Every Mafia's Favorite Girl

The Palazzo di Notte rose from the heart of Bellini District like a monument built from light itself.

By every measure, the hotel was a Lombardi-owned property. However, located amidst Bellini’s enclave of media conglomerates, haute couture houses, and exclusive galleries, it drew a very specific crowd.

Socialites.

Journalists.

Reporters.

Editors.

Nearly everyone occupying the lobby made a living from information and shaping Borgata’s next gossip.

The moment the blonde couple stepped through the grand entrance, the lobby fell into a silence that was anything but natural.

Every eye found them.

Socialites paused mid-conversation.

Reporters instinctively reached into their pockets.

Journalists discreetly activated voice recorders, while media executives lowered their gazes to their phones, thumbs already racing across note-taking apps.

Aren walked beside Isidore with quiet composure, one arm looped comfortably through his. Outwardly, she appeared perfectly at ease, yet her attention swept the lobby with practiced precision.

Nothing escaped her notice.

The employees recognized her immediately. That was hardly surprising.

The guests, however...

That was different.

She felt it almost at once.

The silence.

The careful avoidance.

The peculiar way people looked at her only when they believed she wasn’t watching, only to snap their eyes elsewhere the instant she glanced in their direction.

It was the same suffocating scrutiny she had encountered ever since assuming Ariana’s identity.

Leaning subtly toward Isidore, she lowered her voice.

"Um... Master Accardi... do we really have to do this? Don Caio might be very upset if I don’t return home tonight..."

Isidore didn’t answer the question she had actually asked.

His gaze remained fixed ahead.

"See those people?"

She followed his gaze.

"Yes."

"They aren’t ordinary guests. Most of them are reporters. Journalists. Media personnel."

Aren blinked.

"...What do you mean?"

"A rumor is a living organism," he explained, slow and patient like a lecturer. "Left unfed, it gradually weakens until people stop believing it. For it to become accepted as truth, it requires constant reinforcement."

His gaze swept briefly across the lobby.

"These people have now witnessed you arriving at a hotel with me, exactly as our fabricated relationship dictates. By tomorrow morning, they’ll reinforce that narrative themselves."

Understanding slowly settled into Aren’s mind.

’Rumors... require maintenance.’

’Just like operational camouflage.’

The realization fascinated her.

Throughout the drive from the Ombra Tech Expo, Isidore had spent nearly the entire journey briefing her. Far more than he ever had before.

The discussions had ranged far beyond the mission itself — covert tradecraft, psychological manipulation, information control. Subjects she had never encountered during her training.

Most of it still felt abstract. Some lessons refused to settle neatly into place. Yet despite the endless questions with which she had interrupted him, he had answered every one.

Calmly.

Methodically.

Without a trace of impatience.

Without even a sigh.

Unlike the quiet sighs Caio often let out whenever she asked something her mind refused to let go of.

She stole a small glance toward Isidore.

’Master Accardi is reasonable again.’

’I like him when he’s reasonable.’

As though sensing her gaze, Isidore looked back.

A small smile bloomed across Aren’s face as she met his eyes.

"I understand now. Please teach me more lessons like these in the future."

Isidore offered no smile in return.

He didn’t praise her.

He didn’t look away from that smile, either.

Together, they crossed the marble floor until they reached the reception desk. The receptionist was already waiting for them, though all color had drained from her face the moment she saw them enter.

"Lady Ariana," she greeted warmly, despite the slight tremor in her voice.

The moment her eyes shifted to the man accompanying Aren, she seemed to pale even further.

"...Mister Accardi."

She swallowed.

"Welcome to the Palazzo di Notte. Have... have you already made a reservation?"

Isidore didn’t acknowledge the question. Without breaking stride, he removed a sleek black card from his wallet and placed it upon the countertop.

"The Presidential Suite. One night. Clear the entire top floor of all secondary guests and staff. Send one bottle of cognac upstairs immediately."

For a heartbeat, the receptionist genuinely looked as though she might faint.

The Presidential Suite had remained unoccupied for months. Someone reserving it on such short notice was almost unheard of. Someone requesting the complete evacuation of the entire floor...

That bordered on the unbelievable.

"O-Of course, sir."

She nearly stumbled over her words.

"Right away."

She hurried into motion at once, reaching for the telephone with visibly trembling hands while simultaneously typing commands into the reservation system.

As she scrambled to carry out his instructions, Isidore’s attention drifted almost lazily toward a man lingering several steps away from the reception desk.

To any casual observer, the guest appeared absorbed in his phone, merely another businessman checking messages.

The reflection in the man’s glasses, however, revealed something else entirely.

The recording application was active.

Every word spoken at the reception desk had been clearly captured.

The faintest shadow of satisfaction settled somewhere behind Isidore’s otherwise unreadable expression.

’Hooked.’

Turning back to the receptionist, he accepted the room keycard without another word and guided Aren toward the elevators. The instant the elevator doors slid shut, the carefully maintained façade in the lobby collapsed.

Every reporter, journalist, and media executive who had been pretending not to watch sprang into action.

Phones flew to ears.

Voice recordings were uploaded.

Dozens of fingers danced frantically across glowing screens, every face wearing the expression of someone who had just stumbled upon tomorrow morning’s front-page scandal.

Inside the elevator, however, the atmosphere was almost unnaturally tranquil. Only the quiet hum of the ascending cabin filled the silence.

Through the mirrored elevator doors, Isidore’s gaze drifted to the phone resting in Aren’s hands before settling on the faint crease of concern between her brows.

"You still haven’t sent that text?"

She had held her phone for the entire drive from the Tech Expo.

She hadn’t even unlocked it.

For someone capable of pulling a trigger or throwing a dagger without a moment’s hesitation, her indecision over a single message was, to Isidore, oddly incomprehensible.

Aren looked at him uncertainly.

"Well... I’m still composing it in my head..."

He upturned a palm between them.

"I finished composing it hours ago."

She offered an awkward smile.

"Um... it’s okay. I should write it myself."

Isidore merely inclined his head, offering neither objection nor further assistance.

Aren lowered her eyes to the screen and drew a slow breath before unlocking it.

Instantly, the display exploded with notifications.

Missed Calls (79)

Don Caio.

Aren blinked several times at the overwhelming number.

There was no messages. No voicemail.

Apparently, Caio had been trying to reach her ever since he’d received the message she’d sent that afternoon informing him she was heading to Accardi Tower for work.

She had never noticed.

Her phone had remained on silent the entire time.

’...Oh no.’

’He’s probably worried.’

The realization flooded her with immediate guilt.

Calling him back somehow felt even more intimidating.

Quietly deciding that a text would be safer, she opened their conversation and began typing.

Ariana:Hi, Don Caio. I’m very sorry for missing your calls. I put my phone on silent. 😭

Ariana:I have a small update. For the Accardi contract, I am required to spend the night away tonight. 😅

Ariana:Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I’m staying in a hotel, and Isidore Accardi is with me. He’s extremely skilled at martial arts. You sparred with him already. You know how good he is. I won’t get kidnapped again. ☺️

Ariana:And I have a few small requests!

Ariana:Could you please ask one of the maids to give Biscuit his favorite treat? The purple one with the blueberry and yogurt flavor. 🐶

Ariana:And please tuck Biscuit into bed as well. He likes having his ears scratched and little circles rubbed on his back. Thank you very much! 🥰

Ariana:I’ll be home tomorrow morning. Would you like banana bread for breakfast? I spotted a very nice bakery near this hotel. ☺️

She read through the messages once more.

Satisfied, she pressed send.

Beside her, Isidore never appeared to look away from the elevator doors. Only once did his gaze drift almost imperceptibly toward the glow of her screen before returning forward.

’...That’s a considerable number of emojis.’

’Highly inefficient.’

’She could have simply written: "I’m not coming home tonight."’

The observations were dismissed almost immediately.

’Operationally irrelevant.’

By the time the elevator glided to a smooth stop, his attention had already shifted elsewhere.

The elevator chimed softly.

The doors slid open to reveal a hallway that looked less like a hotel corridor than a private residence suspended thirty stories above the city.

Rich carpeting swallowed every footstep.

Warm lighting reflected off polished marble.

Finding the Presidential Suite required no effort whatsoever. It was the only door on the floor.

The suite beyond felt less like a hotel room than a private penthouse.

Two spacious bedrooms.

A formal dining room.

A private study.

An elegant sitting room.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking nearly all of Bellini District.

Every detail reminded Aren of the Sartori estate, only compressed into the top floor of a luxury hotel. Almost unconsciously, she wandered toward the balcony.

Cool evening air greeted her the moment she stepped outside.

Resting her hands lightly against the railing, she gazed out over the glittering city below, quiet wonder softening her features.

"This is amazing..." she murmured.

A few moments later, she heard quiet footsteps behind her.

Isidore joined her at the railing, standing beside her without disturbing the silence.

He had caught the note of genuine awe in her voice. His gaze shifted briefly toward her before returning to the sprawling skyline.

’Subject analysis update.’

’Despite currently occupying Ariana Lombardi’s identity... the subject appears to have had little previous exposure to this degree of luxury.’

Something unreadable flickered in the depths of his eyes before sinking once again beneath his customary composure.

"Tired?" he asked.

Aren turned toward him with a gentle smile.

"Quite a bit."

She tilted her head.

"What about you? We’ve had a long day."

His gaze remained fixed upon the skyline.

"Slightly."

She studied his profile in silence.

There was a faint tension around his eyes, a barely perceptible crease lingering between his brows, and a stiffness he hadn’t quite managed to conceal.

’That’s more than slightly.’

Her voice softened.

"So... Master Accardi... what do we do now?"

His answer came without delay.

"You’ll take the secondary bedroom. I’ll use the master bedroom."

He glanced at her.

"You sleep. I work. Sounds fair?"

Aren nodded.

The arrangement seemed perfectly reasonable. He was her employer. Naturally, he would take the master suite. Not that she particularly cared where she slept.

Only one part of it troubled her.

’He’s still going to work.’

’Just like Don Caio.’

Late at night.

Early in the morning.

Whenever work remained unfinished.

For a fleeting moment, she wished she possessed enough knowledge to ease that burden for either of them. Instead, all she could offer was a small nod.

"All right. I’ll settle in for the night. I hope you have a productive evening, Master Accardi."

Isidore gave no reply.

He remained standing at the balcony, his gaze resting on the glittering city beyond the railing, composed and unreadable as ever.

Yet...

Somewhere beneath that immaculate composure, something faint and deeply inconvenient stirred.

There was something about her parting words that felt... incomplete.

Like a report missing its final page.

Like a sentence ending without its proper punctuation.

The sensation urged him, however irrationally, to say something — anything — to prolong the conversation.

Aren noticed none of it.

To her, he looked exactly as he always did — calm, detached, and already absorbed in whatever work awaited him.

Leaving him alone on the balcony, she turned and made her way back toward the suite. She had almost reached the balcony doors when her pace gradually slowed.

Then stopped altogether.

For a brief moment, she simply stood there, her fingers curling lightly against the fabric of her gown as though weighing whether the question was worth asking.

Finally, she turned back.

"Ah... there’s... one more thing."

Isidore shifted his attention to her.

"Master Accardi..."

She met his eyes with complete sincerity.

"...May I ask something about the distraction tactic earlier at the Ombra building?"

The instant the words left her lips, Isidore went perfectly still. A distinct premonition settled over him almost immediately.

’...No.’

’She’s going to ask about it.’

Silently, he braced himself.

Aren asked anyway.

"May I ask..."

She tilted her head.

"...was that your first time kissing someone?"

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