Every Mafia's Favorite Girl novel Chapter 116

Chapter 116: "Earned The Right To Think That Way"

The backstage area buzzed with disciplined activity.

Armorers moved briskly through the makeshift armory while guards maintained orderly lines outside.

Inside the heavily secured room, row upon row of standard 9mm ammunition boxes rested neatly across steel tables, waiting to be issued as contestants reported in.

Nazario Marchetti sauntered through the doorway with one eye half-lidded, the other squinting against the fluorescent lights overhead. He looked far more prepared for a long afternoon nap than the brutal live-fire course awaiting him.

The quartermaster looked up from his ledger, a tired smile spreading across his face.

"Hey, Mister Nazario. Your first Trials this year. How’re you feeling?"

Nazario answered with a lazy shrug, dragging one hand through his already-disheveled hair.

"Hmm... meh. Nothing to get worked up about." He yawned openly. "Just shooting and punching, isn’t it? Same boring stuff we drill every single day."

The quartermaster chuckled.

The Don’s second-youngest son was exactly as everyone around the compound knew him — perpetually exhausted, permanently uninterested, and somehow never in a hurry.

"Ha! You sound like you’d rather be anywhere else."

"I’d sacrifice a limb to go back to bed right now, truly," Nazario replied, leaning against the edge of the table as he suppressed another yawn. "What about you? Long night sorting out that tagging mess?"

"Yeah, unfortunately." The quartermaster rubbed the bridge of his nose with a weary sigh. "Some of the boys somehow scrambled the inventory tags overnight. Pure chaos. We ended up laying everything out by hand just to keep the schedule."

He slid a fresh box of 9mm ammunition across the metal table.

"Here’s your ammunition allotment. Hold tight for a second and I’ll grab your sidearm from the back."

"Nah, don’t bother, mate." Nazario lazily waved him off. "I know where my gear is."

Then, as though remembering something, he jerked a thumb casually toward the door behind him.

"Oh, right. I had the kitchen brew up a fresh pot of coffee outside for the crew. Go grab yourself a cup before the guards drain the thermos dry."

The quartermaster hesitated.

Protocol demanded that an armorer remain present whenever a contestant occupied the room.

But...

This was Nazario Marchetti.

The Don’s own son.

A young man who always looked too exhausted to care about competing, much less cheat.

The rule suddenly felt more ceremonial than necessary.

"Goodness, Mister Nazario, you’re a lifesaver." The quartermaster tossed his pen onto the ledger with visible relief. "I’ve already had three cups this morning, and I’m still barely functioning."

He gestured toward the weapon racks lining the far wall.

"Your standard issue is on the third rack, second shelf, fifth slot from the left. Serial ending in zero-nine."

Giving Nazario one grateful nod, he headed for the exit.

"I’ll be right back."

"Take your time," Nazario mumbled.

The heavy security door swung shut behind the quartermaster.

The instant the latch clicked into place, every trace of drowsiness vanished from Nazario’s face as his gaze shifted toward the ammunition boxes arranged neatly on the tables.

─ •✧• ─ ✿ ─ •✧• ─

Above the main staging area, House Marchetti’s distinguished guests gradually filled the spectator galleries.

The upper levels overlooked the enormous converted warehouse housing the first round of the Marchetti Trials. Massive display screens lined the surrounding walls, each ready to broadcast every contestant’s progress through the live-fire obstacle course.

As the last spectators settled into their seats, the Head Coordinator stepped onto the central podium. His amplified voice rolled through the arena.

"Welcome, spectators and contestants, to the annual Marchetti Trials."

"We shall begin the First Round of the competition shortly."

"This year’s live-fire obstacle course consists of three sectors: The Ascent, The Factory Floor, and The Dead Zone."

"Only the sixteen fastest contestants will advance to the Second Round."

"Every missed target will incur a five-second penalty added to your final time."

"Every rubber bullet strike will incur a ten-second penalty."

"Contestants... prepare yourselves."

One after another, contestants’ names echoed through the public address system. Each competitor passed through a brief security inspection before stepping onto the starting platform.

Inside the spectator gallery, Jordan stood beside Natalia.

Around them, representatives from their Houses chatted comfortably among themselves, but Jordan scarcely heard a word. Instead, his eyes wandered repeatedly through the rows of seats, searching for one familiar figure.

’Where are you...?’

Natalia noticed his distraction almost immediately.

Without warning, she stepped a little closer and slipped one arm through his as naturally as though they had been doing so for years.

Jordan’s entire body stiffened.

He didn’t pull away. Not with so many Porto representatives watching.

"I can’t believe you, Natalia. You’re so convinced it’ll happen that you’re already going around telling people we’re engaged. So much for your ’I would never wish to force Jordan into such a decision’ speech."

’Found you.’

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