Every Mafia's Favorite Girl

Upon the spectator gallery, Natalia Porto still sat with the perfect composure of the most elegant woman present.

Her purse rested neatly on her lap, both hands folded gracefully atop it. A serene smile remained fixed upon her face, never wavering.

Outwardly, she was the picture of an unbothered heiress.

The truth was far less graceful.

Every passing second of the break before the final round felt like another thread snapping inside her. She could practically feel the last remnants of her patience — and perhaps her sanity — slipping away.

Around her, Marchetti and Porto men sat alongside several high-ranking Sartori and Lombardi men.

With nothing better to do while they waited, the spectators naturally began chatting among themselves.

"Poor Lady Natalia," a Marchetti man said. "I heard she was supposed to get engaged to the Young Boss, and yet he seems far more infatuated with Miss Lombardi."

"Infatuated?" another replied. "You’re so outdated. Haven’t you seen them holding hands while walking through the compound? The way the Young Boss is always trailing after her? I reckon he’s already completely gone for that woman."

"Then what’s going to happen to the engagement between the two Houses?"

"God knows," a Porto man said with a shrug. "Even if Mister Jordan agrees, I bet it’ll only be out of responsibility."

"Oh dear," another Porto soldier sighed. "Our lady is going to end up as the third wheel in such a nice couple."

"But the Young Boss looks so good with Lady Ariana, doesn’t he?"

"Damn, you’re right," another barked out with a laugh. "They look like they’ve already been dating for years."

The men kept their voices relatively low, mindful that the very subject of their conversation was sitting directly in front of them.

Unfortunately for them, Natalia was every bit as sharp and perceptive as ever.

Not a single word escaped her ears.

She heard every compliment. Every careless joke. Every prediction about her humiliation.

Still, she was the perfect Porto heiress.

Behind her graceful smile, she mentally slaughtered every man speaking within earshot, one by one, imagining exactly how satisfying it would be to put a bullet through each of their skulls.

’Keep talking.’

’Go ahead.’

’The more you say, the more names I have to remember.’

Fortunately for the men’s lives — and perhaps for Natalia’s reputation — the conversation eventually died down.

When Natalia glanced over her shoulder, she saw Caio Sartori and Gian Lombardi returning to the gallery, apparently having just come back from the infirmary.

’Finally.’

A cold smirk briefly touched the corner of Natalia’s lips.

’Let’s get this humiliating day of failure over with, or I’m going to shoot every one of these morons dead.’

The smirk vanished just as quickly.

By the time Gian and Caio settled back into their seats in the front row, Natalia’s gaze had already returned to the ground floor below.

The center of the warehouse, which had been occupied by the obstacle course during the first round, had been completely cleared overnight. In its place now stood a massive fighting ring, a pristine white canvas stretched taut across the raised platform.

The color had been chosen deliberately.

Against that spotless surface, even the smallest drop of blood would be impossible to miss.

Cameras surrounded the ring from every direction, ready to broadcast every moment of the fight onto the enormous screens above. Soldiers filled the orderly rows surrounding the arena, their voices blending into a low, restless murmur.

Then, at the precise scheduled hour, the Head Coordinator stepped into the center of the ring, microphone in hand.

"Ladies and gentlemen."

"Good afternoon to all our distinguished guests, as well as the soldiers from the prestigious Houses gathered here today."

"On behalf of House Marchetti, I hereby announce that the final round of this year’s Marchetti Trials begins — right now!"

A thunderous roar erupted throughout the warehouse.

Applause crashed down from the spectator galleries while soldiers below shouted and cheered.

Every eager eye turned toward the three figures standing at different sides of the ring.

Three finalists.

Three competitors.

Only one would claim victory.

The Head Coordinator kept them waiting no longer.

Extending one arm toward his right, he announced in a booming voice,

"Please welcome to the ring our first finisher of the second round and Don Eduardo’s second son!"

"Nazario Marchetti!"

The moment the introduction ended, Nazario sprang up the stairs in one effortless sprint.

He stepped onto the stage with a standard tactical machete in his hand.

The leather-wrapped grip fit snugly against his palm as he swung the weapon through several loose arcs, testing its weight. Then he strolled toward the round black circle painted on the white canvas — his starting position.

Ever since leaving the spectator gallery, there had been nothing lethargic or sleepy about him.

The lazy, half-lidded expression was gone.

A deep scowl had settled across his face, hardening his features and making him look, perhaps for the first time, like a serious competitor.

The transformation surprised several of the men watching. Regardless, the moment Nazario appeared on the ring, cheers erupted around him.

"Woo! Go, Mister Nazario!"

"I root for you!"

"Go claim that champion title!"

Nazario couldn’t have cared less who was cheering for him.

The noise barely registered.

He had stepped into the ring with only one purpose.

’I’ll destroy Jordan in the most brutal fashion possible in front of everyone.’

His grip tightened around the machete.

’Then, and only then, will all of you finally open your eyes and see what a superior Marchetti I am among all five of us.’

With that thought burning behind his eyes, he flashed a thumbs-up at the Head Coordinator.

"I’m ready."

The Head Coordinator was visibly satisfied by the signal. He raised his microphone again, sweeping one arm toward the opposite side of the ring.

"And next... a familiar face we all know too well at the annual Marchetti Trials."

"Finishing second in the second round... please welcome to the ring..."

"Our three-time champion..."

"Jordan Marchetti!"

Jordan climbed the stairs with measured, deliberate strides, his expression calm and focused.

His gaze had already locked onto Nazario from across the ring before the introduction had even begun. It never wavered as he crossed the canvas toward his starting position.

There was a sharpness in his eyes that carried a single, unmistakable message.

’Everything you’ve done to me throughout the first two rounds... I’m going to give it all back to you ten times worse in this round.’

Without breaking eye contact, he made his way toward the marked position on the canvas and finally raised a thumb.

"I’m ready."

Nazario couldn’t possibly have missed that look.

For a moment, the two brothers simply stared at each other across the ring.

No words were necessary.

Nazario’s eyes narrowed as a faint, dangerous smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.

’We shall see about that, brother.’

Satisfied, the Head Coordinator turned toward the final contestant.

This time, he extended his arm toward the side of the ring directly behind him.

"And last but not least, our third finisher of the second round."

"On her first time joining the Marchetti Trials, and the first contestant from outside House Marchetti to ever make it to this round..."

"Please welcome to the stage..."

"Ariana Lombardi!"

The moment her name was announced, the warehouse erupted as though the fight had already begun.

Aren stepped onto the stage, and a thunderous wave of applause immediately rolled through the hall.

Most of it came from the Sartori and Lombardi men, whose cheers rose above the rest with almost startling force.

The sheer volume made her flinch.

Shout after shout came from every direction until she had no idea where she was supposed to look.

"Lady Ariana!"

"We’re here for you and only you!"

"Go make us proud!"

Flustered by the barrage of voices demanding her attention, Aren offered awkward little waves with her free hand while repeatedly bowing her head.

"Yes."

"Thank you very much."

"I appreciate that."

"I’ll try my best."

"Please cheer for Jordan too."

The words tumbled out one after another.

She wanted to acknowledge everyone. She didn’t want anyone to feel ignored. Yet the more people she tried to thank, the more chaotic the entire situation became.

Then, suddenly remembering that she was supposed to give the signal, she hurried toward her starting circle and raised a thumb.

"I’m ready!"

The Head Coordinator looked visibly relieved.

For a brief moment, he had begun to suspect that all the waving, bowing, and thanking might continue for another ten minutes.

He nodded once in acknowledgment before turning back toward the crowd, his professional composure settling firmly into place.

"Before we begin, may I present the rules of the three-way machete fight."

"The winner is the contestant who manages to draw blood from both of their opponents."

"During the match, should any of the three contestants become too heavily injured to continue..."

"...or have their right to compete stripped for any reason..."

"...the fight will immediately become a machete duel between the remaining two contestants."

"When that happens, whichever contestant draws first blood shall be named the winner of the Marchetti Trials."

A wave of anticipation swept through the warehouse as the rules settled over everyone.

The Head Coordinator had been waiting for precisely that moment.

Raising one arm high, he let his voice drop into a tense, expectant cadence.

"Now, contestants..."

"Ready..."

"Fight."

With that, the man stepped forward and descended the stairs, leaving the ring entirely to the three contestants.

The moment his foot cleared the final step, a heavy buzzer blared through the warehouse, shaking the silence apart.

BZZZZZZZZT!

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