Every Mafia's Favorite Girl novel Chapter 103

Chapter 103: "Train Me"

Isidore Accardi witnessed the first kiss of his life when he was ten years old.

It hadn’t been intentional.

He had merely turned a corner inside the Accardi mansion and found Isaac standing in a secluded alcove, holding Micaela tightly in his arms as their mouths met with unmistakable passion.

To a ten-year-old Isidore, the entire spectacle had seemed profoundly unhygienic.

’They’re exchanging saliva...’

’Right after dinner?’

’Disgusting.’

What lingered in his memory even more vividly than the kiss itself was the expression on Isaac’s face.

Infatuation.

Complete, unquestioning infatuation with a woman whom Isidore had already dismissed as nothing more than a persistent irritation — a presence he habitually erased from his attention at every family dinner.

What puzzled him far more was the transformation in his brother afterward. Ever since marrying Micaela, Isaac had begun making increasingly illogical decisions.

At first, Isidore assumed that was simply what love did to people — that Isaac cared so deeply for his wife that reason itself had become secondary.

’So this is what people call love.’

’It overrides reason.’

’An emotion powerful enough to make an intelligent man like Isaac devote himself completely to someone like Micaela...’

The hypothesis hadn’t survived long.

Precisely two years later, Isidore had stumbled upon Isaac again — this time kissing a different woman inside his office.

It was no different from their father, who had entertained countless women behind their mother’s back while making one catastrophic decision after another whenever women became involved.

The data had accumulated quickly.

The conclusion had been immediate.

’Romance is a complete waste of time, energy, efficiency, and attention.’

’However...’

’It is an exceptionally effective weapon when used against other human beings.’

From that day onward, Isidore had adhered to a single, unwavering rule:

He would never involve himself romantically with any breathing, walking, living member of the opposite sex.

For years, the consequences of that decision had seemed entirely beneficial.

Until now.

Standing before Aren, he could tell from the curious tilt of her head alone that the kiss he had attempted — pieced together from detached observation of other humans — had been such an obvious failure that she had recognized his inexperience immediately.

’Was it really that obvious?’

The question irritated him far more than it should have. Even so, not a trace of that irritation reached his face.

Leaning back against the balcony railing with effortless composure, he regarded her with his usual impassive calm.

"You can tell?"

"Well..."

Aren’s gaze drifted toward the city lights as she searched for the least offensive wording.

"It’s just..."

She looked back at him.

"...your behavior during the kiss was... quite like mine. When I had my first kiss."

The explanation struck Isidore as frustratingly incomplete.

It offered no measurable information. No indication of what had been incorrect. No pathway toward improvement.

"Elaborate."

At once, a faint blush crept across Aren’s cheeks. Without warning, memories of Caio’s first kiss resurfaced with startling clarity, warming her face despite the cool night air.

"When I had my first kiss..." she admitted softly, "...I didn’t know what to do either. I became completely still... and everything in my body stiffened."

She looked away, rubbing one arm unconsciously.

"Then I just... let the other person take the lead."

Isidore listened without expression. With every sentence, however, the memory of his own performance became increasingly intolerable.

It painted him as exactly what he refused to be:

A total amateur.

"I responded near the end," he pointed out evenly.

Aren glanced away, replaying the moment in her head.

"Well... yes."

’But... it was rather clumsy. Almost exactly like how I was the first time.’

She couldn’t bring herself to say it aloud. Instead, she offered him an awkward, apologetic smile.

That smile alone told Isidore everything.

Silence settled between them before he asked, almost clinically,

"Then how was it?"

She blinked.

"What was?"

"My response."

Aren scratched lightly at her cheek.

He knew she was trying to spare his feelings. She always defaulted to politeness whenever possible. Yet even while attempting to be kind, the highest praise she could offer had been sufficient.

To Isidore Accardi, sufficient occupied a very different place in his internal standards.

It meant inadequate.

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