Every Mafia's Favorite Girl

Chapter 46: "How Mafia Wars Begin"

The following morning, Caio left the estate before sunrise.

The bread that emerged from the Sartori kitchen that day was, once again, a tragedy in loaf form.

By now, however, the staff had developed a remarkable degree of resilience. The bread itself no longer frightened them nearly as much as the inevitable aftermath.

Specifically, the moment Aren began distributing samples throughout the estate.

"Good morning, sirs and madams," she greeted politely as she approached a group of gardeners tending the estate grounds. "My bread is finished. Would you like a slice?"

The gardeners visibly froze. Their eyes dropped to the dense, suspiciously angular pieces resting on the tray in Aren’s hands before lifting cautiously back to her face.

She was not smiling.

She was not threatening them.

If anything, she looked perfectly calm.

Unfortunately, her clear silver eyes carried such sincere hope and expectation that refusing her suddenly felt comparable to kicking a puppy.

"Of course, my lady," one gardener replied immediately.

Another hurriedly reached for a slice before anyone else could.

"I’ve been dying to try it," he declared with heroic determination. "I could smell it all the way from the kitchen."

A soft blush climbed up Aren’s face.

"Thank you very much," she said gratefully as she began distributing slices one after another. "Please tell me what you think of the taste as well."

The gardeners stared at the bread in their hands. Then, with the solemn courage of men marching into battle, they each took a bite.

The resulting crunch echoed across the garden with alarming volume.

Several birds took flight from nearby trees.

Everyone’s jaws immediately began working far harder than nature had ever intended for a product theoretically composed of flour, water, yeast, and Aren’s unwavering determination.

Aren watched them chew with her usual calm expression.

What none of the gardeners realized was that, behind that tranquil face, she was conducting an entirely different assessment.

Her gaze moved subtly from one gardener to the next.

’No combat calluses.’

’No trained posture.’

’No clear indications of involvement in the poisoning.’

Her brow furrowed.

’Conclusion: not suspects.’

Having completed her evaluation, she returned her attention to the bread.

"Well?" she asked at last. "How is it?"

One gardener swallowed with visible effort. "It is... very memorable, my lady."

Another nodded rapidly. "The texture is extremely... interesting."

A third forced a smile that looked physically painful. "I’m not entirely sure I’ve ever had anything quite like this before. Very unique, haha..."

Aren considered their responses carefully.

"So... it’s still horrible," she concluded.

The entire gardening staff nearly choked.

Several exchanged panicked looks.

One looked ready to protest immediately.

Before anyone could speak, Aren offered everyone a grateful bow.

"My sincere apology," she said formally. "It seems I accidentally made it too dense again. Thank you very much for trying it and for your feedback. I will do better tomorrow."

The gardeners stared at her in stunned silence. Before anyone could formulate a response, Aren had already continued onward toward her next victims in the laundry room.

Fortunately, Aren did not dwell for long on her latest baking failure, nor on the fact that she had discovered no promising suspects during her bread campaign.

Something far more important arrived shortly after breakfast:

The ice cream machine.

The very one Caio had ordered from overseas.

"Come, Biscuit," Aren called to the little dog as she hurried toward the delivery entrance. "It’s finally here!"

Biscuit immediately gave chase, racing after her at full speed until he caught up and bounded excitedly around her legs.

Before long, the pair arrived beside the enormous shipping crate, where delivery workers were already busy unboxing its contents.

Mrs. Pecora entered the kitchen moments later, only to stop dead at the doorway.

"My lady..." she began weakly. "This is..."

A massive machine now occupied an entire corner of the kitchen she had spent years arranging into a state of immaculate perfection.

Before Mrs. Pecora could voice her concerns regarding aesthetics, space, or the preservation of her remaining sanity, Aren turned toward her with bright, hopeful eyes.

"Mrs. Pecora, do you happen to know how to make ice cream too?"

Mrs. Pecora stared at her.

Then at the machine.

Then back at Aren.

A long, weary sigh escaped her.

It was in that exact moment that Mrs. Pecora discovered she had somehow acquired a third profession. In addition to serving as Head of Staff and Aren’s bread instructor, she had apparently become Aren’s official ice cream instructor as well.

The kitchen transformed into a laboratory almost immediately.

Milk appeared.

Cream appeared.

Chocolate, vanilla, fruit, sugar, syrups, flavorings, and ingredients Aren had never even heard of emerged in seemingly endless quantities, carried one after another by the staff.

Aren stared at the growing mountain of supplies with open amazement.

"Why do we already have everything?" she asked, turning toward Mrs. Pecora. "I thought I might need to go to the supermarket for ingredients."

"The kitchen maintains a full inventory at all times, my lady," Mrs. Pecora replied with a flawless professional smile. "Don Caio’s standards regarding food are... exceptionally high."

Internally, however, she released another long sigh.

’It’s because the Don specifically ordered everything for you, my lady.’

Another sigh followed.

’The Don is so completely gone for her.’

Under Mrs. Pecora’s guidance, Aren threw herself into the ice cream-making process with wholehearted devotion. By the time they finally finished, Aren had somehow produced enough ice cream to supply an entire cart for a full day.

The flavors, however, were not what most people would consider conventional.

Dark chocolate and red chili syrup.

Sweet cream with crushed pink peppercorns.

Bitter espresso and concentrated mint extract.

Blood orange and black licorice swirl.

Aren surveyed the completed collection with quiet pride.

’Don Caio would love these.’

Standing beside her, Mrs. Pecora held a somewhat different perspective.

’God protect the Don.’

The finished containers were carefully stored away in the freezer to chill, waiting to be served later that day.

Suddenly, Biscuit began hopping in place, his tail wagging so furiously it became a blur.

Aren blinked and crouched beside him, scratching gently behind his ears.

"What is it, pretty boy? Do you want to learn how to make ice cream too?"

Biscuit responded by circling her feet with even greater enthusiasm, practically vibrating with excitement.

Before either Aren or Mrs. Pecora could determine the cause of his sudden frenzy, a maid hurried into the kitchen, looking nervous enough to trip over her own words.

"Mrs. Pecora," she said quickly, "there’s a guest here asking for Lady Ariana."

Mrs. Pecora’s expression tightened immediately.

"A guest?" she repeated, displeasure settling visibly into her features. "Who arrives at the Sartori residence without prior notice?"

The maid swallowed nervously.

"It’s the heir of House Marchetti," she said. "Jordan Marchetti."

Recognition flashed across Aren’s face.

"Ah... right! Jordan is picking me up today. I’m scheduled to visit the Marchetti compound for my consulting contract."

Mrs. Pecora’s expression turned to stone.

’No way.’

’Did she just call the Marchetti heir by his first name?’

’Since when are they on a first-name basis?’

Her thoughts immediately accelerated into a full-scale disaster assessment.

’Yesterday I already let her leave the estate for a luncheon with Chiara Leone.’

’Today she’s leaving the estate with Jordan Marchetti.’

’If Don Caio hears about this...’

Her gaze drifted toward Aren.

One implication after another arrived with merciless clarity.

A young man.

An heir from another House.

Reputably handsome.

Infamously dangerous.

And now personally arriving to collect the Lombardi heiress from House Sartori’s front door. Without informing House Sartori beforehand.

For one dreadful moment, Mrs. Pecora saw her entire career flash before her eyes.

’This is how mafia wars begin.’

’This is how careers end.’

’This is how I die.’

Fortunately, fifteen years as Head of Staff would not allow Mrs. Pecora to be defeated so easily.

By sheer force of will, Mrs. Pecora composed herself. Then she turned toward Aren with a smile so calm, so pleasant, and so utterly non-negotiable that it became clear resistance would be futile.

"My lady," she said smoothly, "I will accompany you to the sitting room." freeωebnovēl.c૦m

Aren blinked.

"To see Jordan?"

"Yes."

Mrs. Pecora’s smile never wavered.

"With absolutely no exceptions."