Every Mafia's Favorite Girl

It was supposed to have been another peaceful dinner at the Sartori estate.

Caio sat at the head of the long dining table as usual, surrounded by enough food to feed a small army.

Aren was not there.

Caio himself hadn’t touched a single thing.

Instead, he was unleashing his fury on Leo, who had arrived with yet another piece of urgent news: another round of shipments had disappeared before reaching its intended destination.

"Lost again?!"

The roar of Caio’s voice cracked through the dining room hard enough to make several maids flinch where they stood.

"What the fuck do you mean the shipments were lost again? Who the hell dares touch Sartori men in broad daylight?!"

Under ordinary circumstances, the maids might have endured the Don’s temper with nothing more than their usual silent efficiency.

Unfortunately, this exact scene had played out barely two days earlier, when another shipment had vanished under similarly suspicious circumstances.

The memory of that dinner was still fresh enough to make the staff collectively dread a second round.

Leo, meanwhile, already knew the storm awaiting him.

Having survived enough of Caio’s tempers over the years, however, he had developed the ability to stand directly in front of a hurricane without visibly sweating.

"We’re still not certain who’s behind the attacks, Boss," he said evenly. "But it appears to follow the same pattern as the incident two days ago. Our men were ambushed shortly before they reached the clubs to make the drop."

"Then fucking do something about it!" Caio snapped, slamming his hand against the table hard enough to rattle the glasses. "Investigate! Are you planning to come back tomorrow at dinner and tell me the exact same thing?"

Leo answered immediately.

"Of course not, Boss."

But something in his expression shifted before he continued, a trace of hesitation entering his voice.

"There’s one more urgent piece of news. It’s..." He swallowed, practically hearing the approaching thunder. "...It’s about your aunt."

Contrary to his expectations, Caio’s fury disappeared instantly. The heat drained from his face, leaving behind something so cold that the entire room seemed to feel it.

"You found her trace?"

"Yes." Leo nodded grimly. "Some of our men spotted her in Malakor."

For a moment, the air itself seemed to stop moving. Every person in the dining room immediately understood the implication.

There was only one other Sartori in Malakor.

Caio, meanwhile, remained completely motionless as the name settled into his mind.

’Malakor?’

Borgata was the capital of the nation’s south.

Malakor was its northern counterpart.

And several years earlier, Caio himself had sent his younger brother, Cesare Sartori, to that city to pursue his higher education.

Of course, Caio knew better than anyone that Cesare’s presence there had never been solely about obtaining a degree.

Education had merely been the excuse.

Distance had been the point.

Slowly, the corner of Caio’s mouth curled upward as he leaned back in his chair.

The expression was almost relaxed — almost amused — but anyone who knew him well enough could see the danger in it.

"You think she’s there to see my brother?" he asked calmly. "Or do you think my brother is giving her shelter?"

His gaze lifted to Leo.

"Or is this merely a coincidence?"

"Hard to tell at this stage, Boss." Leo remained grim. "Should I increase the number of men monitoring Mister Cesare?"

Caio didn’t need even a second to consider it.

"Triple them. But make sure he doesn’t notice. And if Liviana makes any form of contact with Cesare, I want to know before anyone else does."

Leo nodded sharply.

"Yes, Boss."

He had already begun to turn away when Caio’s voice stopped him again.

"One more thing."

Caio’s expression hardened.

"Make sure Ariana doesn’t hear a word about this."

It took Leo less than a second to understand. He nodded without asking why.

"Understood."

With that, he turned and left the dining room. The doors closed behind him, and the room regained a fragile sort of peace.

Unfortunately, Caio was still staring at the untouched food in front of him, as though deciding whether he wanted to eat it or sweep the entire table onto the floor with one arm.

Around the room, the maids shifted uneasily.

Several exchanged meaningful glances, but none volunteered to say anything that might salvage the situation.

Mrs. Pecora, as usual, realized that disaster management had apparently fallen to her again.

Being the person most accustomed to dealing with Caio at his worst, she stepped forward and approached him at a measured pace.

"Sir?"

Caio didn’t look at her.

"Do you need to throw something for stress relief?" she asked in the same calm tone she might have used to inquire whether he wanted more wine. "Several vases, perhaps. Or some plates. I can have the maids prepare them."

That finally made Caio look at Mrs. Pecora.

A bewildered expression flickered across his face, but Mrs. Pecora continued before he could respond.

"I deliberately allocated a surplus in this year’s refurbishment budget. It is entirely acceptable to sacrifice several decorative pieces."

The bewilderment lasted all of two seconds before Caio’s face darkened with instant annoyance.

He hated it whenever Mrs. Pecora read him this easily.

"Am I being like that again?" he muttered.

Mrs. Pecora remained perfectly composed.

"I’m afraid so, sir."

She studied him for another moment, before turning toward the maids and dismissing them with a small motion of her hand.

Without a word, they filed out of the dining room one after another, until Mrs. Pecora and the Don were the only people remaining in the vast chamber.

Then, with the gentlest voice she could manage, Mrs. Pecora asked,

"Is there... something going on between you and Lady Ariana?"

Caio barely had time to wonder why she had dismissed everyone before his expression hardened.

"Nothing is going on between me and Ariana."

The denial came too quickly.

Mrs. Pecora had spent enough years in the Sartori household to recognize that immediately.

"You’ve had urgent meetings around lunchtime for the past three days," she pointed out calmly. "And for three consecutive days, you’ve returned home only after Lady Ariana had finished dinner."

"We sleep together every night," Caio countered stubbornly.

Mrs. Pecora’s expression didn’t change.

"That doesn’t mean you aren’t avoiding her."

The polite bluntness of the observation made Caio’s mood visibly worsen.

He looked away and exhaled harshly, folding both arms across his chest, like a man being forced to admit something he had absolutely no intention of discussing.

"Fine," he said irritably. "I’m avoiding her. But I’m dealing with an unprecedented problem. And frankly, I don’t even want to think about it, let alone talk about it."

Mrs. Pecora fell quiet, attempting to extract meaning from his spectacularly unhelpful explanation.

Eventually, one possibility emerged.

"Is this related to the Marchetti heir?"

The answer exploded from Caio so quickly that Mrs. Pecora nearly blinked.

"It is!" he snapped at her.

Then, almost immediately, he turned away, his voice growing rougher.

"But no. It isn’t actually him. It isn’t even her. It’s just—"

The words caught somewhere inside him.

He released another frustrated breath and dragged a hand over his face.

"It’s just... me."

Mrs. Pecora’s brows drew together. That was not the answer she had expected.

"...You, sir?"

Caio let out another exhausted breath, looking thoroughly unwilling to continue.

When he finally looked at her, there was something beneath his irritation that Mrs. Pecora recognized immediately.

Confusion.

Helplessness.

And beneath both, a quiet fear he was trying desperately to conceal.

"I think..." he said slowly, forcing each word past his teeth, "...I think... I’m the problem here."

Mrs. Pecora fell silent.

She knew that expression. It had appeared only rarely over the years.

Caio was exceptionally skilled at hiding vulnerability. He had spent most of his life learning to bury fear beneath authority, pain beneath anger, and uncertainty beneath avoidance.

But there were moments when the cracks appeared anyway.

This was one of them.

Her expression softened.

"Sir."

She placed a calm, steady hand on his shoulder.

"Would you be willing to tell me what went wrong? I would be more than happy to help you find a solution, if I can think of one."

A small, encouraging smile touched her face.

"And if I can’t... then I would gladly be the one who listens."

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