Every Mafia's Favorite Girl novel Chapter 49

Chapter 49: "Would You Spar With Me?"

Together, Aren and Jordan headed upstairs, leaving the stale air of the underground range behind and walked out toward the training yard.

The moment they stepped into the afternoon sunlight, a familiar blur of golden fur launched across the compound.

Biscuit tore across the grounds at maximum speed, tongue lolling out, while three exhausted Marchetti soldiers stumbled blindly after him.

"Sir!" One shouted, clutching a stitch in his side.

"Please stop him!" Another wheezed.

"He’s been provoking me for two hours now!"

Biscuit paid absolutely no attention to their suffering. Apparently, he considered this the greatest day of his life.

The instant he spotted Aren, he abandoned his pursuers without hesitation and sprinted toward her.

Aren laughed brightly as the little dog crashed happily into her legs.

"Hello, pretty boy."

Biscuit barked proudly, as though announcing the successful completion of a classified military operation.

The soldiers finally arrived several seconds later, sweating, breathless, and completely defeated.

Jordan pretended not to notice.

Instead, he watched Aren crouch down to scratch beneath the dog’s chin and felt a reluctant smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

Before the soldiers could start complaining about their dignity, Jordan discreetly flicked a hand, silently dismissing them.

The three men exchanged looks of profound betrayal from their Young Boss.

’Unbelievable.’

’We are literal elite mercenaries.’

’Are we seriously getting outranked by a house pet right now?’

’Simping is crazy.’

At last, they trudged away in quiet defeat, leaving the Young Boss and his "consultant" behind.

The afternoon sun hung high overhead as Aren and Jordan continued walking through the sprawling Marchetti compound.

Everything stretched around them in organized chaos.

Engineers crossed between buildings carrying equipment.

Mechanics shouted from maintenance bays.

Vehicles moved between testing zones.

Eventually, Aren’s attention drifted toward a nearby training area. Several men were sparring inside an open combat ring, while instructors barked corrections from the sidelines.

Aren’s steps slowed as she watched the men exchange blows, until she stopped completely.

Jordan noticed the sudden halt immediately.

"You’re interested?" he asked.

"Um... yes."

She watched the fighters exchange a rapid series of strikes for a moment longer, before turning toward him.

"Jordan."

"Yes?"

"Would you spar with me?"

Jordan blinked. The question genuinely caught him off guard.

"...What?"

Aren nodded, though a brief hesitation crossed her face.

"I... um, well, I need to train. I need to become stronger in a very short time. So... I need a lot of training."

The warmth lingering in Jordan’s expression vanished instantly. His jaw tightened, the pleasant mood evaporating.

"Is this about the cage fight?"

This time, it was Aren’s turn to look surprised.

"How did you know?" Her wide eyes searched his. "I’m sure I haven’t told anyone yet."

Jordan released a slow breath through his nose.

"The whole city knows," he said, unmistakeable irritation in his voice. "That blond bastard made sure of it."

Aren frowned.

"What do you mean?"

Jordan’s expression darkened further.

"The day after you signed the contract, Jeremiah Castellano started advertising it like he’d secured the biggest attraction of the year. Television. News outlets. Blogs. Social media. Business gatherings. Private parties... Everywhere."

Aren fell silent.

For the first time since arriving in Borgata, she tried to mentally picture what that actually meant. Thousands of total strangers — watching her, talking about her, waiting for her to fight someone else — all happening without her knowledge.

The realization felt strange.

Not unpleasant. Just... strange.

"So everyone knows now."

Jordan dragged a hand irritably down his face.

"Pretty much."

The thought of her stepping into that blood-soaked cage, surrounded by thousands of roaring, bloodthirsty men and flashing cameras, made something ugly and violent twist sharply in his chest.

His jaw clenched harder.

"That crazy fucker," he muttered to himself. "Throwing someone like you into the Pit..."

Realizing how the words came out harsher than intended, he forced himself to inhale. Exhale. To shove the anger back down.

’Great.’

’Maybe she’s heard all of those stories too.’

’She definitely thinks I’m just a brainless thug with severe anger issues.’

’A total meathead.’

’How exactly am I supposed to explain that those idiots usually started it first?’

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