Every Mafia's Favorite Girl novel Chapter 23

Chapter 23: "You Want Ice Cream?"

Aren stood motionless at the center of the luxury boutique, like the calm eye of a storm she didn’t realize she’d created.

Around her, three attendants circled in a frenzy of silk, velvet, and lace, their arms overflowing with dresses.

"Lady Ariana’s proportions are unbelievable..."

"She makes everything look custom-made..."

"She’s even prettier in person..."

Nearby, Caio had regretted this outing approximately thirty minutes ago. He sat sunk deep into a velvet armchair, one ankle crossed over his knee, fingers pressed hard against his temple.

’Of course she looks good in everything.’

That wasn’t the issue.

The issue was that every employee in the boutique had apparently abandoned professionalism altogether.

None of them seemed interested in actually selling clothes anymore. They hovered around Aren like worshippers around a sacred relic, bickering passionately over colors, fabrics, and cuts.

Meanwhile, Aren stood exactly where they positioned her, calm and cooperative as layer after layer of expensive fabric accumulated in her arms.

"She has such elegant posture..."

"The lighter shades soften her beautifully..."

"We should bring out the spring collection—"

"No," another interrupted sharply. "The black collection first."

Caio shut his eyes briefly.

’I should’ve just bought the damn store.’

Eventually, the attendants whisked Aren behind the fitting curtains with dramatic urgency. For the first time in nearly an hour, silence settled around the room.

Caio leaned back deeper into the chair, hoping — foolishly — for at least five minutes of peace.

He got exactly thirty seconds.

The curtain swept open. The sharp click of heels against marble made him glance up automatically—

—and instantly regret looking.

Aren stepped out dressed in black.

A catastrophic amount of black.

The gown clung to her body like liquid shadow. Her back was left completely bare, exposing pale skin in one smooth line down the curve of her spine. One slit climbed dangerously high along her thigh, revealing flashes of skin every time she moved.

The entire boutique collectively stopped breathing.

One attendant pressed both hands to her chest, visibly emotional. "This silhouette is breathtaking..."

Another instantly added, "Elegant but seductive—"

"Absolutely devastating—"

As for Caio, he simply leaned farther back in his chair.

His face remained perfectly blank, a flawless mask of Don-level authority.

Internally, however:

’Dear God.’

Meanwhile, Aren looked deeply dissatisfied.

She turned toward the mirror with a deadly serious face, testing her range of movement like a soldier evaluating armor instead of couture.

"There is nowhere to conceal knives," she observed, tone flat.

Caio answered with forced, painful calm. "That’s because women generally don’t attend dinner armed."

Aren frowned, lifting the slit. "It also restricts mobility."

"It’s made for galas, not storming buildings."

"The fabric looks highly flammable," she countered, rubbing the silk between two fingers.

The attendants collectively looked at the floor.

Caio closed his eyes again.

’...But it looks incredible.’

With visible restraint, he gestured vaguely toward the trembling employees.

"Find something less..." he paused, reluctant to voice the word, "...revealing."

The attendants scattered instantly.

Aren disappeared behind the curtains once more. Ten minutes later, she stepped back out.

This time, the room fell quiet for entirely different reasons.

The crimson dress covered nearly everything — long fitted sleeves, a high neckline, no dramatic slit, no exposed skin beyond her hands and face. Yet somehow, it was infinitely worse.

The deep red fabric embraced her figure with devastating elegance before cascading smoothly to the floor in clean, graceful lines.

Completely refined.

Completely dignified.

And absolutely lethal.

Aren studied herself in the mirror thoughtfully.

"This allows proper shoulder rotation for counter-strikes," she observed.

Meanwhile, something inside Caio’s nervous system had entirely short-circuited.

’No.’

’Absolutely not.’

’Why is this one even more dangerous?’

At last, he managed weakly.

"Mmm."

Aren, oblivious to the damage she was causing to his operating system, continued her technical analysis with growing seriousness.

"There’s enough space for concealed thigh holsters."

"Mmm."

"And hidden blade supports beneath the sleeves."

"Mmm."

"I believe I could run in this if necessary."

Caio immediately turned toward the attendants.

"Get her twenty more like this."

The attendants looked moments away from ascending into heaven.

"Yes, sir!"

"Immediately, sir!"

"Should we prepare jewelry selections as well?!"

By the end of the fitting, there were enough shopping bags to stock an entire department store.

Everything was sent directly to the Sartori estate via courier.

As Aren stepped outside beside Caio, she glanced back at the towering collection of purchases, concern written plainly across her face.

"That is a very large number of dresses."

"You’ll need them soon."

"Soon?" She looked at him. "When?"

Caio guided her down the boulevard, one hand resting lightly against the small of her back.

The city moved around them in waves of afternoon noise and fading sunlight.

"There’s a dinner this Wednesday," he said, lowering his voice. "You’re accompanying me. Wear the red one."

"Understood!" Aren replied at once, voice bright with excitement. "What should I know beforehand?"

Caio glanced sideways at her, faintly amused. She reacted to anything resembling a mission directive like a golden retriever hearing the word ’walk.’

"I’m meeting a distributor named Pietro Lamon," he told her. "The last negotiation didn’t go well. This dinner is intended to settle the contract."

"Location?"

"Rooftop restaurant. Accardi District."

As they walked, Caio continued briefing her in precise detail: potential threats, security blind spots, the placement of the emergency exits.

Aren absorbed every word with absolute, hyper-focused attention...

Until her attention drifted sideways.

Caio noticed the lapse instantly. He stopped mid-sentence and followed her line of sight.

Across the street sat a tiny ice cream cart beneath a striped umbrella.

The vendor was sculpting a perfectly rounded scoop of strawberry ice cream — a shade of pink so vibrant it almost glowed beneath the afternoon sun.

Aren was staring at it with dangerous intensity. She said absolutely nothing, but her silver eyes had significantly brightened.

Caio looked at her face.

Then at the cart.

Then back at her again.

He considered reminding her they were in the middle of a tactical discussion regarding a high-risk business meeting.

He failed almost immediately.

"...You want ice cream?"

Aren looked up so quickly it nearly startled him. Her entire face lit up with frantic excitement, yet somehow, she managed to stifle a joyous scream.

Instead, she bit down her lip, her voice a shy murmur.

"...Only if you are also getting one."

Caio exhaled slowly through his nose.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips before he suppressed it.

"What flavor is good?"

Five minutes later, they walked side by side through the streets of Borgata, holding ice cream cones like two perfectly ordinary civilians.

’Don Caio sleeps with beautiful women?’

’Oh.’

’He doesn’t like sleeping alone.’

’Six firearms.’

’Two hidden blades.’

’One ankle holster.’

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