Free Web NovelChapter 56: "Very Reasonable"
Caio Sartori stood silently in front of the refrigerator in his kitchen.
For a long moment, he simply stared.
Sixteen containers of ice cream had successfully colonized nearly the entire top half of the freezer.
Sixteen.
When he had instructed Mrs. Pecora to stock the kitchen with premium ingredients for homemade ice cream, he had imagined perhaps two containers.
Four, if enthusiasm got the better of Aren.
Six at the absolute maximum.
Sixteen, however, suggested that reason had never once entered the planning process.
Chocolate.
Vanilla.
Espresso.
Blood orange.
Several flavors Caio wasn’t entirely convinced should exist in ice cream form.
Slowly, he reached forward and closed the refrigerator door. The soft click echoed through the kitchen with unsettling finality.
Behind him stood nearly the entire household staff.
Or at least it felt that way.
Mrs. Pecora stood at the front of the gathering, flanked by a small army of maids who had spent the entire morning assisting Aren with her culinary ambitions.
Several of the younger girls looked moments away from fainting. Others, veterans of the increasingly chaotic Sartori household, had wisely lowered their gazes to the floor, silently praying to whichever god was currently on duty.
As always, Mrs. Pecora stepped forward to sacrifice herself on behalf of everyone else.
"Sir," she began carefully, "we believe Lady Ariana genuinely forgot to inform you of her departure."
Caio remained motionless.
His silence somehow felt worse than shouting.
Mrs. Pecora pressed on.
"This time, however, she did at least notify the household before leaving rather than disappearing without warning."
Still nothing.
"Given the circumstances... none of us had a particularly valid reason to prevent her departure."
No response.
Not even a glance.
Since receiving Mrs. Pecora’s phone call earlier that afternoon, Caio had spoken exactly zero words.
The news had reached him during a meeting.
"Sir, Lady Ariana has left the estate," Mrs. Pecora had said.
A careful pause.
"With... Jordan Marchetti."
Silence.
"...He is also taking her to dinner. And... he informed us he would not be returning Lady Ariana before nine."
The call had ended immediately afterward.
So had the meeting.
Caio had stood up without explanation and walked out, leaving behind several deeply confused business partners and an atmosphere cold enough to preserve corpses.
The memory alone made something unpleasant twist inside his chest. Without responding to Mrs. Pecora, Caio calmly exited the kitchen, entered the grand dining hall, and seated himself at the head of the endless table.
The moment he sat down, the staff sprang into motion.
Maids hurried to prepare dinner with frantic efficiency, though most of them were shaking so badly that silverware rattled against porcelain. None of them had the slightest idea what kind of catastrophe was currently forming beneath the Don’s perfectly composed exterior.
Caio, meanwhile, was not exactly paying attention to the trembling servants.
His mind was occupied with something considerably more important. Namely, the construction of an extremely detailed assassination plan.
’Would House Moretti accept a private contract?’
His thumb tapped slowly against the armrest.
’Surely they have experience handling troublesome heirs.’
A thoughtful pause.
’What if I offer a territory exchange?’
’A portion of Sartori District. In exchange for Jordan Marchetti’s unfortunate disappearance.’
The idea settled comfortably in his mind.
’Yes.’
’Very reasonable.’
Every so often, he gave a small approving nod to himself, as though arriving at a particularly elegant solution regarding Jordan Marchetti’s permanent removal from the mortal plane.
Each nod caused nearby maids to flinch.
No one dared ask what he was thinking.
No one wanted to know.
Eventually, hurried footsteps echoed beyond the grand double doors. A footman burst into the dining hall, looking as though he had sprinted across the entire estate without stopping.
He pointed frantically toward the front grounds.
"Sir! It’s Lady Ariana. She has officially returned to the estate."
Caio’s gaze snapped toward him instantly.
For the first time all evening, he spoke.
"She’s back?"
The footman swallowed.
"Yes, sir. She passed through the main security gates moments ago and is entering the parking lot now. The Marchetti heir drove her back personally."
Caio’s chair scraped across the floor so sharply every nearby maid nearly jumped out of her skin. Without asking another question, he rose and strode from the dining hall.
The footman immediately scrambled after him while Mrs. Pecora hurried to keep pace.
His long strides devoured corridor after corridor as he headed directly toward the front grounds. By the time he reached the parking lot, however, the sight awaiting him was so absurd that he stopped dead in his tracks.
Aren was easy enough to spot — she always was. Her platinum hair practically glowed beneath the estate lights.
Standing beside her was Jordan Marchetti, whose ridiculous height made him impossible to miss. He stood with Biscuit tucked under one arm. The little dog already looked exhausted, leaning his heavy head against Jordan with sleepy eyes, apparently having had a long day.
The truly baffling part of the scene, however, was none of the three. It was the dozen Sartori guards surrounding them.
More specifically...
What they were carrying.
Each man carried two enormous bakery boxes. freёwebnovel.com
The pastel-colored containers were decorated with delicate floral designs, pastel ribbons, and enough decorative pink accents to induce psychological damage in any self-respecting hitman.
The result was deeply unsettling.
His top enforcers now looked less like a private security detail, and more like employees of some boutique pastry delivery company. Several of the guards seemed equally uncertain about their current career paths.
The contrast was so ridiculous that it temporarily short-circuited Caio’s anger.
Only temporarily.
Reality returned fast enough.
His expression darkened immediately, and very quickly, he resumed walking.
And yet, despite the cold fury radiating from him, Aren looked up and greeted him with bright, joyous eyes, as though she had absolutely no awareness of the chaos she had caused.
Immediately, she broke away from the confused guards, closing the distance between them with light, cheerful steps, and stopped directly in front of him.
"Don Caio!"
A faint blush already colored her cheeks.
"I brought cake for everyone."
She pointed enthusiastically toward the mountain of pastry boxes.
"I also made a lot of ice cream for you. It’s in the kitchen."
Her eyes sparkled.
"Have you had dinner yet? Would you like to sample the ice cream with me after the meal?"
Caio stared.
Simply stared.
The happiness radiating from her was so genuine that it physically hurt.
’Ice cream.’
His eyes twitched.
’Of course.’
’She only ever thinks about ice cream.’
’And cakes.’
’And bread.’
Another thought slipped in before he could stop it.
’Wait a minute.’
’She made all sixteen containers...’
His gaze flickered briefly toward the mansion.
’...For me?’
The realization landed with surprising force.
Eight hours of carefully cultivated anger collapsed instantly and without dignity.
"I haven’t had dinner yet," he heard himself say. The softness in his voice was so unusual that several nearby guards nearly suffered cardiac arrest.
Unfortunately, that softness survived for exactly two seconds.
The moment his gaze shifted past Aren and landed on Jordan leaning casually against his sports car, the warmth vanished completely.
Caio’s expression darkened.
"You."
The single word sliced through the evening air.
"What the fuck do you think you’re doing with her? I don’t recall House Marchetti bidding on any exclusive contracts regarding House Lombardi at the Summit table."
Faced with the hostility, Jordan didn’t retreat an inch. He straightened, matching the older Don’s presence as he met the death glare head-on.
"Guess you’ve been hiding inside your estate too much to hear the news."
He gestured toward Aren.
"She’s our official weapons consultant now."
Caio’s eyes narrowed further.
"Consultant?"
"Not mine," Jordan clarified. "House Marchetti’s. Direct contract with my father. Which means, as Marchetti heir, I have every reason to be involved with her schedule."
Caio took three deliberate steps forward.
"Listen very well, punk."
Each word landed like a threat.
"This is Sartori District. My territory. My estate. Not some fucking Lombardi neutral ground where you get to play hero."
Another step.
"I don’t give a single fuck what contract she signed with your old man. Don’t bring your pathetic face to my doors again."
One final step.
"Now fuck off before I make you."
Jordan remained completely unfazed. He stepped forward as well, meeting Caio halfway until only inches separated them.
"If not me," he challenged, lifting a mocking brow, "then who exactly is supposed to pick her up? You want me to send random Marchetti soldiers?"
"My men will handle transportation."
"Your neighborhood drug runners?"
"Watch your fucking mouth."
"And if I don’t?"
From that moment onward, the parking lot ceased functioning as a parking lot and became a battlefield.
No weapons were drawn.
Technically.
Nevertheless, enough hostility flooded the air between the two men that every guard present became convinced someone was eventually going to require medical attention.
Yet, not a single employee volunteered to intervene. Self-preservation remained a highly respected principle within organized crime.
Meanwhile, Aren — the source of the entire conflict — stood several feet away, looking completely bewildered.
To her credit, she had become significantly better at recognizing arguments since arriving in this world. Understanding why the argument was happening, however, remained another matter entirely.
Her gaze moved from Jordan to Caio, and back again.
Both men looked irrationally hostile. Neither seemed willing to explain themselves.
But what concerned Aren more was Biscuit.
Still clutched under Jordan’s arm, the little dog was looking between the two men with a mix of confusion and mounting anxiety. He seemed to sense that if a single fist started flying, he would be the first casualty of their madness.
Eventually, Aren’s eyes drifted toward the towering stack of cake boxes in the hands of the increasingly miserable Sartori guards.
A realization struck her.
Without hesitation, she stepped directly into the crossfire and positioned herself between the two towering men.
"Excuse me."
Both men stopped speaking immediately.
Both snapped their attention downward toward her.
Aren calmly pointed toward the mountain of cakes.
"If we don’t go inside right now, the cake will melt and won’t taste as good anymore."
She looked from one man to the other.
"Could we please continue this logistical dispute inside the dining hall? I’ve been dying to try the cake all evening."
