Every Mafia's Favorite Girl

Aren’s gaze dropped to his outstretched palm before cautiously returning to his face.

Uncertainty was written plainly across her expression, but Isidore’s gaze remained calm as he waited.

Without his glasses, there was something subtly different about the way he looked at her.

Less intimidating, perhaps.

His expression remained characteristically distant, but the sharp barrier usually created by those silver frames was gone.

Tentatively, she reached toward him.

Her fingers hovered over his palm for a moment before slowly settling into it.

Almost instantly, his long fingers curled around hers. His thumb brushed once across the back of her hand before coming to rest there, deepening the quiet connection between them.

"Feel how steady I am?" he asked, lowering his gaze to their joined hands.

Aren looked down as well.

She leaned slightly into his hold, paying attention to the sensation he wanted her to notice.

His hand was completely still.

There was no tremor in his fingers, no tension shifting through his grip. It was almost unnaturally steady, especially compared with the faint trembling she could still feel in her own hand.

"...Yes," she murmured. "Your hand is very still. Very... steady."

"Good." His fingers closed a little more firmly around hers. "Now feel that steadiness and let it seep into yours. Take a deep breath."

Aren lifted her gaze to him again, uncertain but willing to try.

At first, she could only think about how absurdly difficult the instruction sounded.

’How exactly am I supposed to make someone else’s calmness seep into my body?’

Yet the longer she remained there, her hand enclosed in his, the more she found herself concentrating on the simple comfort of his unmoving palm.

So she breathed in.

Deeply.

Slowly.

Her shoulders began to loosen.

"Now exhale," Isidore instructed. "Slowly."

Aren obeyed, the breath leaving her lungs in a long, controlled stream. Somehow, the tension that had been sitting so heavily inside her seemed to leave with it.

Her fingers stopped trembling.

Her breathing steadied.

When she looked down again, her hand was nearly as still as his.

Isidore noticed the change easily. His voice came again, calm and even.

"Whenever you have to stand in front of too many people, encounter a question you don’t know how to answer, or simply feel nervous for no particular reason..."

His fingers tightened around hers.

"...remember this feeling."

Something inside Aren eased.

There was no visible sympathy in his expression. He wasn’t speaking to her gently in the way Jordan would, nor was he telling her everything would be fine.

And yet, his calm was strangely reassuring.

Unmoving.

As though he had placed something solid beneath her feet and expected her to stand on it.

"All right," she said quietly. "I’ll try to remember it."

She gave his hand the slightest squeeze.

"I feel much calmer now."

Isidore gave an almost imperceptible nod, apparently satisfied.

"Good."

For a moment, neither of them moved before he continued in the same even tone.

"Now, whenever someone asks you a rude question you don’t wish to answer, repeat after me."

He finally raised his gaze to meet hers.

"I have no obligation to answer brainless questions like that."

Every trace of Aren’s newfound calm vanished.

Her eyes widened.

"That sounds..."

She blinked several times.

"...a bit rude."

Isidore remained entirely composed.

"That’s precisely what Ariana Lombardi often said to the press when she didn’t want to answer a question during her previous interviews. Try it."

The explanation was convincing enough to make Aren give it a try.

"I... I have no obligation to..." Her voice faltered as she reached the offensive part. "Um... answer brainless questions like that."

He shook his head immediately.

"Too much hesitation. Again."

Aren drew a breath.

This time, her voice came out somewhat steadier.

"I have no obligation to answer... brainless questions like that."

"Still too soft," Isidore commented flatly. "Ariana was far more biting when she said it. Imagine the person asking the question is trying to kill someone important to you."

The change in Aren was instantaneous. The uncertainty vanished from her face as though it had never existed.

Her eyes sharpened, and when she spoke again, her voice carried the cold, focused edge of tempered steel.

"I have no obligation to answer brainless questions like that."

The corner of Isidore’s mouth lifted — only slightly — before the expression disappeared almost immediately.

"Good," he said. "Now the next part: you can make whatever assumptions you want about me, or the way I live my life."

Aren repeated it carefully.

"You can make whatever assumptions you want about me... or the way I live my life."

"At the end of the day..."

"...At the end of the day."

His thumb pressed lightly against the back of her hand.

"None of those things define who I am as a person."

A brief flash of surprise crossed Aren’s face before it settled into something firmer.

She liked this part.

Her expression hardened with complete conviction.

"None of those things define who I am as a person."

Something resembling satisfaction flickered across Isidore’s face.

Of course, he did not tell her that Ariana Lombardi had only ever used the first sentence. Everything afterward had come from him.

But perhaps that didn’t matter.

The words suited her far better than they ever would have suited Ariana Lombardi.

Pushing the thought aside, he finally released her hand.

"Now let’s try something those idiots frequently enjoy asking," he said, his attention returning fully to the lesson. "Miss Lombardi, is it true that you slept with Jeremiah Castellano in order to get signed as a fighter at his club?"

He fixed her with a steady, expectant look.

"What would you say?"

Aren barely needed time to think. She met his gaze without flinching.

"This is a brainless question. I was signed because of my ability and nothing else."

Isidore gave no visible reaction.

Yet the faintest curve appeared at the corners of his eyes — the slightest suggestion of amusement that he made no effort to acknowledge.

Before she could see it, he stood from the chair and returned to his place across the table.

"Now," he said, sliding his glasses back into place, "let’s move on to deeper reading."

Aren’s entire face fell.

’Oh no.’

’More reading?’

She sat a little straighter, forcing herself to sound cooperative.

"Um... may I ask what sort of deeper reading we’re talking about?"

"I’ve prepared a list of books for you to finish today," he said, sounding almost interested. "We’ll cover press-conference etiquette, the psychology of reporters, general history of combat sports, methods of controlling hostile interviews, public scandal management—"

The longer he continued, the more miserable she became.

By the time he finally stopped listing subjects, Aren was wearing a painfully small smile.

"All... all right."

She swallowed.

"I’m ready."

Isidore’s list came to an abrupt stop as he finally seemed to notice the despair on her face.

The faint interest he’d shown while reciting the study material faded, replaced by a strangely softer expression.

"...But we’ll continue after a break."

Aren looked up so quickly that surprise flashed across her entire face.

"A break?"

Isidore glanced toward the cloth bundle resting near the books.

"You’ve had dinner?"

He reached for it, as though this were the most ordinary thing to do in the world.

"Let’s try this thing."

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