Every Mafia's Favorite Girl novel Chapter 13

Chapter 13: "Blood Sugar"

They continued down the wide hallway until they reached the main viewing area overlooking the cage.

Inside the octagonal fighting pit, two fighters were already training.

Their bodies glistened with sweat under the bright lights. The sharp crack of gloves meeting flesh echoed through the space, violent and relentless.

Aren set Biscuit down at her feet, then stepped closer to the railing. The little dog sat obediently, ears perked, watching the fighters with intense focus.

"Are they training?" Aren asked.

"Yes," Jeremiah replied, stopping beside her. "We have dedicated training rooms, but some fighters prefer the cage. It helps them get used to the atmosphere... the lights, the pressure, the eyes watching."

Aren’s gaze followed the taller fighter’s movements with quiet fascination. After a few seconds, she murmured, almost to herself,

"His left knee. Old injury."

Jeremiah turned to her instantly. A faint chill ran through him before he could stop it.

She was right.

He had read the medical files himself — the man had torn his ACL years ago and never fully recovered. Very few people noticed something like that from a single glance.

Jeremiah’s eyes narrowed into an amused slit.

’Just how much has she been concealing behind that vapid party girl mask?’

He stepped closer, letting his shoulder brush lightly against hers.

"How do you feel about becoming a fighter in the Pit, Lady Ariana?" he asked, voice teasing yet laced with genuine interest.

Aren didn’t notice the subtle movement of his shoulder, nor the way his voice now sounded like he was recording a late-night ASMR video directly into her ear.

She turned to him, blinking.

"Me? Fighting?"

"You’re quite skilled," he said, a playful smile curving his lips. "I only saw a glimpse at the Summit, but it was enough. You move like art in motion."

"Oh." A soft flush colored Aren’s cheeks. "About that..."

She braced herself for a barrage of questions about her skills, but Jeremiah only chuckled — low, rich, and warm.

"With skills like yours," he said teasingly, "you would be perfect for the Pit."

Aren let out a small breath, relieved he didn’t press further. She looked back at the cage, then at him again, voice small with uncertainty.

"Is that all you wish to ask of me?"

"That is all," Jeremiah said easily. "I’m sure my contract is the simplest of the three you’ve been offered."

He leaned one arm casually on the railing, closing the distance between them.

"One night a week for one year. One hundred million toward your family’s debt. You will be my main event. We will provide everything — a custom outfit, a stage name, full production. People will pay thousands just to watch you walk into the cage, let alone fight."

He studied her face carefully before adding, "If you sign for five years instead, I can settle the full amount immediately."

Aren looked down at her hands.

This body’s wrists still currently possessed the strength of overcooked noodles, which only guaranteed throwing a single punch would likely result in her fracturing her own arm.

"There is one problem," she said carefully. "I will need time to prepare before I begin. Perhaps a month."

"Take all the time you need," Jeremiah replied without hesitation.

His teal eyes softened, voice dropping to a sweet murmur.

"Well then, if that is your only concern... can we sign today?"

Aren considered it for a moment.

She now had three contracts: one with Caio, one with Isidore, and now this. The schedules were tight, but they didn’t overlap dangerously.

"Yes," she said, nodding earnestly. "That is acceptable."

At her feet, Biscuit let out a tiny approving sound, as if he too had been consulted.

Jeremiah’s smile deepened, clearly pleased.

"Excellent."

He led her back upstairs, this time to a private office that overlooked the Pit. From this height, the cage looked smaller, like a stage viewed from a balcony framed with glass.

He placed a contract in front of her, printed in gold ink on thick vellum.

Aren sat down and began reading line by line with intense focus.

As she read, Jeremiah moved behind her, resting a hand lightly on the back of her chair. His shoulder brushed hers as he leaned in slightly, close enough that high-end cologne practically waterboarded her sinuses.

The room was dim, lit by amber lamps that cast warm shadows across the walls. In his experience, this setting, combined with his proximity, usually had a predictable effect.

"You know, my lady," he murmured, voice low and intimate, "I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed the Summit as much as I did that day. And it was entirely because of you."

Aren turned to him.

"Oh."

’Why is he bringing up the Summit?’

A soft flush instantly warmed her cheeks.

’He must be upset I didn’t give him any cupcake.’

"I regret not bringing enough cupcakes to share," she said apologetically. "I will prepare more next time."

She flipped to the next page, completely missing the way Jeremiah’s eyes darkened with quiet fascination as he looked at her.

"I’m very sorry," she added, "but I have a small request."

Jeremiah caught the shift in her tone immediately. A knowing smile touched his lips, the smug expression of a man who routinely handled high-maintenance heiresses for sport.

’So here it comes.’

From everything he had heard, Ariana Lombardi was not someone who asked for small things.

"Go ahead," he said with a perfect smile. "Anything you want. Wardrobe, entrance music, lighting — the Pit can provide whatever your heart desires."

Aren hesitated, brow furrowing with genuine concern.

"Do the fighters receive food? Before or after the matches?"

Jeremiah blinked.

"There is a VIP bar upstairs and water stations for staff," he answered, slightly thrown.

’Would he choose shortbread or sponge cake for me?’ she wondered. ’Or would it be cookies?’

The door closed with a quiet click.

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