Every Mafia's Favorite Girl novel Chapter 117

Chapter 117: "Useful For Later"

The instant the signal chimed, every trace of lethargy vanished from Nazario’s frame.

The first sector, The Ascent, loomed before him: a three-story wall of stacked shipping containers draped with cargo nets.

He exploded forward in a blur of ruthless agility, hitting the obstacle at a full sprint before planting one foot against the steel and launching himself upward.

His slender frame climbed with effortless efficiency, barely slowing as his hands and feet flowed across the nets.

Pop-up targets burst from concealed panels in the metal plating on either side.

Nazario never broke stride.

His pistol barked six times in rapid succession.

CLANG. CLANG. CLANG. CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.

Every steel target snapped shut before he reached the top platform.

Not a single shot missed.

Without pausing for even a heartbeat, he plunged straight into The Factory Floor, ejecting his spent magazine and slamming in a fresh one as he ran.

The second sector was a labyrinth of rusted pipes, low concrete barricades, and strobe-lit corridors that distorted depth perception.

Automated turrets sprang to life overhead, swiveling toward him before unleashing streams of high-velocity rubber rounds.

Nazario flowed through the barrage with almost lazy grace.

He pivoted off his left foot, slipped between converging lanes of fire, and dropped into a controlled slide beneath a concrete barrier before springing back upright — never allowing a single rubber round to graze his tactical vest.

Up in the spectator gallery, Aren sat quietly in the back row with her hands folded atop the oversized cookie box resting on her lap.

While the audience gasped at Nazario’s speed, her attention remained fixed on the overhead screens, calmly cataloging every movement.

’Hm.’

’Decent speed. Faster than Jordan, but lacking raw power.’

’He’s favoring stamina and lethality over brute force... and he relies heavily on his left foot whenever he changes direction.’

’Useful for later.’

Back on the course, Nazario burst into the final sector — The Dead Zone.

It was a narrow, high-walled kill lane designed to resemble a deserted urban street, lined with towering hollow wooden and corrugated metal structures that offered both concealment and deadly blind spots.

Nazario’s eyes swept lazily across the looming obstacles.

’Hmm... I wonder which one that shooter is hiding inside.’

’Should I stop by and ask him to give Jordan a bullet?’

The thought lingered for less than a heartbeat before a faint grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

’Nah.’

’I’d rather crush Jordan myself in the second round if he ever makes it.’

Without sparing the structures another glance, Nazario accelerated. He launched into another terrifying sprint, weaving through the final stretch while clearing every remaining target in one seamless rhythm.

Outside the course, the Head Coordinator’s excited commentary thundered through the speakers.

"He’s almost there! Will he make it? Will he break the current record? He only needs to beat two minutes and one second!"

Higher above, the entire gallery seemed to stop breathing.

Every eye locked onto the massive display screens as Nazario raced toward the finish.

"He’s going to make it!"

"He’s going to break it!"

The master timer continued counting.

1:21...

1:22...

1:23...

Nazario crossed the finish line.

The instant he emerged from the exit gate, the entire arena erupted.

"Nazario Marchetti! Zero hits taken. Zero targets missed. Final time... one minute, twenty-four seconds!"

"First place on the leaderboard!"

A wave of astonished applause rolled across the spectator stands.

Disbelief.

Admiration.

Nervous laughter.

Some spectators immediately began debating whether anyone could possibly surpass such a time.

Others simply stared at the glowing leaderboard, silently accepting that first place had just become infinitely more difficult to claim.

Through it all, Nazario stepped off the exit platform with his shoulders already beginning to slump.

The razor-sharp focus disappeared from his face, replaced once more by his familiar sleepy indifference, as though he had merely finished a mildly inconvenient chore rather than shattered the competition’s best record.

As he wandered toward the backstage exit with his hands buried in his pockets, he crossed paths with Jordan, who was heading toward the armory for his own turn.

Jordan offered him an easy nod.

"Not bad at all for a first attempt, Nazario. I took a couple of hits myself the first time I ran the course."

Nazario paused just long enough to glance sideways at his older brother.

"Says the three-time champion."

A faint smirk tugged at his lips.

"How are things with that Porto lady, anyway? You two looked like quite the pair up there in the spectator gallery."

Jordan’s relaxed expression cooled immediately. His eyes narrowed as he tried to judge whether Nazario was making a casual jab or deliberately provoking him right before his turn.

"We are not a pair," he answered flatly. "And it’s none of your concern."

Nazario gave a lazy scoff.

"Pfft. Yeah, not that I care about your love life."

He walked past Jordan, casually patting his brother’s shoulder with almost affectionate familiarity.

"But seriously, brother... try to make it to the second round, will you?"

Jordan barely turned his head.

"Sure."

As Nazario continued down the corridor without another glance, an odd chill settled beneath Jordan’s skin.

’...What was that about?’

Shaking off the uneasy feeling, Jordan continued toward the armory. The moment he stepped inside, the quartermaster looked up.

"Young Boss."

"Quartermaster." Jordan nodded. "Everything alright?"

"Well... of course it looks fine," Ricci said. "But the situation’s a little strange."

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