Every Mafia's Favorite Girl

Chapter 52: "Two Years Ago"

The restaurant Jordan had chosen for dinner was tucked away in one of the quieter corners of the Marchetti District.

Marchetti District itself was hardly lacking in exceptional restaurants. The problem was that, most of the fashionable, luxurious, and highly visible venues were simply not an option for the young Marchetti heir tonight.

It was not a matter of money, of course — Jordan could afford every table in the district several times over — but rather a matter of avoiding certain familiar faces.

Even so, Jordan had genuinely wanted to impress Aren. The result was a hidden gem known mostly to locals and the fortunate few who stumbled across it by chance.

Aren liked it immediately.

The restaurant had been carved directly into an unassuming brutalist building, its bare concrete façade rising against the twilight like a weathered fortress.

’So people dine inside bunkers as well in this world.’

The realization filled her with quiet excitement. With Biscuit nestled comfortably in her arms, she followed Jordan inside.

The moment they entered, Aren’s eyes began wandering in every direction, absorbing every detail with fascination.

The exposed concrete walls, the warm lighting tucked into recessed alcoves, and the low murmur of conversation drifting through the space — all felt wonderfully familiar to her.

Jordan, meanwhile, was experiencing a very different evening. While Aren admired the architecture, Jordan was discreetly surveying the room.

His gaze swept across occupied tables, corner booths, and every face illuminated beneath the restaurant’s amber lighting.

Searching.

Checking.

Verifying.

When he failed to spot anyone familiar, some of the tension finally eased from his shoulders.

Only then did he glance toward Aren.

"I’m sorry I couldn’t choose somewhere better," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "I originally wanted to take you to one of the nicer places around here."

The concern felt embarrassingly genuine.

Everything he had heard about Ariana Lombardi before meeting her painted the same picture: expensive tastes, expensive habits, expensive everything.

Even though the young woman standing beside him now was nothing like those rumors, a lingering anxiety remained.

’She probably thinks I’m some workshop rat who only knows guns and machinery.’

’Maybe this place looks cheap to her.’

’God, what if she hates it?’

To his surprise, Aren turned toward him with eyes widened not in disappointment, but in genuine astonishment.

"There are better places than this?"

Jordan blinked.

’...She’s not upset?’

Aren gestured enthusiastically toward the surrounding walls.

"This place is incredible! I never imagined Borgata had dining bunkers."

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. The knot in his chest loosened almost immediately.

"You’re really funny sometimes, you know that?"

Before Aren could respond, a hostess approached with a welcoming smile.

"Hi there, welcome in. Sorry for the wait."

Her greeting faltered the moment she noticed Biscuit.

"Oh, um... we don’t usually allow pets inside—"

Jordan didn’t even allow her to finish. A crisp hundred-dollar bill appeared atop the podium with the same effortless speed he might have used to draw a pistol.

"He’s very well-behaved," Jordan said firmly. "We’ll take a corner table. He won’t bother anyone."

As if on cue, Biscuit tilted his head, offering the hostess a pair of perfectly round, innocent puppy eyes.

The hostess stared at the bill.

Then at Biscuit.

Then at Jordan, whose gaze had suddenly become dark enough to make further discussion feel unwise.

Her decision took less than a second.

"...Right this way, sir."

Aren beamed.

Together, they followed the hostess deeper into the restaurant.

As they walked, conversations subtly quieted around them. More than a few heads turned in their direction, curious eyes lingering longer than they should have.

Jordan attracted attention naturally wherever he went. Aren attracted even more. Somehow, Biscuit completed the spectacle.

Unfortunately, the three of them never made it to their table. Just as they crossed the center of the restaurant, a surprised female voice cut sharply through the room.

"Jordan?"

Jordan froze instantly.

The color nearly drained from his face.

’Oh God.’

’Are you serious?’

’What exactly did I do to deserve today?’

He could practically feel the entire evening collapsing around him.

Beside him, Aren stopped and turned toward the source of the voice.

At a table in the VIP section sat two strikingly beautiful women. Both were dressed elegantly, though the quality of their clothing alone made it obvious they belonged to families wealthy enough to purchase entire restaurants rather than simply dine in them.

One had long dark hair cascading over her shoulders in soft waves.

The other wore hers shorter, her expression calm and considerably harder to read.

What immediately caught Aren’s attention, however, was how familiar they looked. Just like Jordan and Oscar, they shared the same unmistakable Marchetti features — dark brown hair, hazel eyes, and a strong facial structure.

Aren found herself staring at both of them.

’Did Don Eduardo simply spend a decade copying and pasting himself several times?’

Jordan, meanwhile, released a long, exhausted sigh.

’Wonderful.’

’Not just one sister.’

’Both of them.’

"Sofia?" he said, raising an eyebrow toward the woman with the long hair, who already looked deeply offended by his existence.

His gaze shifted toward the other.

"And you too, Rosalia?"

The words carried all the enthusiasm of a man approaching his own execution.

Sofia rose first and strode directly toward them.

"What are you doing here?"

The displeasure on her face deepened into outright disgust the moment her gaze landed on Aren.

"And with her?"

Jordan could physically feel a headache forming behind his eyes.

"I should be asking you two that. This isn’t exactly the kind of place either of you usually visit."

Before Sofia could answer, Rosalia rose and approached.

"A friend recommended it," she explained calmly. "Believe me, we didn’t expect to run into you either."

Her gaze shifted toward Aren.

"And we certainly didn’t expect to find the Lombardi heiress here." freewёbnoνel.com

Unlike her sister, Rosalia approached Aren without hostility.

"Lady Ariana," she said with a polite nod. "It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Rosalia Marchetti, Jordan’s elder sister."

She gestured toward Sofia.

"And this is Sofia Marchetti. Though... I’m fairly certain the two of you have met before."

Jordan frowned.

"You’ve met Ariana before?"

Sofia scoffed.

"Of course I have. New Year’s Gala. Two years ago. Lombardi District."

Her gaze settled directly on Aren, one eyebrow arching in a mocking curve.

"Though I’m sure Miss Lombardi doesn’t remember. Busy celebrities rarely remember everyone. Especially when they’re occupied with parties, drugs, and sleeping with engaged men." freewёbn૦νeɭ.com

Jordan’s expression darkened instantly.

"Hey," he warned sharply. "Don’t talk to her like that."

"And you," Sofia snapped back, "don’t you dare talk to your eldest sister like that."

Standing between the two increasingly hostile siblings, Aren stood completely lost, like a statue that had been dropped into the wrong exhibit.

’Oh no...’

’Apparently Sofia Marchetti met Ariana Lombardi before.’

’She clearly doesn’t like her.’

’And I have absolutely no idea why.’

"Hello," Aren said politely, offering a small nod. "I’m Ariana Lombardi."

A flicker of embarrassment crossed her face. "I’m very sorry, but... I am not sure what gala you are referring to."

A cold silence settled over the space.

Rosalia suddenly shifted her weight from one foot to the other, already looking uncomfortable, as though she could see exactly where the conversation was heading.

Sofia, however, took a sharp step forward.

"You truly don’t remember?"

The disbelief in her voice sounded almost personal.

"New Year’s Gala. Two years ago."

Each word landed harder than the last.

"The one where you arrived with my fiancé." Her jaw tightened. "The one where you announced to an entire ballroom how wonderful he was in bed."

A bitter laugh escaped her.

"Right in front of me! Right in front of everyone!"

Then came the final words, delivered with all the humiliation, resentment, and fury she had carried for years.

"You whore."