Every Mafia's Favorite Girl novel Chapter 18

Chapter 18: "For Security Purposes"

Aren’s final afternoon at the Lombardi Hotel was, luckily, uneventful. She sat in the lobby, Biscuit asleep next to her on the chaise lounge.

The receptionist had already called for her driver. Now, she was only waiting for Isabella.

At four in the afternoon, the lobby was unusually quiet.

Beyond the towering glass windows, Borgata glowed beneath a deep blue sky streaked with the first traces of dusk.

For a moment, everything felt strangely peaceful.

Then—

Ding.

The elevator doors slid open.

Isabella stepped out looking mildly exhausted, dark circles faint beneath her eyes. Yet the moment she spotted Aren, all fatigue instantly vanished.

She crossed the marble floor like a woman marching into war.

"Ahem, my lady."

Aren looked up immediately.

"Oh. Hello, Isabella."

Without preamble, Isabella pointed accusingly at the tiny black backpack sitting beside Aren’s feet.

"Please do not tell me that this is all you’re bringing to the Sartori estate."

Aren glanced down at the bag, then back at Isabella.

"Yes."

A long silence followed.

"...What do you even have in there?"

"Two sweaters. Two pairs of jeans. Two sundresses. My laptop. A notebook. Undergarments."

Isabella closed her eyes.

For one powerful moment, she considered tearing out her own hair in the middle of the hotel lobby.

This was Ariana Lombardi.

The same girl who once required three separate luggage carts for a two-night yacht trip.

The same girl who had packed emergency outfits for potential paparazzi angles.

And now...

Two sweaters.

Isabella inhaled slowly through her nose with the restraint of a saint being tested by God Himself.

’Do not scream at your employer. Do not scream at your employer.’

With tremendous willpower, she forced her attention back to the problem at hand.

"My lady."

She held out a cream-colored envelope trimmed with gold foil.

"This arrived for you earlier this morning. From Chiara Leone."

Aren accepted it with both hands.

Inside sat an elegant invitation written in flowing black ink. The stationery alone looked expensive enough to cover someone’s rent for a month.

Aren’s eyes moved slowly across the page.

"Oh, a luncheon."

She looked up at Isabella, eyes wide with curiosity.

"Will the food be nice?"

Isabella nearly sat down on the floor.

"The food will absolutely be nice," she replied with immense restraint. "There will probably be imported desserts, flower sculptures, gold leaf on everything. Very Chiara Leone."

Her expression then shifted into something far more complicated.

"However, the food is not the issue," she said, every syllable heavy. "Are you seriously considering attending a luncheon hosted by someone who has spent years publicly insulting you?"

Aren tilted her head.

"Is it very bad?"

Isabella stared at her in exhausted disbelief.

’Of course she doesn’t know!’

’I’ve been cleaning up those scandals for years while she was busy taking photos for social media!’

At last, Isabella let out a long, defeated sigh.

"Chiara insults you whenever she gets the opportunity. Interviews. Charity galas. Social media. If there’s an audience, she’ll use it."

Aren listened attentively.

Inside, however,

’...What is social media?’

The term had never entered her vocabulary in either life.

She opened her mouth, fully prepared to ask. Before she could, the receptionist hurried toward them across the lobby.

"My lady, your car has arrived."

Aren nodded and stood. She swung the tiny backpack over one shoulder before turning back toward Isabella.

"Please tell Lady Chiara that I accept the invitation."

Isabella stared at her.

"...You really are going."

"The envelope looks expensive," Aren said, sliding it into her backpack. "I shouldn’t waste her effort."

Then, without warning, she bowed — deep, formal, respectful.

"Thank you very much for taking care of me during my stay here, Isabella. Please continue taking good care of Don Gian while I’m away."

The receptionist froze.

Isabella froze harder.

A sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob escaped Isabella’s throat.

Before Aren could react, she suddenly lunged forward and wrapped her in a fierce hug.

"My lady—!" she choked out, tears already spilling down her face. "You can’t just suddenly become polite and emotionally functional like this! It’s terrifying!"

Aren blinked in startled confusion.

Carefully, she patted Isabella’s back the same way she would comfort a distressed teammate after a difficult mission.

"It’s alright," she said, voice calm. "I’ll still visit."

"That’s not helping!" Isabella wailed.

"I see."

Aren continued patting anyway.

Around them, several hotel employees quietly looked away to hide their expressions. Their eyes were already raw and reddened.

─ •✧• ─ ✿ ─ •✧• ─

A few minutes later, Aren finally stepped outside with Biscuit and the tiny backpack.

’...Where are the rest of the belongings?’

"I remember Don Caio’s study and bedroom being located in the west wing. This seems many corridors away."

Mrs. Pecora recovered quickly.

"The Don specifically requested that you stay in the east wing."

"Oh."

Aren considered for a moment.

Then, very politely, she asked,

"Would it be possible to move me closer to his quarters? The closer, the better."

A small realization passed behind Mrs. Pecora’s eyes.

’Ah...’

’So she’s still hopelessly infatuated with the Don.’

Mrs. Pecora folded her hands neatly, expression perfectly neutral.

"This suite was prepared according to Don Caio’s wishes. May I ask why you would prefer another?"

"For security purposes."

Mrs. Pecora froze.

"...Security purposes?"

"Yes." Aren nodded earnestly. "If something dangerous happens to Don Caio, it would be inefficient if I need to cross several sections of the estate to reach him."

Silence swallowed the room.

One of the maids nearly choked.

The other stared at Aren as though trying to determine whether this was devotion or insanity.

Mrs. Pecora somehow maintained her professionalism, through what could only be described as divine intervention.

"...I will inform Don Caio of your concerns."

Aren brightened immediately.

"Thank you very much."

"Dinner is served at eight in the main dining hall," Mrs. Pecora informed stiffly. "Your attendance is expected."

"I understand."

Mrs. Pecora gave one final nod, before turning to leave with the two maids.

The moment the doors shut, she dismissed both maids and immediately reached for her phone.

Her fingers moved rapidly across the screen.

Mrs. Pecora: Sir. Lady Ariana has arrived safely.

Mrs. Pecora: She has requested reassignment to a suite closer to your quarters.

Mrs. Pecora: She stated the request was made "for security purposes."

Mrs. Pecora fully expected the message to remain unanswered for at least an hour.

Instead, her phone began ringing almost immediately.

Ring. Ring.

She stared at the screen for one terrible second.

’Could it be... the Don is the infatuated one?’

She answered the phone at once.

"...Yes, sir?"