Every Mafia's Favorite Girl novel Chapter 1

Chapter 1: "The Soul Known as Aren"

The soul known as Aren didn’t arrive in her next life through a tunnel of light or the singing of angels.

One moment, she had been trapped in the searing heat of a thermal detonator inside a subterranean bunker — a final, selfless act to save her brothers-in-arms.

The next, she woke to the cloying scent of expensive lilies and high-grade narcotics.

Aren blinked.

The ceiling above her stretched high, vaulted and ornate. Nothing like the reinforced concrete and exposed steel of the bunker she remembered dying in.

Everything felt wrong.

Her body, most of all.

Where there should have been the hardened muscle of a lifetime spent in elite combat, there were only slender limbs, delicate skin, and unfamiliar softness.

Aren looked down.

’Oh?’

She froze.

’No clothes?’

"Finally, you’re awake."

The male voice cut through the silence like a blade, low and edged with unmistakable contempt.

"I was beginning to think I’d need to call Moretti’s cleaners to drag your corpse out of my bed."

Aren instinctively turned toward the sound. A man stood near a tall wardrobe, his back turned to her as he buttoned a black silk shirt.

The muscles across his shoulders shifted beneath the fabric with a predatory grace she recognized:

’Balanced stance.’

’Controlled movement.’

’He knows how to kill. And does it often.’

As though sensing the weight of her gaze, the man, Caio Sartori, turned.

Blue eyes met hers.

Cold eyes.

Sharp enough to carve flesh from bone.

To him, the woman lying in his bed was Ariana Lombardi — a frivolous socialite whose value extended no further than her family name and her predictable addictions.

His gaze swept over her with habitual disdain, already expecting the usual behavior: a glass-shattering scream, a loud demand for attention, maybe a desperate plea for another hit of the drugs his House specialized in.

Something irritating.

"The Summit, Ariana," he said, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. "Are you planning to attend, or have you finally managed to fry your brain entirely?"

Aren processed the words in silence.

’Summit. Ariana. Brain.’

None of them meant anything to her.

Conclusion: ask.

"What Summit?"

Caio paused mid-motion. The button in his hand stopped halfway through the loop.

He turned to her fully then, suspicion hardening his features.

"The Borgata Summit," he replied irritably. "At The Hub. The one your House hosts."

Aren quietly stored the information away.

’Borgata. The Hub. House.’

Her thoughts halted abruptly as her attention drifted back to the man.

A flicker of something unexpected surfaced in her chest.

Pity.

For him.

In her past life, Aren had been the youngest member of a mercenary organization.

Eighteen, when she died.

Her life had been brutal, ugly at times, stripped of comfort and luxury, yet her squad brothers had surrounded her in a fierce kind of love that had never once made her question her worth.

This man, however, was looking at her with a level of loathing that made her skin crawl. Handsome as he was, he looked like someone in desperate need of a hug.

Or perhaps a strong sedative.

She pushed herself upright, pulling the silk sheet securely across her chest.

"May I ask where I am, exactly?" she asked politely. "And why am I... naked?"

Silence descended over the room, immediate and heavy.

Caio stared at her.

Then, he moved.

Two strides closed the distance between them. His shadow swallowed her as he leaned down abruptly, fingers snapping forward to grip her chin.

Hard.

"Ariana Lombardi," he hissed, a sharp warning, "if this is another game to squeeze more product out of me, it’s a boring one."

He tilted her face upward, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"You’ve been high for three days. You’re sober now. Act like it."

Aren didn’t flinch. She sat perfectly still, observing the man.

’Tactical utility: zero.’

’Concealment: zero.’

’Dignity: negative.’

Ring. Ring.

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