Every Mafia's Favorite Girl

The private gym was as quiet as ever when Aren and Jordan stepped inside.

Throughout the walk from the warehouse, Jordan’s larger hand had remained intertwined with her smaller one.

Aren, meanwhile, kept her attention fixed straight ahead, so intent on reaching the gym that she had unconsciously ended up leading him for most of the journey.

Every now and then, she gave his hand a gentle tug whenever he lagged half a step behind.

The gesture was so unintentionally endearing that Jordan found himself unable to suppress the faint smile lingering at the corners of his mouth.

’She still hasn’t noticed...’

’At this rate, she might drag me across the entire compound without realizing we’re holding hands.’

Unfortunately for him, the precious contact ended the moment they crossed the threshold.

Aren slipped her hand free without the slightest hesitation and hurried straight toward the tall weapon locker standing in the corner.

"Jordan, are they in here?" she asked eagerly, already waiting in front of it.

Jordan could only chuckle under his breath. Weapons, it seemed, were both the perfect excuse to lure her away from the warehouse and the perfect distraction from him.

"Indeed, they’re all in there," he replied as he walked over to stand beside her. Unlocking the locker, he asked, "Would you like to start with machete training?"

Aren nodded so enthusiastically that her short hair bounced.

"Yes. Then we can move on to Dark Room training afterward."

"Alright."

Jordan reached inside and withdrew two identical blades. The dark carbon steel caught the overhead lights with a muted sheen as he turned one around and offered it to Aren, hilt first.

"Standard Marchetti issue," he explained. "No decorative filigree. No lightweight alloys. Just raw carbon steel."

Aren accepted the machete, her fingers closing around the leather-wrapped grip.

Its weight surprised her immediately.

Unlike the balanced arming swords or lightweight tactical knives she had wielded through countless missions in her previous life, this blade carried its center of gravity aggressively toward the broad belly near the tip.

It wanted to fall.

To chop.

To cleave.

Of all the weapons she had trained with, the machete remained one of the few she had spent relatively little time mastering.

Its medium reach forced the wielder dangerously close to an opponent before a decisive strike could be delivered — a distance that had always felt inefficient amid the open battlefields of her former world. It also rewarded explosive physical strength more than speed.

Almost unconsciously, her eyes drifted toward Jordan.

’Someone like Jordan was practically built for this.’

’Compared to him... Nazario’s lighter frame and speed-oriented style would struggle in a prolonged machete fight.’

At last, she gave the blade an experimental swing.

"It’s top-heavy."

"By design," Jordan replied as he unsheathed his own blade. "It’s built for impact, not delicate fencing. You don’t thrust with a machete. The tip is almost blunt. You chop, you draw-slice, and when you defend yourself, you block with the spine so you don’t ruin the cutting edge."

He rolled the weapon once through his hand with practiced ease before looking back at her.

"How much experience do you have with a machete?"

"Not much, really," Aren admitted honestly enough. "They’re not exactly suited for my frame."

"I thought as much." Jordan smiled as he set the empty case aside. "Then we’d better get you comfortable with it today. They’re among the hardest weapons to master, but once you can control steel like this, every other blade feels easier."

Aren’s eyes brightened immediately.

"Show me."

"Alright." His smile widened. "Let’s see your stance."

Aren planted her feet apart and raised the machete beside her shoulder. She deliberately exaggerated the angle ever so slightly, making herself appear less experienced than she truly was.

"Like this?"

Jordan shook his head almost immediately.

"Too high."

Without thinking, he stepped closer.

"Here, Ariana..."

His fingertips rested lightly against the back of her shoulder, easing it lower. Then he touched her elbow, rotating it inward by only a few degrees.

"If you carry it like a sword, your shoulder will burn out in two minutes under all that forward weight. Let gravity do half the work. The blade already wants to fall. Your job is simply deciding where."

His hands lingered only as long as necessary to guide her posture. Yet with every correction, the distance between them quietly disappeared.

Jordan noticed.

He noticed exactly how close they had become, how his chest was almost brushing her back, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her through the thin fabric of her clothes.

He also chose to say nothing.

Instead, an unfamiliar sense of peace settled quietly inside him as he continued refining her posture one careful adjustment at a time.

Aren, meanwhile, remained almost entirely oblivious.

Back in her previous life, her squadmates had corrected her posture countless times during training. This kind of physical guidance felt completely ordinary — routine, even.

Only when she turned her head, intending to ask whether they could finally begin, did the words suddenly catch in her throat.

Jordan was much closer than she’d realized.

His face was only inches away. So close that she could clearly see the amber flecks hidden within his eyes.

For all practical purposes, he was almost embracing her from behind.

’It’s strange.’

’Being close to Jordan feels completely natural... as long as I don’t stop to think about it.’

The smile slowly faded from her face.

’But eventually...’

’I need to stop being so close to him anyway.’

’I should start getting used to that now. Otherwise I’ll keep doing things like jumping into his arms in front of everyone.’

With that thought in mind, Aren gently stepped forward, slipping free of his reach before turning back with an apologetic smile.

"I understand the stance now. Let’s continue with the count."

Jordan stalled for a moment.

He didn’t miss the hesitation, nor did he miss the tiny step she had taken away from him.

’...Why did she suddenly move away?’

’Was I too forward?’

Only moments ago, she had walked comfortably beside him with their hands intertwined. Now she was carefully putting distance between them.

The realization prompted him to retreat a step of his own. He raised his own machete as though nothing had happened.

"We train using a three-count cadence."

He demonstrated the opening strike.

"One."

The heavy blade carved diagonally downward with a powerful whoosh.

"Two."

It flowed naturally into a horizontal draw-cut.

"Three."

The spine rotated into a firm defensive block.

He reset his stance.

"Again."

Aren mirrored each motion, deliberately introducing tiny imperfections into her form.

"One."

Her blade descended, a touch too much wrist movement here.

"Two."

She transitioned into the draw-cut, a slight delay there.

"Three."

The rhythmic whistle of steel gradually filled the gym as she repeated the sequence.

Jordan watched her with unwavering attention through every repetition.

To anyone else, she looked exactly like a beginner learning an unfamiliar weapon.

Jordan wasn’t anyone else. He had trained with a machete almost every day since childhood.

Beneath those carefully planted flaws, he saw them: minute adjustments, instinctive corrections, the unconscious confidence of someone who understood blades far better than she wanted anyone to know.

’She’s hiding it again.’

He said nothing.

The session continued until sweat dampened both of their temples and their breathing grew heavier.

Eventually, they lowered their weapons together.

After returning the machetes to the locker, they stretched out side by side on the training mats beneath the quiet glow of the ceiling lights.

Silence settled between them.

A comfortable silence.

It always seemed to be.

Jordan turned his head slightly, his gaze lingering on Aren’s profile. A loose strand of platinum hair clung to her temple, darkened by sweat, while the lingering flush of exertion still warmed her cheeks.

Feeling his eyes on her, Aren turned to meet his gaze.

"Is there something on my face?"

Jordan held her eyes for another moment before giving a small shake of his head.

"No."

His voice came quieter than usual.

"It’s just... we’ve known each other for a while now, but I still feel like I don’t truly know you."

The faint color in Aren’s cheeks gradually faded.

"...Why are you saying that?"

Jordan looked back toward the ceiling, watching the pale lights blur together overhead.

"I don’t really know. It’s strange."

A quiet chuckle escaped him.

"Truthfully... you’re much simpler than everything I’ve ever heard about you. Most of the time, you’re just beside me. Quiet. Easy to understand."

His smile softened into something almost wistful.

"But then there are moments when I feel like I don’t understand you at all."

He drew a slow breath.

"It’s almost as though... you belong to another world."

The words struck Aren far harder than he could possibly have known.

’...Another world.’

Oddly enough, she didn’t panic.

Jordan’s voice carried no suspicion, only quiet honesty.

For a fleeting instant, memories rose unbidden: gunfire beneath a different sky, familiar voices she would never hear again, the faces of the people she loved, preserved now only in memory.

Ever since arriving in this new world, she had never truly found the time to grieve what she had left behind.

One contract had followed another.

One crisis after another demanded her attention.

New faces.

New names.

Back then, she was just the youngest member of Headquarters, surrounded by people who cared for her without reservation or hidden motives. Here, everyone seemed so burdened by intricate schemes and political games that they rarely said what they truly meant.

In hindsight, those blood-soaked days in her old life felt infinitely simpler — honest in a way this world could never be.

Before any emotion could betray her, she turned away.

"...Maybe..."

Her voice barely rose above a whisper.

"...maybe it’s because we haven’t known each other for very long."

Jordan looked at her again, taking in the way she carefully avoided his eyes.

A quiet resolve settled inside him.

’Then I’ll make sure we know each other for a long time.’

He kept the thought to himself.

Instead, he nodded.

"...Yeah."

Silence returned, so natural that neither of them felt the need to disturb it.

Then Aren suddenly sat upright, a look of realization crossing her face.

"Ah, I almost forgot. You don’t have to come pick me up tomorrow."

Jordan looked over at her, his brow furrowing.

"Why not?"

"I need to stop by the Lombardi estate before coming here."

"The Lombardi estate?"

"I promised my father I’d visit him this Sunday." A sheepish smile tugged at her lips. "And... I need to bring him a lot of ice cream."

Jordan pushed himself upright as well.

"Ariana..."

He hesitated for only a heartbeat.

"I know it might be a little early between us, but... I could come with you."

Aren looked genuinely surprised.

"You would?"

He smiled, almost shyly.

"If you’re comfortable with it. I can pick you up from the Sartori estate, help carry the ice cream, and then drive both of us here afterward for the competition."

Aren’s expression softened.

For one dangerous moment, the answer she wanted to give rose naturally to her lips.

’I’d love that.’

Then another thought surfaced just as quickly.

’I’m supposed to stop getting closer to him...’

The warmth in her chest cooled.

"It’s really not necessary," she said gently. "I’d just be troubling you."

Jordan caught the shift immediately. He felt the distance returning.

Rather than press the issue, he reached for the one language he knew could always reach her.

"It really isn’t any trouble. It’s actually the most logistically efficient option. I really do need to stop by that bakery on the way here."

Aren’s attention snapped to him almost instantly.

"You need to go to the bakery?"

"I do."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Since you’re learning the machete ridiculously fast, I figured I’d better start studying what bakeries sell too, so I’ll know what to teach you when I lose our bet."

Aren couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped her. It was softer than before, carrying a warmth she couldn’t quite hide.

"...Then you’ll have to teach me how to make that burnt cheesecake we had yesterday first. That’s officially my favorite now."

Jordan found himself smiling simply because she was. He inclined his head with exaggerated obedience.

"Yes, madam. We’ll begin with the burnt cheesecake."

A mischievous glint flickered through his eyes.

"And I should probably study those cookies too, so you can keep bribing people into secretly covering my back whenever I mess something up."

Aren laughed outright this time. The sound filled the quiet room, bright and genuine.

Jordan listened to it for a moment before asking softly, "Should I come earlier then? Around eight?"

"Yes," Aren said quietly.

As much as she wanted to tell herself she had agreed only because of logistics, a small part of her knew that wasn’t the whole truth.

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