Every Mafia's Favorite Girl

Chapter 51: "You’ve Done Well"

Jordan startled immediately.

Partly because the interruption had come at the worst possible moment, and partly because he recognized the voice at once.

He didn’t even need to turn around to know who it was. A sharp exhale escaped him as his hands loosened around Aren’s waist.

"Oscar," he groaned. "I already put the room on reserved status. Didn’t you see?"

Aren pushed herself upright and slipped free of Jordan’s hold, turning her attention toward the doorway.

The newcomer — apparently Oscar — looked to be no older than eighteen.

Despite his age, he was already tall and broad-shouldered, with the balanced posture and controlled musculature of someone who had trained for years.

Most striking of all, however, were his dark brown hair and hazel eyes.

The resemblance to Jordan was unmistakable.

"Is this the Lombardi lady everyone keeps talking about?" Oscar asked, tilting his head as he openly studied Aren. "She’s prettier than I imagined."

The comment immediately sent an unpleasant sensation down Jordan’s spine.

"Keep your opinions to yourself," he said curtly. "Go use the gym next door. This one’s occupied."

Reluctantly, Jordan sat upright and helped Aren settle comfortably beside him on the mat.

Oscar, however, showed no intention of leaving. If anything, his curiosity only seemed to deepen as he stepped farther into the room, his attention fixed entirely on Aren.

"I heard Father hired her as our consultant," he said lightly. "Does that mean she’s eligible to join the Trials too?"

Aren turned toward Jordan.

"The Trials?"

Jordan dragged a hand through his hair.

"Just an internal competition held within House Marchetti," he explained. "We call it the Marchetti Trials. Employees, soldiers, capos... anyone can enter."

"That’s right," Oscar added. "You’re joining, Lombardi?"

"Hey." Jordan shot him a sharp look. "Address her properly. At least call her Miss Lombardi. You’re younger than she is."

Oscar clicked his tongue dramatically.

"Fine, fine. Miss Lombardi. Lady Ariana. Whatever."

Aren looked between the two brothers with growing interest.

"What’s this competition about?" she asked. "What’s the prize? Do I win a very special weapon, perhaps?"

"A very special one, indeed," Oscar replied immediately.

He seemed delighted to have a receptive audience. Straightening himself slightly, he launched into the explanation with all the enthusiasm of a salesman advertising his favorite product.

"A fully customized personal weapon, designed and built by the Marchetti workshops from start to finish. You tell us exactly what you want, and we make it. Unless they’re cannons and artillery, of course. Anything you can carry, we can build."

Aren’s eyes brightened instantly.

"Woah..."

The excitement on her face was so genuine that Oscar found himself grinning despite himself.

"That sounds like an amazing prize," she added. "Do I get a lot of money too?"

Oscar barked out a laugh.

"You really are obsessed with money like everyone says, huh, Miss Lombardi?"

"Watch your language," Jordan muttered.

"It’s fine," Aren said cheerfully.

She turned toward Oscar with a bright smile.

"I do like money a lot! Money can help pay off my debts, support my family, and secure our future. I can also buy lots of cakes for myself and treats for Biscuits and ingredients to make ice cream."

The statement was delivered with such straightforward sincerity and an almost childlike honesty that both brothers found themselves staring at her.

Biscuit, who had somehow remained contentedly seated in the corner the entire time, let out a bark of approval, as if endorsing her priorities.

Eventually, a small smile tugged at the corner of Jordan’s mouth despite the irritation Oscar’s presence continued to cause him.

"If you really want to know, I’ll explain it later," Jordan said. "But for now..."

His gaze shifted sharply back toward his younger brother.

"Get lost, Oscar. You’re not even old enough to compete yet, so why are you asking? And our sparring session is over. You’re not joining anything."

Oscar rolled his eyes.

"Fine. Fine. Keep your cold future-Don act, Jordan."

A mischievous smirk slowly spread across Oscar’s face.

"But you’ve heard Nazario is joining this year, right? You won’t be the undefeated champion much longer, brother."

With that, Oscar turned and headed for the exit, though not before casting one final glance toward Aren.

The moment the door closed behind him, Jordan released a long sigh.

"Sorry about that," Jordan said. "That was Oscar, my youngest brother. He’s only sixteen. He hasn’t quite learned how to behave yet." freewёbn૦νeɭ.com

"Then..." Aren tilted her head. "Who’s Nazario?"

"That’s... the second youngest," Jordan replied. "The one between Oscar and me. He turned eighteen this year, so he’s finally old enough to compete."

He studied her expression carefully.

"Are you seriously considering joining?"

"Well..." Aren scratched her cheek. "I still don’t know what this competition actually is about."

Jordan laughed softly.

"Right."

Shifting into a more comfortable position, he began explaining.

"There are three rounds spread across a single weekend. Everything takes place inside a converted warehouse here on the compound. The first round is an obstacle course combined with live-fire shooting. Only the sixteen competitors with the fastest completion times advance."

Aren listened attentively.

"The second round is called the Dark Room. We enter a completely dark maze beneath the warehouse and search for coins."

"Coins?"

"There are only three," Jordan explained. "The first three people to secure one advance to the final round."

"And the final round?" freewёbnoνel.com

"A machete match."

Aren blinked.

"A machete match?"

Jordan nodded.

"Three finalists enter at the same time. The first person to draw blood from both opponents wins."

Aren absorbed the information quietly before asking the question that mattered most to her.

"Then... what exactly is the prize?"

Jordan couldn’t stop the small smile that spread across his face.

"A cash prize, obviously."

Aren visibly approved.

"And a custom-forged Marchetti weapon, like Oscar said," he continued. "For soldiers and capos, winning can also mean a significant promotion."

Suddenly, the smile gradually faded from his face. His gaze drifted elsewhere, and a quiet sigh escaped him.

"But honestly, everyone in the House knows the competition exists for another reason."

Aren blinked.

"What... do you mean by that?"

"It’s a test."

His gaze drifted toward the far wall.

"A way for my father to make sure his heirs never become complacent. A way to determine who is most worthy of becoming the next Don. Whenever he finally decides to step down."

Aren studied the shadow settling over Jordan’s face in silence. The weight behind his words was impossible to miss.

’Oscar said Jordan has been the undefeated champion.’

’That means he must be incredibly strong.’

’It must also mean he’s carried all of this for a very long time.’

She didn’t understand the finer details of mafia politics, but she could understand pressure.

If the competition was truly designed to evaluate future leadership, then losing in front of the entire House — to a soldier, a capo, or even one of his brothers — must carry consequences far beyond simple embarrassment.

A complicated feeling stirred in Aren’s chest. Tentatively, she reached out and placed a hand on Jordan’s shoulder.

Jordan stiffened instantly.

When he turned, he found Aren looking at him with a small smile and unmistakable encouragement shining in her eyes.

"You’ve done well," Aren said simply. "Winning so many times, I mean."

She began patting his shoulder with the same sincerity she might have shown a trusted squadmate after a difficult mission.

Jordan immediately felt heat surge up the back of his neck.

The gesture was innocent — completely innocent. Unfortunately, his mind supplied memories that were anything but.

The warmth of her body pressed against his.

The feeling of her resting in his arms.

The sight of her lips so close to his.

His pulse stumbled violently.

Before his imagination could make matters worse, he pushed himself to his feet.

"It’s... getting late," he said quickly, already feeling warmth creep into his face. "We should head back before Ricci sends someone looking for us. And... we should probably finish early for dinner. You must be hungry."

Aren’s hand stiffened, left hanging in the empty air.

For reasons she could not fully explain, a small sense of disappointment tugged at her chest as she watched him create distance between them.

’Why does Jordan move away...?’

’Don Caio also pulled away when I tried comforting him.’

’Did I not do it correctly?’

’Do people comfort each other differently in this world?’

The questions puzzled her for a brief moment before she pushed them aside. Rising smoothly to her feet, she brushed down her clothes and tried to compose herself.

"Of course," she said, voice small. "Let’s return to the workshop."