Every Mafia's Favorite Girl novel Chapter 8

Chapter 8: "Please State Your Requirements"

The night after the Summit, Aren stayed in the Lombardi Hotel suite. The space was still too large to her liking, but tonight, it felt less lonely.

Biscuit had helped with that.

Despite his thin frame, Biscuit ate like he had not seen food in days. He had also, without hesitation, claimed one of the silk pillows from the bed, dragged it across the floor with stubborn determination, until he was satisfied with its position near the closet.

Now, he slept on it like a king. His soft snoring echoed faintly against the walls.

Aren didn’t sleep much.

She spent the night cross-referencing everything she had gathered about her new "clients."

By 4:00 AM, she had a rough profile of each of them in her notebook:

Caio Sartori, 32

— High authority, low emotional display.

— Likely carries heavy responsibility.

— Might need emotional support.

Jeremiah Castellano, 26

— High visibility.

— Attends public events frequently.

— Smiles often.

— Beautiful, like an angel.

Isidore Accardi, 28

— Very rich.

Aren closed the notebook, feeling a quiet sense of accomplishment.

─ •✧• ─ ✿ ─ •✧• ─

The next morning, a black Lombardi sedan glided through the wrought-iron gates of the Sartori estate.

The household staff stood in rigid formation along the grand entrance, heads carefully lowered.

To them, the name Ariana Lombardi was synonymous with chaos: a whirlwind of shrill demands, expensive perfume, and the occasional thrown vase.

Her last visit had been the most scandalous of all — she had emerged from the master suite with hacked-off hair and fled the estate in nothing but a man’s bathrobe.

Mrs. Pecora had volunteered to receive her.

As the Head of Staff, Mrs. Pecora had survived fifteen years of service to House Sartori by becoming a human glacier. Most importantly, she had handled the tantrums of Ariana Lombardi more than anyone else in the house.

She approached the car with icy resolve. However, when the door opened, the girl who stepped out was not the one Mrs. Pecora recognized.

Aren was wearing a simple sweater over long jeans, with a dog tucked securely under her arm. She thanked the driver with a respectful bow and apologized for the "slight golden fluff" Biscuit had left on the leather seats.

Then, she turned to the grand foyer, gazing at the vaulted ceilings with quiet appreciation.

Mrs. Pecora stood frozen.

When Aren stepped forward, her gaze dropped to Mrs. Pecora’s name tag. She noted how the woman’s uniform was different from the others — a sharp black suit with golden cuffs.

’This must be the Operative Head of the estate.’

Aren’s head instantly dipped in a formal bow.

"Good morning, Mrs. Pecora. The house is very beautiful."

Mrs. Pecora stared at her.

She took in the sensible jeans, the scruffy dog, the utter lack of dilated pupils, and the way Ariana Lombardi had just acknowledged her name.

With a respectful title.

For the first time in a decade, the Head of Staff found herself at a loss for words.

"The Don is in the study," Mrs. Pecora managed at last, her voice thinner than usual.

Aren replied with a nod, standing still and waiting for Mrs. Pecora to lead the way.

Mrs. Pecora’s confusion only deepened.

Normally, Ariana would have barged past her toward the bar and demanded three bottles. Now she stood still, waiting to be guided.

"...This way," Mrs. Pecora said, turning toward the staircase.

Aren followed at a respectful distance, each step sending a fresh trickle of sweat down Mrs. Pecora’s spine.

─ •✧• ─ ✿ ─ •✧• ─

They stopped in front of a set of large oak doors.

From inside, Caio’s voice cut through the wood — fast, clipped, and edged with an anger sharp enough to cut.

He was on the phone with an associate.

Mrs. Pecora knocked anyway.

"Sir, Lady Ariana has arrived."

The sharp conversation died a sudden death.

Footsteps clicked rapidly toward the door. The handle turned, the door swinging open within seconds.

Caio’s eyes, narrowed into thin blue slits, peered through the gap.

He looked at Mrs. Pecora’s face first, searching for a sign of a disaster. Finding none, his gaze shifted to Aren.

He stared at her wide, unblinking eyes, then the sweater, the jeans, and finally — the dog tucked under her arm.

Something flickered behind his eyes that he immediately killed.

"Send her in," he said, swinging the door wide.

Aren stepped inside, her eyes calmly moving across the room as she took in the grand surroundings — the towering bookcases, the golden pen holder, the soft velvet covering every chair and chaise.

A pleasant thrill instantly hummed through her.

’This feels like a proper briefing room.’

"Sit wherever you want," Caio said.

He gestured vaguely at the velvet couches and chairs that filled the room, then went back to sit at the only desk in the study.

Aren chose the couch opposite his desk, then placed Biscuit on the floor. The little dog immediately began a thorough investigation of the thousand-dollar rug.

As Caio’s attention dipped back to the paperwork on his desk, she quietly observed him.

His shirt had two buttons undone, and he wore no cravat. His hair, black and soft, was not styled, falling loosely down the sides of his face.

He looked less formal today.

He also looked more tired.

"Did you sleep well last night?" Aren asked.

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