look up. The scratching of his pen against paper became the only sound in the vast office.

One minute passed.

Then another.

Five. ƒree𝑤ebnσvel.com

Ten.

Aren sat patiently, staying completely quiet the entire time without complaint.

’He looks so focused.’

’Perfect discipline.’

’Perfect posture.’

’I must not disturb his work.’

Admiration flooded through her.

Occasionally, she tried to mimic his posture, adjusting her shoulders the way a baby duck mimics its mama.

Finally, without lifting his gaze from the documents, Isidore spoke.

"Will you continue wasting both our time, or will you finally deliver what you came to deliver?"

The bluntness struck Aren like cold water. She immediately stood, cheeks flushing pink with sudden embarrassment.

"Ah— yes," she said quickly. "It was thoughtless of me."

She slipped one hand into the pocket of her dress. When she withdrew it, she stepped closer to the desk and opened her palm toward him.

Isidore slowly lifted his gaze from the paperwork. His eyes lowered to the objects resting in her hand.

And then—

He froze.

’What the...?’

Sitting in Aren’s palm were two cheap candies wrapped in bright colored cellophane. They looked completely absurd against the monochrome austerity of his office.

Aren extended her hand farther toward him, smiling with a sincerity that felt fundamentally incompatible with the room itself.

"Candies?" she offered.

Isidore’s eyes moved slowly from the sugar to Aren’s face.

When he spoke, every word emerged dangerously slow, perfectly measured, and edged in ice.

"Signorina, I am certain my instructions did not involve delivering hardened sugar with artificial flavoring."

"I know..." Aren admitted shyly. "But... you may want one before I present the results of my test mission."

Isidore stared at her.

The look on his face suggested he was convinced she had sustained severe head trauma during the assignment.

After several long seconds, he leaned back fully in his chair.

"The material first."

Aren stuffed the candies back into her pocket, lips downturned in visible disappointment. This time, she withdrew the communication device and placed it carefully onto the desk.

"The material has been copied here."

Isidore picked it up.

Within a few efficient clicks, he transferred the files before deleting everything from the device itself.

"Ombra’s operative didn’t notice?" he asked without looking up.

"No."

"His identity."

"Five photographs from five separate angles. Stored in the device."

"The informant."

The word hung heavily in the air between them.

Aren suddenly fell silent. Her lips pressed into a tight line.

Isidore noticed the shift immediately. He looked up then, gaze sharp enough to pin her to the wall.

"Signorina," he said, "there’s no one here except us."

Aren nodded tightly.

"I’m aware."

She drew in a quiet breath, trying to choose gentler phrasing. Unfortunately, there was no gentle way to soften the impact.

"The informant is the Donna of your House," she said bluntly, "Lady Micaela Accardi."