Every Mafia's Favorite Girl

It didn’t take long for the final round to resume after the unfortunate interruption.

The Head Coordinator returned to the ring only after the guests and spectators had settled back into their seats.

He took his position between the two remaining finalists, waited for the warehouse to quiet, and then raised his microphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen, once again, we apologize for the interruption."

"The Organizing Committee has officially declared Nazario Marchetti disqualified from the competition, along with the cancellation of all his previous records for misconduct during the Trials."

"His right to compete has been withdrawn. We are now left with only two finalists."

He turned toward the young woman standing at his right.

"Ariana Lombardi..."

Then he gestured toward his left.

"...and Jordan Marchetti."

The warehouse erupted in applause.

Excitement surged through the spectators as anticipation spread from one section of the hall to another.

It had been a long time since the final round of the Marchetti Trials had ended in a true one-on-one machete duel.

The Head Coordinator waited until the noise had settled enough for him to continue.

He raised one arm high above his head.

"The rules of the final duel dictate that whichever finalist manages to draw first blood from their opponent will immediately be declared the winner of this year’s Marchetti Trials."

He paused, allowing the anticipation to build.

"So get ready."

"Your final duel starts..."

His arm dropped decisively.

"...now."

The Head Coordinator immediately moved toward the stairs and descended, leaving the ring entirely to the young man and woman standing across from each other.

Another eruption of cheers and whistles swept through the warehouse as the starting buzzer rang.

BZZZZZZZZT!

Aren turned away from the audience until she was facing Jordan directly. The faintest smile touched Aren’s lips as their eyes met.

Jordan was smiling too.

There was no hostility in his expression. No murderous intent. If anything, he looked almost amused by the absurdity of the situation.

"So it’s just the two of us now," he said, keeping his voice low enough that only she could hear.

Aren’s smile widened.

"Are you more nervous or excited?"

"Both." Jordan gave a small shrug. "You have no idea how long I’ve waited for the chance to beat you at something I’m actually confident in."

A quiet laugh escaped Aren.

"Oh, really? Then wait until you see how I surprise you and earn myself a free full baking course from you."

"Woo. I’m terrified," Jordan replied with a chuckle. "I’m about to get forced into teaching you full-time without earning a single penny."

Their faces lit up with such relaxed amusement that several spectators exchanged puzzled looks.

From the outside, the two of them hardly looked like opponents preparing for a machete duel. Perhaps even more strangely, neither seemed particularly intimidated by the weapon in the other’s hand.

Jordan eventually decided they had kept the audience waiting long enough. He raised his machete, pointing its tip directly toward Aren in a playful challenge.

"So? You’re ready to let me win this?"

"I’m totally ready to upset you," Aren replied, lifting her chin with quiet confidence.

Instead of raising her machete in response, she lowered it slightly behind herself.

Her posture shifted.

Her upper body tilted forward.

Jordan’s smile faded into concentration.

The instant her weight tipped past the point of balance, she collapsed forward into motion and exploded into a sprint—

—straight toward him.

Jordan’s eyes widened.

He immediately took a step backward and lowered his center of gravity, bracing himself for the incoming attack.

Aren closed the distance with terrifying speed. Yet beneath that confident charge, she already knew exactly how this duel was going to end.

Winning against Jordan would certainly have been an incredible challenge. He was a genuine machete master, and the custom weapon offered as the prize was undoubtedly tempting.

However...

The reward wasn’t what mattered most.

There was something far more important weighing on her mind.

’If Jordan loses and I win, Natalia will get exactly what she wants.’

’I still don’t understand why that woman is so confident that making Jordan lose this competition will force him to accept that marriage contract.’

’But I have a feeling she doesn’t mean well.’

’I can’t let that happen.’

Determination settled quietly across her features. Within moments, she had closed the distance between them.

Her body twisted, and the machete swept from behind her in a swift horizontal arc, targeting Jordan’s exposed right side.

Jordan had been waiting for it.

He shifted his stance at precisely the right moment.

Their blades collided.

CLANG!

The metallic impact rang through the warehouse.

For a moment, the two weapons remained locked together as Aren and Jordan pushed against each other’s blades, testing the other’s strength.

Aren’s eyes remained fixed on his.

"You left your right side completely exposed."

Jordan’s mouth curved into an exhilarated smile.

"It was an invitation."

With a sharp twist of his wrist, he knocked her blade aside before immediately following with a counterattack of his own.

CLING!

At once, excitement rippled through the crowd as the final duel truly began.

What had started as a cautious exchange accelerated almost immediately into a fierce one-on-one battle.

Jordan’s footwork was clean and disciplined. Every step served a purpose as he steadily pressured Aren toward the edge of the ring.

Aren, however, fought in a completely different manner.

She refused to meet his strength head-on. Instead, she slipped around his attacks, changing angles at the last possible instant and using her smaller frame and remarkable speed to remain difficult to predict.

Their blades collided again and again, each impact sending a sharp metallic echo through the enormous warehouse.

CLANG!

CLANG!

CLANG!

The force of the exchange drove them both half a step apart.

Jordan grinned.

"Are you really sure you weren’t familiar with machetes before this? You’re practically matching my rhythm."

Aren’s eyes brightened with innocent amusement.

"I wasn’t lying. I think I just happen to have a very good mentor."

Jordan laughed and lunged again without hesitation.

"No way. Not even my best mentors could make me this good overnight when I first started."

"Then I suppose I have some talent for it." Aren twisted beneath his strike and swept her machete around in a fast arc. "Would you hire me as your mentor, then? I’ll charge only half the tuition fee."

Jordan caught the strike.

CLANG!

"I recall mentoring you for free yesterday. I demand a discount."

"Ten more percent?"

"Argh. Still too expensive. My House is already paying you under one contract. Couldn’t you give me forty percent more?"

Aren pouted as she sent another sharp strike toward him.

"My goodness. That’s outright robbery."

Jordan blocked it, and a genuine laugh escaped him.

"I am indeed trying to rob you."

The exchange was so absurdly casual that several spectators began exchanging bewildered glances.

The two finalists were laughing and teasing each other while their machetes continued to clash with frightening speed.

From the audience, it hardly looked like they were fighting for the championship of the Marchetti Trials. It looked more like two friends enjoying an unusually dangerous sparring session.

In the front row of the spectator gallery, Gian Lombardi watched the spectacle with an amused smile.

Although he couldn’t make out every word from such a distance, their expressions were obvious enough.

He turned toward Eduardo.

"It seems my daughter and your son are having quite a good time."

"It seems so," Eduardo replied, his gaze fixed on the ring. "They’ve been... getting along quite well. More than I ever imagined."

Gian chuckled softly.

"I could say the same. They make quite a good duo, don’t they?"

Eduardo said nothing.

After a moment, however, his head moved in a reluctant little nod before he looked away, pretending the conversation no longer concerned him.

At the far end of the same row, however, the atmosphere was considerably less pleasant.

Caio Sartori sat beside the two Dons with his arms folded tightly across his chest, his brow gradually drawing into a deep frown.

Every time Aren smiled at Jordan, another faint irritation seemed to tighten somewhere inside him.

It wasn’t jealousy, exactly.

At least, that was what he told himself.

The match had simply been going on for far too long.

He glanced down at his watch.

’When do I get to take her home?’

Five seconds later, he checked it again.

Meanwhile, the conversation inside the ring showed no sign of ending until, as Aren turned to evade another blade, her gaze briefly drifted toward the upper gallery.

She spotted Caio immediately.

He was sitting there with his arms folded, his expression drawn tight and his features carrying the familiar look he wore whenever his temper was beginning to wear thin.

Aren’s smile faded into quiet realization.

’Ah, right.’

’I promised him I would finish this quickly.’

’I shouldn’t make him wait too long.’

The duel had already gone on long enough. She had matched Jordan’s speed. She had answered his attacks. She had demonstrated enough skill to make the contest convincing.

Now, it was time to end it.

Jordan noticed the brief shift in her attention. His gaze followed hers, and the moment he saw who she had been looking at, his brow tightened.

"Hey, Ariana. Focus."

He raised his machete and chopped downward.

"You’re in the finale with me."

Aren immediately brought her blade up.

CLANG!

"I am focused."

Jordan’s blade swept toward her shoulder.

"I’m not convinced."

She ducked beneath it.

"Then see this."

Her machete snapped upward.

Jordan caught it with his own.

CLANG!

The pace accelerated again.

For several seconds, neither of them spoke until Aren deliberately changed her rhythm.

She stepped in too aggressively.

Her next overhead strike was wider than necessary, her shoulder rotating just a fraction too far as though she had overcommitted to the attack, leaving her non-dominant forearm exposed for barely half a second.

Jordan saw it immediately.

’There it is.’

His instincts took over.

His blade moved before hesitation could interfere.

’Gotcha.’

He delivered a swift, shallow draw-slice across Aren’s left forearm.

Slash.

The world seemed to stall.

A thin red line appeared across Aren’s skin.

A single bead of blood gathered along the cut before slipping free and falling onto the canvas.

Drip.

Jordan felt the unmistakable contact of steel against flesh. His entire body went still, and his eyes widened as the realization struck him.

’I did it...’

’I actually did it...’

He immediately looked at Aren.

She was already looking back at him. There was no disappointment in her expression, no frustration — only a warm, encouraging smile.

"You caught me," she said quietly. "...again."

Beyond the ring, everyone in the audience had witnessed the decisive moment, and so had the cameras.

For one heartbeat, nobody moved before the buzzer erupted through the warehouse.

BZZZZZZZZT!

The Head Coordinator wasted no time raising his microphone from below the ring.

"Ladies and gentlemen!"

"Jordan Marchetti, defending his title for the third time as champion of the Marchetti Trials!"

"And he has done it!"

"Against every scheme and every adversary standing in his way, he has won the final round of this year’s competition!"

"He is now officially your four-time champion of the Marchetti Trials!"

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