Every Mafia's Favorite Girl

It took only a single second before the entire warehouse erupted once more — even before the Head Coordinator had the chance to make an announcement.

This time, the reaction was even more explosive than before.

"What the hell?!"

"At first I thought the Young Boss was disqualifying himself for the Lombardi heiress, but what? They secured two coins?!"

"Unbelievable! It’s the first time I’ve ever seen two contestants walk out together — with two coins! Two freaking coins! Can you believe it?!"

"No way in hell!"

"No way I believe it!"

"This is insane!"

"We’ve got all three finalists! They’re going to fight in the machete round!"

As chaos swallowed the warehouse, the Head Coordinator hurried over and crouched to retrieve the two brass coins from the floor.

He carefully turned each one over, inspecting the serrated edges before straightening to face the crowd.

"The coins are authentic!"

"For the first time in the history of the Marchetti Trials, two contestants have emerged from the Dark Room together, each having secured a coin!"

"Ariana Lombardi and Jordan Marchetti!"

"They are the final two contestants to secure coins in the second round!"

"They advance together into the final round — the machete fight!"

The announcement nearly blew the roof off the warehouse.

If earlier only the Marchetti and Porto men had celebrated Nazario’s victory, now the Sartori and Lombardi soldiers joined them, shouting themselves hoarse in celebration.

"Lady Ariana!"

"What an incredible feat!"

"You’ve done it! You’ve beaten Marchetti men in their own competition!"

"God! We’re proud of you!"

The cheering seemed endless. Yet beneath the excitement lingered unmistakable concern, as countless eyes remained fixed on Aren, whose unconscious body still rested limply in Jordan’s arms.

The atmosphere in the spectator gallery above, meanwhile, was anything but celebratory.

The instant Caio saw Jordan emerge carrying Aren’s unconscious body, he found himself on his feet before he even realized he’d moved.

’What the actual fuck?!’

’What happened to her?’

’Goddammit, I knew I shouldn’t have let her join this stupid competition.’

Beside him, Gian fared no better.

The color drained from his face as the very outcome he had dreaded unfolded before his eyes.

He rose, intending to rush downstairs himself, but before he could take more than a single step, Caio had already stormed out of the gallery, several Sartori soldiers hurrying after him.

Eduardo also stood, already recognizing the political nightmare unfolding before his eyes.

"Come, Don Gian," he said. "Let’s go down and check on your daughter. See what happened."

Giovanni rose as well.

"I’ll come too."

"Of course," Gian replied quietly. "I appreciate that."

He started toward the stairs, though his legs felt far less steady than he wanted anyone to notice.

Left behind, only Nazario and Natalia remained seated beside one another. Throughout the entire spectacle, both had struggled to keep their expressions composed beneath the watchful eyes of the surrounding Dons.

Now that the four men had departed... their masks slipped away entirely.

A heavy shadow settled over both their faces as their teeth ground together so hard that the muscles along their jaws visibly tightened, threatening to bulge beneath their skin.

Between the two of them, Natalia looked far more furious than merely shocked by what she had witnessed.

"What the hell is this, Nazario?!" she ground out through clenched teeth, her voice barely above a whisper.

Beside her, Nazario sat with both hands folded before him, staring toward the warehouse floor. For the first time that day, not even a trace of laziness remained on his face.

"How the fuck should I know?!" he snarled back. "I did my part down there. I’m damn sure of it! If anyone screwed this up, it was your useless men. Those idiots must’ve somehow let Jordan get away."

Natalia slowly turned toward him, her eyes hardening.

"You’re blaming my men now?" she hissed. "I gave you one job. One simple job. You couldn’t even finish it?"

Nazario barely restrained a scowl.

"Fuck you, sis. Like I know what the fuck went wrong down there after I left?" His voice sharpened. "I left Jordan unconscious. That much I know. Go ask the morons you sent into the maze."

With that, he shot to his feet.

"Fuck you and all your bullshit."

He jabbed a thumb toward the arena.

"I’m going to beat those two in the final round myself. You sit there and watch."

Without another word, Nazario stormed away.

Natalia remained seated, forcing herself to breathe slowly through her nose.

This was bad.

Her conversation with Nazario hadn’t cooled her anger in the slightest. If anything, it had only poured more gasoline onto the fire.

She couldn’t afford to lose control — not here, not surrounded by so many Marchetti capos and soldiers.

Even so...

Jordan was supposed to become her fiancé after the Trials.

Instead, he had walked out carrying Ariana Lombardi in his arms before the eyes of everyone present, holding her with unmistakable protectiveness — only a day after embracing her and publicly holding her hand.

To Natalia, it felt as though someone had dumped hundreds of buckets of ice water over her in front of the entire underworld.

Her hands trembled so violently it was becoming difficult to hide. Every instinct screamed at her to punch something, to rake her nails across someone’s face, to tear someone’s hair out — but none of that was possible here.

Desperate to disguise the tremor, she slipped both hands into the purse resting on her lap, outwardly pretending to search for lipstick or a compact.

To everyone watching, she remained every inch the flawless Porto heiress.

In truth, her fingers silently traced the familiar outline of the pistol concealed inside.

Down on the warehouse floor, Caio finally reached Jordan, who had just summoned the medical team.

The medics had barely managed to transfer Aren onto a stretcher before Caio seized Jordan by the shoulder and spun him around.

"Hey, kid!" Caio barked, gripping the front of Jordan’s collar hard enough to make several nearby medics flinch. "What the hell happened to her down there?! Why is she like this? Start talking!"

Jordan frowned and shoved Caio’s hand away.

"Calm down, man," he muttered. "There’s a section of the maze completely flooded with freezing water. She got dropped in there." His expression tightened. "I don’t think her body’s used to something like that. She’s running a reactive fever."

Caio’s scowl deepened.

"A fever?"

Without another word, he turned toward Aren, brushing several medics aside as he crouched beside the stretcher. Gently, he cupped her face in both hands, checking her condition himself.

Jordan hadn’t exaggerated.

Her skin burned beneath his palms, yet when his touch drifted lower along her neck and arms, the skin beneath her soaked clothing felt deathly cold.

Just then...

Aren’s eyelids fluttered.

Caio stiffened instantly.

He leaned closer, both hands still cradling her face as though afraid she might disappear if he let go.

"It’s me," he murmured, his voice gentler now. "It’s Caio. I’m here."

Aren’s eyes opened only halfway.

"...C-Caio?"

The faint sound of her voice made Jordan whirl around as well.

He hurried over immediately, leaving the bewildered medics thoroughly crowded out until both sides of the stretcher were occupied by the two men.

"Ariana!" he called anxiously. "How are you feeling?"

Aren slowly turned her head toward him.

"...J-Jordan...?" she whispered weakly.

Relief flooded Jordan’s face.

"Yes. It’s me. It’s Jordan." He nodded vigorously, clasping her hand between both of his. "You passed out after we opened the glass case. You’re outside now. I carried you here."

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