Free Web NovelChapter 47: "Mother-In-Law"
Inside the sitting room, Jordan sat rigidly on one of the sofas, both hands resting flat against his thighs.
Although none of the nearby maids dared stare openly, the frequency of their glances made it obvious that he had become the center of attention.
The reason was not difficult to understand.
Jordan Marchetti was simply hard to ignore. Though still young, he possessed the kind of presence that naturally drew the eye.
Broad shoulders stretched beneath the dark fabric of his clothes, and years spent working with machinery, weapons, and physical labor had carved powerful muscle across his frame.
His skin carried the bronzed color of someone who spent more time outdoors than in offices, while the sharp lines of his face held a rugged sort of handsomeness that felt entirely different from the polished refinement favored by Borgata’s elite.
Unfortunately, the severity etched into every line of his features discouraged prolonged admiration. Most of the maids who glanced his way quickly looked elsewhere.
Little did any of them know that the intimidating expression currently fixed on Jordan’s face had nothing to do with danger.
’What should I tell her when she arrives?’
’What am I supposed to talk about on the drive back?’
’The contract?’
’Weapons?’
’Workshop expansion plans?’
’Wedding venue?’
Jordan frowned.
’No. Wait. Wait, wait, wait.’
’Too early.’
’Way too early.’
His jaw tightened.
’Maybe ring size first.’
Across the room, several maids exchanged nervous glances. From their perspective, the Marchetti heir looked increasingly dangerous with every passing second.
A few moments later, the doors to the sitting room opened.
Aren entered with Biscuit trotting happily at her heels, while Mrs. Pecora followed close behind, accompanied by one of the younger maids.
The instant Jordan saw her, he rose to his feet so quickly it bordered on military reflex.
"Ariana," he greeted with a short nod.
His spine straightened.
His shoulders squared.
His hands settled neatly at his sides.
He looked less like a man greeting a friend and more like a soldier reporting for duty.
Aren tilted her head curiously. fɾēewebnσveℓ.com
’Why is he suddenly so formal today?’
She moved ahead of Mrs. Pecora and the maids, crossing the room toward him.
"Jordan," she greeted. "It’s good to see you again."
Jordan remained perfectly still as she drew closer. For reasons he would have struggled to explain, his throat seemed to grow drier with every step she took.
"G-good to see you too," he managed.
Then, his mind promptly abandoned him.
’God, what should I say next...?’
’I’m not a teenage boy anymore.’
’I’m already twenty-one.’
’God.’
’Come to me, words.’
He swallowed hard.
Nothing came.
Fortunately, Biscuit arrived to rescue him from complete conversational collapse.
With an excited bark, the little dog launched himself forward and began circling Jordan’s legs enthusiastically, his tail wagging so violently it looked in danger of detaching itself.
Jordan blinked before a reluctant smile escaped him. Crouching down, he rubbed the scruffy dog’s head.
"Hello there, Biscuit. Good to see you too."
Aren watched with quiet curiosity.
Compared to the cautious distance Biscuit always maintained around Caio during dinner — the way he never lingered too close or dared beg for scraps from the Sartori Don — the difference was remarkable.
Without thinking much of it, she stepped closer and crouched beside Jordan, joining him in petting Biscuit.
"Biscuit seems to love seeing you," she said, scratching beneath Biscuit’s chin. "Would you mind if I brought him along today? I know I’m supposed to be working, but if I leave him alone in my room, he gets lonely and pouty."
Jordan looked up the moment he sensed her moving closer.
For one horrifying second, his brain ceased functioning.
She was close.
Very close.
Close enough that he could catch the faint scent of vanilla lingering on her clothes.
Close enough that their shoulders nearly touched.
Heat immediately climbed his neck. Before it could betray him completely, he shifted back just enough to create a little space between them.
"I don’t mind at all," Jordan said, far more stiffly than intended. "He’s visited the workshop before, hasn’t he? He can... um... certainly come again."
Biscuit barked instantly, as though personally endorsing the arrangement.
"Thank you again, Jordan." Aren smiled softly. "You’re very kind."
The heat along Jordan’s neck only climbed higher.
"You’re very welcome," he replied, somehow managing to sound perfectly composed.
Meanwhile, near the entrance, Mrs. Pecora suffered in silence.
With every flustered response from Jordan and every calm smile from Aren, her internal temperature seemed to drop several degrees.
Her sharp gaze swept over the Marchetti heir with the ruthless efficiency of a woman who had spent decades evaluating Borgata’s dangerous men.
She noted the leather boots.
The khaki trousers.
The fitted black T-shirt beneath the denim jacket.
The careful styling of his hair.
And unmistakably...
Cologne.
Enough cologne that she could detect it from across the room.
Mrs. Pecora’s brow furrowed instantly.
’Too dark.’
’Too edgy.’
’Posture too stiff.’
’Good taste in cologne. But far too eager around Lady Ariana.’
Her expression darkened.
’Much too eager.’
At last, she cleared her throat sharply.
"Ahem."
Both Aren and Jordan turned toward her.
"Mister Marchetti," Mrs. Pecora said firmly, "while I understand you are the heir of a major House, I would appreciate advance notice before visiting the Sartori residence."
Jordan finally gave Mrs. Pecora his full attention.
The authority in her posture alone told him she occupied an important position within House Sartori.
For reasons he could not explain, however, the way she was looking at him felt remarkably similar to being evaluated by an extraordinarily difficult future mother-in-law.
"My apologies," he said. "That was my oversight. I’ll make sure proper notice is given next time."
Mrs. Pecora nearly twitched.
’Next time?’
’There’s a next time?’
Outwardly, not a single crack appeared in her composure.
"That is expected," she replied smoothly. "And what time should we expect Lady Ariana’s return?"
"No earlier than nine," Jordan answered without hesitation. "I’m taking her to dinner afterward."
"Oh, right!" ƒгeewebnovёl.com
Aren startled, as though only just remembering something important.
"I’m very sorry, Mrs. Pecora. I forgot to tell you. Jordan is taking me to dinner tonight, so there won’t be any need to prepare dinner for me."
She rubbed the back of her neck sheepishly.
"The problem is... I also forgot to tell Don Caio. Could you please let Don Caio know if he comes home for dinner?"
For one dangerous moment, Mrs. Pecora felt her soul attempting to leave her body.
"That is well noted, my lady," she replied with remarkable professionalism. "I... will inform the Don when he comes home."
Internally, however, every alarm imaginable had already begun blaring.
’No.’
’I cannot wait until he comes home.’
’I must contact him immediately.’
’Possibly before they even leave the driveway.’
Aren, completely oblivious to the crisis unfolding around her, offered a grateful bow.
"Thank you very much, Mrs. Pecora. I’ll make sure to bring you cakes on the way back. There’s a very nice bakery I found in Marchetti District."
She turned back toward Jordan, excitement already coloring her cheeks with a faint blush.
"Shall we, Jordan?" she asked softly. "I miss the air of the workshop already."
Jordan stared at her for a fraction too long.
The sight of her enthusiasm, so open and sincere, struck him with surprising force. When he finally answered, his voice emerged softer than before, threaded with unmistakable fondness.
"...Of course."
With that, he bent down, scooped Biscuit into one arm, and moved toward the door alongside Aren.
Left behind, Mrs. Pecora missed absolutely nothing.
Not the blush on Aren’s face.
Not the softness in Jordan’s expression.
And certainly not the fact that Biscuit openly adored the Marchetti heir far more than he adored the Sartori Don.
A terrible feeling settled heavily into the pit of her stomach.
’Oh no.’
She closed her eyes.
’The Don is officially in serious trouble.’
