Every Mafia's Favorite Girl

Chapter 49: "Would You Spar With Me?"

Together, Aren and Jordan headed upstairs, leaving the stale air of the underground range behind and walked out toward the training yard.

The moment they stepped into the afternoon sunlight, a familiar blur of golden fur launched across the compound.

Biscuit tore across the grounds at maximum speed, tongue lolling out, while three exhausted Marchetti soldiers stumbled blindly after him.

"Sir!" One shouted, clutching a stitch in his side.

"Please stop him!" Another wheezed.

"He’s been provoking me for two hours now!"

Biscuit paid absolutely no attention to their suffering. Apparently, he considered this the greatest day of his life.

The instant he spotted Aren, he abandoned his pursuers without hesitation and sprinted toward her.

Aren laughed brightly as the little dog crashed happily into her legs.

"Hello, pretty boy."

Biscuit barked proudly, as though announcing the successful completion of a classified military operation.

The soldiers finally arrived several seconds later, sweating, breathless, and completely defeated.

Jordan pretended not to notice.

Instead, he watched Aren crouch down to scratch beneath the dog’s chin and felt a reluctant smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

Before the soldiers could start complaining about their dignity, Jordan discreetly flicked a hand, silently dismissing them.

The three men exchanged looks of profound betrayal from their Young Boss.

’Unbelievable.’

’We are literal elite mercenaries.’

’Are we seriously getting outranked by a house pet right now?’

’Simping is crazy.’

At last, they trudged away in quiet defeat, leaving the Young Boss and his "consultant" behind.

The afternoon sun hung high overhead as Aren and Jordan continued walking through the sprawling Marchetti compound.

Everything stretched around them in organized chaos.

Engineers crossed between buildings carrying equipment.

Mechanics shouted from maintenance bays.

Vehicles moved between testing zones. fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm

Eventually, Aren’s attention drifted toward a nearby training area. Several men were sparring inside an open combat ring, while instructors barked corrections from the sidelines.

Aren’s steps slowed as she watched the men exchange blows, until she stopped completely.

Jordan noticed the sudden halt immediately.

"You’re interested?" he asked.

"Um... yes."

She watched the fighters exchange a rapid series of strikes for a moment longer, before turning toward him.

"Jordan."

"Yes?"

"Would you spar with me?"

Jordan blinked. The question genuinely caught him off guard.

"...What?"

Aren nodded, though a brief hesitation crossed her face.

"I... um, well, I need to train. I need to become stronger in a very short time. So... I need a lot of training."

The warmth lingering in Jordan’s expression vanished instantly. His jaw tightened, the pleasant mood evaporating.

"Is this about the cage fight?"

This time, it was Aren’s turn to look surprised.

"How did you know?" Her wide eyes searched his. "I’m sure I haven’t told anyone yet."

Jordan released a slow breath through his nose.

"The whole city knows," he said, unmistakeable irritation in his voice. "That blond bastard made sure of it."

Aren frowned.

"What do you mean?"

Jordan’s expression darkened further.

"The day after you signed the contract, Jeremiah Castellano started advertising it like he’d secured the biggest attraction of the year. Television. News outlets. Blogs. Social media. Business gatherings. Private parties... Everywhere."

Aren fell silent.

For the first time since arriving in Borgata, she tried to mentally picture what that actually meant. Thousands of total strangers — watching her, talking about her, waiting for her to fight someone else — all happening without her knowledge.

The realization felt strange.

Not unpleasant. Just... strange.

"So everyone knows now."

Jordan dragged a hand irritably down his face.

"Pretty much."

The thought of her stepping into that blood-soaked cage, surrounded by thousands of roaring, bloodthirsty men and flashing cameras, made something ugly and violent twist sharply in his chest.

His jaw clenched harder.

"That crazy fucker," he muttered to himself. "Throwing someone like you into the Pit..."

Realizing how the words came out harsher than intended, he forced himself to inhale. Exhale. To shove the anger back down.

When he looked at Aren again, he found her watching him with that same calm, unguarded gaze she always seemed to carry.

"Would you train with me then?" she asked again, completely unfazed.

Jordan blinked.

"You... Are you sure about that?"

"You seem very strong," Aren said simply. "I’ve heard from Isabella that you put two men in the hospital during a Marchetti demonstration last year."

The observation was delivered with complete honesty. Unfortunately, it struck several highly sensitive buttons inside Jordan’s brain all at once.

"Ah..."

His hand drifted to the back of his neck, rubbing nervously. freeweɓnovel.cøm

"Yeah, well... You’ve probably heard a few things about me. About that incident too."

Several more infamous incidents immediately surfaced in his memory — incidents that involved broken bones, hospital visits, and several dozen angry disciplinary reports from his father.

One particularly memorable altercation involved a rival heir, three security guards, and a medical bill large enough to nearly spark a diplomatic war with House Moretti.

’Great.’

’Maybe she’s heard all of those stories too.’

’She definitely thinks I’m just a brainless thug with severe anger issues.’

’A total meathead.’

’How exactly am I supposed to explain that those idiots usually started it first?’

What Jordan didn’t realize was that Aren was not thinking about any of those rumors at all. Her assessment had come entirely from observation alone.

The perfect balance of his stance.

The effortless way he carried his weight.

The control visible in even his smallest, most casual movements.

Everything pointed toward the exact same conclusion: Jordan Marchetti had been trained for violence from a very young age.

He was a highly dangerous young man, whether he carried a weapon or not.

Very much like herself.

"I’m sure you’d be a valuable opponent to practice with," Aren said sincerely, making one final attempt to convince him. "I look forward to learning a lot from you."

The words didn’t entirely erase Jordan’s embarrassment, but they were enough to destroy his ability to say no to her. He cleared his throat and looked away, deliberately avoiding her steady gaze.

"How about... somewhere more private?"

Aren tilted her head, confused.

"Private?"

"There’s a gym I usually train in." He gestured toward a separate building farther inside the compound. "Not an open field like this."

The explanation sounded perfectly reasonable on the surface.

The truth, however, was considerably less noble.

Jordan already knew exactly what would happen the moment Aren started throwing kicks out here in the open.

Every technician, every mechanic, every soldier — essentially every breathing idiot with functioning eyesight inside the compound would immediately abandon their duties and gather around the training area to stare at her.

’Absolutely not.’

’No chance.’

’I’m not dealing with two hundred thirty idiots standing around staring at her all afternoon.’

Aren, having zero concern about any of those possibilities, nodded immediately.

"Sounds good to me."

A sudden wave of relief flooded through Jordan’s chest.

"Great."

He whistled sharply for Biscuit, and the little dog immediately came charging toward them, having spent the past several minutes conducting thoroughly successful independent operations.

Together, the three of them headed toward the private training facility.

The building stood slightly apart from the rest of the compound, isolated behind reinforced walls and thick soundproofed doors.

It had originally been designed for senior members of House Marchetti to train without interruption, and the moment they stepped inside, it became obvious why.

The gym was completely empty.

Silence settled over the vast space, save for the faint jingling of Biscuit’s collar as he trotted happily across the floor, investigating every corner with boundless curiosity.

For reasons Jordan could not entirely explain, the realization that they were alone caused his heartbeat to accelerate.

Immediately, he moved toward the edge of the training mats and shrugged off his bomber jacket as if nothing was amiss. The fitted black T-shirt beneath stretched across his shoulders as he rolled them loose.

Across the mat, Aren took her position without any formal preparation.

Jordan joined her quickly afterward. He stopped right in front of her, taking a moment to study her stance.

She stood completely relaxed, arms hanging loosely at her sides, posture almost casual. There was no guard, no tension, no obvious openings, yet that emptiness unsettled him more than any tight defense ever could.

’She’s confident.’

’Or worse...’

His gaze lingered on her calm expression.

’She seems... used to this.’

"Should I hold back?" he asked, concern threading through his voice.

Aren shook her head lightly.

"Show me everything. I want to see how you fight."

A reluctant smile tugged at Jordan’s lips.

"Alright. Don’t say I didn’t warn you."