Every Mafia's Favorite Girl novel Chapter 91

Chapter 91: "Wanna Make A Bet?"

The afternoon light spilled warmly across the vast kitchen by the time Aren arrived.

Rich aromas of freshly milled flour, butter, herbs, and simmering stock drifted through the spacious room, blending into the comforting scent of a place where meals for an entire compound were prepared each day.

The Marchetti kitchen staff looked up almost in unison the moment Jordan led Aren inside.

For a brief second, everyone seemed to pause where they stood, whether they were stirring enormous pots of soup at the stove or kneading dough at the nearby counters.

"Mister Jordan," several greeted together.

Among them, an older woman who seemed to be in charge of the kitchen stepped forward.

Her apron was dusted with enough flour to suggest she’d spent decades ruling this domain, and unlike everyone else, there wasn’t the slightest trace of rigid deference in the way she regarded Jordan.

Instead, she smiled with unmistakable affection, like a grandmother welcoming her grandson home.

"Well, well, Mister Jordan," she said, her eyes twinkling. "I see you’ve brought a new face today."

Her gaze settled on Aren before drifting knowingly back to him, her smile widening.

"So, is this the reason you suddenly started haunting my kitchen last week, hm?"

Jordan’s entire body went rigid.

The abrupt change in his expression was so dramatic that Aren found herself staring at him in surprise.

"Mrs. Sarno," he began hurriedly, "you’re not supposed to—"

Mrs. Sarno cut him off before he could finish.

"Not supposed to what?" she demanded, planting both hands firmly on her hips. "Only last week you didn’t even know how to turn on the mixer. You kept begging me to teach you everything there is to know about bread, and now you’re bringing a pretty young lady in here and talking as though you’re the master of my kitchen, hm?"

With every sentence, more color drained from Jordan’s face.

By the time she finished, he simply raised both hands in complete surrender.

"Mrs. Sarno... please... just stop."

Only then did Aren finally find her voice, astonishment written plainly across her face.

"...Last week?"

Her eyes slowly drifted toward Jordan.

"You only learned baking... last week?"

Jordan closed his eyes.

’I’m dead.’

Dragging both hands slowly down his face, he let them fall helplessly to his sides.

"...Yeah."

His shoulders sagged.

"I... I lied to you. I told you I already knew how to bake, but I didn’t."

A tiny, embarrassed smile tugged weakly at one corner of his mouth.

"I... only started learning a week ago."

Mrs. Sarno nodded with obvious satisfaction.

"He practically lived in this kitchen," she declared proudly.

Jordan immediately shot her a pleading glance, silently begging her to stop, but she ignored him completely.

"He practiced every single day," she continued proudly. "Morning, afternoon, evening. Over and over again. Every chance he had."

Realizing there was no point denying it anymore, Jordan rubbed the back of his neck and looked sheepishly at Aren.

"...It’s just... you seemed really disappointed with your bread."

He hesitated, suddenly unable to meet her eyes.

"I wanted to help you improve. So... I figured... if I learned first... maybe after a week I’d know enough to help you."

Mrs. Sarno gave an amused huff.

"A terribly overconfident plan," she declared, "but a very commendable one."

"Mrs. Sarno..."

She continued as though she hadn’t heard him.

"But listen to me, beautiful young lady. I must compliment him on how quickly he improved. I assure you he can teach you properly now."

She pointed toward a spotless wooden worktable prepared near the ovens.

"Come, come. Why don’t you both get started? I’ve already cleaned a worktable for you. Mister Jordan arranged everything himself. You see what an attentive gentleman he is?"

Jordan felt the overwhelming urge to disappear. Before the older woman could continue advertising him any further, he hurriedly interrupted.

"Mrs. Sarno, please. Could we just... get started now?"

Mrs. Sarno laughed heartily.

"Of course, of course. But you’ll have to gather the ingredients yourselves. You still remember where I keep everything, don’t you?"

Jordan released a quiet sigh.

"Yes, Mrs. Sarno. I remember."

Turning back to Aren, he forced himself to sound normal again.

"Would you come with me to the pantry? We’ll need quite a few things."

Aren smiled warmly.

"Of course."

She crouched to lower Biscuit gently onto the floor before stroking the little dog’s head.

"Wait here for me, alright? I’ve got to help Jordan carry the baking ingredients."

Biscuit answered with a cheerful little yip. Entirely satisfied with his assignment, he settled obediently beside the doorway, his tiny tail swishing happily against the floor.

Together, Aren and Jordan disappeared deeper into the kitchen.

Beyond the bustling workstations stood a thick steel pantry door, separating the storage room from the heat, noise, and bustle outside.

When Jordan pulled it open, the space beyond resembled less a pantry than a small grocery store.

Towering shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, lined with countless varieties of flour, sugar, spices, and every baking ingredient imaginable.

Aren stepped inside with quiet delight.

When the door closed behind them, every sound from the busy kitchen vanished, leaving behind only cool, still air and a silence that felt strangely intimate.

Aren didn’t notice.

Her attention had already wandered to the endless shelves surrounding her.

She drifted between the aisles with open fascination until she spotted several large sacks of flour stacked high on one of the upper shelves.

Without hesitation, she hurried over.

"Jordan, is this the flour?"

Rising onto the tips of her toes, she stretched upward, but it was a hopeless effort. Her fingertips barely grazed the edge of the lowest sack.

Her gaze dropped to the shelves beneath it.

’Hm.’

’I could climb onto these shelves...’

’But they’re storing food.’

’That would be... rude.’

Turning back with an easy smile, she called out,

"Jordan, could you please help me with—"

The words caught in her throat.

Jordan had already moved to her side without her realizing it.

He stood directly in front of her.

Close enough that his chest nearly brushed her face.

Close enough that his shadow swallowed her entirely beneath the pantry lights.

Aren blinked as she looked up at Jordan.

Just moments ago, he’d seemed perfectly normal.

Now...

Something had changed.

His shoulders were taut.

His breathing had grown uneven.

And behind his eyes lingered an emotion she couldn’t begin to decipher.

Hoping to ease the strange tension hanging between them, Aren offered him a gentle smile and pointed toward the shelf above.

"Is that the flour?" she asked softly. "Could you help me get it? I’ll gather the other ingredients."

Strangely, Jordan neither answered nor moved.

A suffocating silence settled between them until, at last, he slowly lifted one hand toward the shelf.

’...Well yes, I do enjoy having multiple partners for missions.’

’But why is he bringing that up now?’

’Why is he suddenly talking about my contracts?’

’Why is he so distressed?’

’Is he upset that I’m not contracted exclusively to House Marchetti?’

’So it’s true.’

’The rumors weren’t lies.’

’She really does want multiple lovers.’

’Can’t she be happy with just one?’

’Can’t she just...’

’Choose me?’

’Is she worth it?’

’No.’

’She’s not.’

’Father’s going to kill me.’

’I’ve got to give up on this.’

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