Every Mafia's Favorite Girl

Chapter 42: "Explain"

The moment the elevator doors sealed shut, cutting them off from the chaos, shattered marble, and stunned onlookers of Accardi Tower’s lobby, Caio turned toward Aren.

"Explain," he demanded sharply. "What sort of contract did you sign with Isidore Accardi?"

The question came out harsher than intended, but he no longer cared.

For weeks, he had endured enough rumors. No matter how completely his days had been consumed by meetings, territorial disputes, negotiations, and political maneuvering, whispers from House Accardi had still found their way to him.

More than once, Sartori business partners had grown bold enough to mention the stories during meetings — stories about Isidore Accardi acquiring Ariana Lombardi.

Keeping her.

Using her.

Treating her like some private amusement hidden away behind the walls of Accardi Tower.

Every time, Caio had shut the conversation down with a single look.

One cold glance.

One warning.

Sharp enough to remind grown men of the difference between gossip and a death wish.

Caio himself had ignored the rumors because they were ridiculous.

’Fucking filthy rumors.’

’She’s under my roof.’

’She doesn’t even go out to see Isidore Accardi.’

That certainty alone had always been enough.

Until today.

The entire encounter in the lobby had felt less like a provocation and more like a deliberate punch aimed directly at his face.

And somehow, despite the molten anger still burning beneath his ribs, Aren only looked back at him with wide, innocent eyes completely devoid of guilt.

"I’m very sorry, Don Caio. As much as I am obliged to remain transparent with you regarding our contract, I cannot disclose details concerning my contract with Master Accardi."

The title struck Caio like another blow.

His jaw flexed.

"Will you stop calling him that?! At the very least, not in front of me?"

Aren stiffened, taken aback by his sudden rage.

"My apologies. I will refrain from doing so." freēwebnovel.com

Then, almost instantly, her attention shifted elsewhere. She dipped a hand into the pocket of her dress and withdrew a small folded piece of paper.

Caio glanced toward it despite himself, his irritation faltering as he noticed the tiny, tightly packed lines of handwriting covering the page.

"What is that?"

Aren brightened immediately.

"My notes. I received many questions about Ariana Lombardi from news reporters when I arrived at the luncheon. Some of them asked things I couldn’t answer immediately."

She held up the paper.

"Would you please help me?"

The warm trust in her eyes cooled some of the rage threatening to consume him.

Only some.

"Fine." He released a rough breath. "What did they ask?"

Aren lowered her gaze to the paper with complete seriousness.

"What is... social media?"

Caio blinked.

His brow furrowed.

"There’s no social media where you came from?"

"Nope." She shook her head. "We had internet and other things. Maybe social media existed in my world too, but I never checked."

"Hm." He considered for a moment. "It’s a place where people share their faces and personal lives online. For fame. Attention. Validation. Entertainment. Emotional dumping. Wasting time. Take your pick."

Aren nodded thoughtfully.

"I see."

She glanced down at her notes again.

"Next question."

Her brow creased.

"What is... a fetish relationship?"

Caio nearly choked on nothing.

For a split second, he wondered if the reporters had collectively lost their minds.

’What the fuck?!’

’Which idiot asked her that?’

’I’m gonna skin the fuck out of—’

Almost immediately, Caio knew exactly who the question had been about and why it had been asked, and the realization alone was enough to reignite the anger inside him.

He turned toward her so quickly his neck protested.

"Aren."

His voice was deadly serious.

"From now on, I am assigning someone to handle all press questions for you."

Aren blinked rapidly.

"Hah?"

"Do not answer reporters. Do not answer journalists. Do not answer random people with microphones. Do not answer anyone asking ridiculous questions."

She blinked.

Then blinked again.

"But why?"

"Because I said so."

"Oh."

Aren pondered that for a moment.

’Good relocation of my attention,’ she noted. ’Less risk of exposing my identity.’

Eventually, she nodded.

"Okie!"

Caio dragged a hand down his face.

Violently.

The elevator descended into the underground parking level. When the doors finally slid open, Leo and the waiting Sartori soldiers straightened at once.

Their eyes moved from Caio’s bloodied face to Aren’s perfectly untouched appearance.

Confusion spread across every expression present.

"...Boss?" Leo ventured carefully.

"Don’t ask," Caio muttered.

That was the only explanation everyone received.

The ride back to the Sartori estate passed beneath a blanket of silence. Caio spent most of it staring out the window, while Aren spent most of it looking disturbingly content.

Every few minutes she extended a hand toward him.

"Chocolate candy?"

He didn’t even look at her.

"No."

A little later:

"Mint candy?"

"No."

Then:

"Strawberry?"

"No."

Each rejection caused her shoulders to droop slightly.

By the time the convoy rolled through the estate gates and stopped before the main entrance, the afternoon sun had begun its slow descent across the grounds.

As always, Mrs. Pecora arrived promptly to receive them. The moment she saw Caio step out of the vehicle, she nearly suffered cardiac arrest.

Blood stained his collar.

Bruises darkened one side of his face.

His suit looked as though it had survived a small-scaled apocalypse.

Instinctively, her eyes searched for the platinum-haired girl.

Luckily, Aren stepped from the vehicle looking entirely unharmed.

In fact, not merely unharmed.

She looked remarkably pleased.

There was a candy already in her mouth, while another sat unwrapped in one hand, ready to be devoured. Several more were being distributed to nearby Sartori soldiers with generous enthusiasm.

Leo was holding two.

One soldier somehow had four.

Another looked too intimidated to refuse.

Mrs. Pecora released a long breath.

’Thank God.’

’Only the Don is injured.’

The thought disturbed her enough that she immediately scolded herself internally.

’Professionalism.’

’Professionalism.’

"Sir." She calmly turned toward Caio. "Should I call Dr. Capello?"

The answer came from Aren before Caio could speak.

"No, Mrs. Pecora," she said warmly. "Please prepare the first-aid kit. I will attend to his wounds."

Caio immediately turned.

"I don’t need—"

The protest died halfway through the sentence when he saw Aren looking up at him.

Her eyes were wide.

Hopeful.

Behind them lingered the faintest trace of disappointment, and the expression carried a message so transparent it may as well have been written across her forehead.

’Pretty please?’

Caio closed his eyes.

"Fine," he muttered. "Get her the kit. Bring it to my suite."

Mrs. Pecora nodded at once.

"It will be prepared immediately, sir."

A few minutes later, after ensuring every available employee had been supplied with candy whether they wanted one or not, Aren finally followed Caio upstairs.

Soon afterward, the two of them sat alone in his bedroom. The first-aid kit rested between them atop the mattress.

Every maid had been dismissed.

Every servant sent away.

The suite had become impossibly quiet.

Caio sat on the edge of his massive bed with his elbows resting loosely on his knees and his hands clasped together, his gaze fixed firmly on the hardwood floor.

He had determined that silence was the safest course of action. After all, sitting beside him was the same woman whose first kiss he had stolen on this very bed.

Unfortunately, maintaining silence became increasingly difficult once Aren began treating his injuries.

Or, more accurately, assaulting his face with medical supplies.

She sat beside him with one leg folded beneath her, an antiseptic swab pinched between careful fingers as she repeatedly dabbed at the cut along his cheekbone with alarming speed and absolutely no mercy whatsoever.

The sharp sting of disinfectant bit into torn skin again and again. Caio endured it for several seconds before finally speaking.

"Are you always this rough when treating wounds?"

His tone carried more amusement than accusation. Pain meant very little to him. Compared to the fury that still flared whenever he remembered Isidore Accardi’s hand on her waist, the antiseptic barely registered.

The question startled Aren nonetheless.

"Oh..." Her hand froze against his cheek. "Have I been too rough?"

"You’re dabbing me like you’re treating a casualty during a bomb attack," he muttered dryly.

The comment was meant as a joke.

Unfortunately, Aren took it completely seriously.

"Oh," she immediately slowed her movements. "How do you know?"

A note of genuine apology entered her voice. "Sorry. It’s a bad habit. My squad and I usually didn’t have much time for this when artillery was flying over our heads."

Caio stiffened instantly.

The amusement vanished from his face as though it had never existed.

Right.

She had told him before.

War.

Not the sanitized version men like him discussed over expensive liquor and polished conference tables. Not territorial disputes, political maneuvering, money laundering, or carefully arranged assassinations.

Actual war.

With explosions, artillery fire and children surviving inside collapsing buildings and burning villages.

A strange heaviness settled in his chest.

They had lived under the same roof for more than a week. They had eaten together. Fought together. Bled together. Touched each other in ways he still could not think about without feeling his pulse become unstable.

And yet, he knew almost nothing about her.

The realization left behind an ugly, uncomfortable guilt.

He cleared his throat.

"Aren."

She looked up immediately.

"Tell me about your life," he said, softer now. "The life you had before you ended up here."