Every Mafia's Favorite Girl novel Chapter 17

Chapter 17: "I Know Him Too Well"

Borgata was a city built on ports.

Whoever controlled the ports controlled the city’s lifeblood, and that power belonged to House Porto.

The Marchettis manufactured weapons.

The Portos moved them across oceans without governments ever noticing.

For decades, the two families had profited side by side, perfectly intertwined.

Jordan Marchetti attended his first Marchetti-Porto dinner when he was ten years old. At twenty-one, he found himself trapped in another.

Tonight’s venue was a private restaurant overlooking the harbor — dark wood walls, crystal chandeliers, wine older than most governments.

Jordan stood at the far end of the room, nursing a drink. His appearance remained flawless: tailored charcoal suit, tie perfectly aligned, brown hair brushed neatly back from his forehead.

Only his expression ruined the picture. Every line of his face had tightened into restrained irritation.

Beside him stood Diego, silent and composed as always. Jordan stepped slightly closer toward the man, lowering his voice enough that nearby guests could not overhear.

"Has Lady Ariana returned safely to the hotel?"

Diego stiffened almost instantly.

"She has, Young Boss."

After the briefest hesitation, he added,

"You should avoid asking about Lady Ariana tonight. Porto men are everywhere."

Jordan glanced sideways, one brow lifting lazily.

"You sound more worried my father might overhear."

Diego’s face remained smooth and neutral.

"The alliance between House Porto and House Marchetti has been considered inevitable for years. It is viewed as... favorable."

Jordan took a slow sip of liquor.

"Favorable for everyone except me."

The burn of whiskey lingered sharp against his throat.

Across the room, laughter drifted between politicians, capos, and House members wrapped in designer silk. Everything smelled expensive — aged wine, perfume, polished wood, cigar smoke buried deep into the walls.

Jordan suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe inside any of it. His gaze shifted across the gathering and landed on Natalia Porto.

She moved through the room with effortless elegance, black evening gown hugging her figure without a single excessive detail. Her dark hair had been pinned flawlessly away from her face, exposing diamond earrings that caught the chandelier light each time she turned her head.

And she fit.

That was the worst part.

Natalia stood beside his sisters laughing softly at something Sofia had said, smiling with the ease of someone already accepted into the family.

Like she had always belonged there.

Like the marriage had already happened.

Jordan looked away before the irritation twisting beneath his ribs became any more visible than it already had.

At precisely eight o’clock, dinner began.

Everyone gathered around the impossibly long dining table overlooking the harbor. Giovanni Porto seated himself beside Eduardo Marchetti at the center, like two kings dividing territory.

Naturally, Natalia was seated beside Jordan.

Naturally, Jordan looked like he would rather be shot.

Dinner began smoothly enough.

The older generation discussed cargo movement, while Jordan’s sisters teased Natalia about how well she fit into the Marchetti household already.

Natalia handled every comment with perfect grace — every smile measured, every laugh soft and feminine, every response exactly appropriate.

Jordan contributed nothing.

He sat rigidly in his chair, nursing yet another glass of liquor while conversation moved around him like background noise.

Then, someone from farther down the table spoke casually.

"The Summit this year was quite refreshing."

The shift in atmosphere was immediate.

Jordan felt it instantly.

His fingers unconsciously tightened around his glass. He already knew where this conversation was heading.

"If you mean Ariana Lombardi," one Porto capo laughed into his wine, "then I found her terrifying."

Another man snorted. "Who would’ve thought the Lombardi girl could fight like that?"

"Maybe she’s been pretending all along," someone mused. "Playing the idiot while hiding real talent."

"Or maybe the narcotics finally granted her enlightenment."

Laughter rippled around the table.

Jordan stared silently at the liquor in his glass.

He could still remember Ariana Lombardi standing inside the workshop earlier that afternoon — pistol in her hands, childlike excitement on her face, her fingers brushing lightly against his own, hidden in Biscuit’s fur.

She was not drugged, not stupid, not weak.

Just... entirely herself.

And that memory only made the laughter around him unbearable.

"I heard House Accardi purchased her as some sort of private pet," a woman added casually while cutting into her steak. "Apparently Isidore Accardi has very... particular tastes."

Another scoffed immediately.

"An Accardi pet? Please. I heard she’s moving into the Sartori estate permanently."

"A mistress?"

"A hostage?"

"A slave, maybe."

More laughter.

One of the younger Porto scions leaned forward eagerly, clearly enjoying the conversation.

"You’re all outdated," he announced loudly. "Castellano signed her for the Pit."

The table exploded.

"No way."

"You’re joking."

"The Lombardi heiress? Fighting in a cage?"

"Borgata has officially lost its mind."

"She’d chip a nail and sue someone."

"Hahaha—!"

Laughter burst louder this time.

Even Giovanni Porto let out an amused sound beneath his breath. Jordan’s siblings laughed openly now. Beside Jordan, Natalia laughed too, like every other Porto at the table.

Jordan didn’t.

Something ugly coiled slowly tighter beneath his ribs.

His jaw tightened hard enough to hurt. The crystal glass creaked audibly beneath the pressure of his grip.

Then—

CRACK.

The sound slammed through the dining room like a gunshot.

Red wine splashed across the white cloth.

Silence followed instantly.

Every conversation died.

Every head turned toward the Marchetti heir.

Across from Jordan, Eduardo’s eyes sharpened immediately.

"Jordan," he said, a sharp warning, "what is it now?"

Jordan rose so abruptly his chair scraped against the floor.

"My apologies."

The words carried absolutely no apology.

’I know him too well.’

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