Every Mafia's Favorite Girl novel Chapter 101

Chapter 101: "So You Do Like It"

The second floor was alive with the sound of hurried footsteps by the time they arrived.

Isidore’s hand never left Aren’s waist as he guided her through the executive corridor, his pace measured despite the tension rippling through the building.

Security personnel flooded the hallways in search of the intruder, yet the moment they caught sight of Isidore Accardi and the woman tucked against his side, every guard instinctively averted their eyes and continued on without interruption.

Only after the pair rounded a corner and slipped beyond everyone’s sight did Aren tilt her head toward Isidore.

"Master Accardi... are we really going to the lounge?"

Isidore kept his gaze fixed ahead.

"Ylenia Ombra is meticulous. After this is over, she’ll review the hallway surveillance to confirm whether we actually came here. We bypassed the cameras on our way up through the emergency exit, but the way down needs to be just as clean."

Aren nodded, the explanation settling neatly into place.

"I see."

Only then did Isidore allow himself a brief glance in her direction.

It lasted no more than a heartbeat. His eyes moved first to her face, as calm and composed as though nothing unusual had occurred.

Then, entirely against his own better judgment, his gaze drifted lower.

To her lips.

The same lips that, only moments ago, had wrapped around his own with a confidence and intensity completely at odds with the serene expression she now wore.

His gaze narrowed almost imperceptibly.

’Subject analysis update.’

’Despite possessing virtually no understanding of vulgarity, social manipulation, or romantic implication...’

’...the subject demonstrates an exceptionally advanced proficiency in physical seduction.’

The contradiction only grew more pronounced with every new observation.

So did the irritation.

Beneath it lurked an entirely useless question — something his mind stubbornly refused to let go.

’Who taught her that?’

The inquiry served no operational purpose whatsoever. Annoyed by its persistence, he mentally filed it away under "irrelevant variables" and pushed open the lounge doors.

The room beyond was empty.

Leather sofas surrounded polished glass tables, while a private bar lined one wall, its shelves displaying expensive liquors and vintage wines reserved exclusively for distinguished guests.

The moment they stepped inside, Isidore locked the door behind them while Aren immediately slipped into her familiar habits.

Her eyes swept every corner of the room, instinctively checking sightlines for concealed cameras or listening devices. Finding none, the tension eased subtly from her shoulders.

"How long are we staying?"

"Long enough to make the story believable," Isidore replied casually, watching her inspection without comment. "Would you like a drink?"

"Ah... yes, of course."

"What would you prefer?"

Aren wandered toward the bar, studying the bottles arranged behind the glass with quiet curiosity.

Whiskey.

Brandy.

Vodka.

Champagne.

Then her eyes found them.

Several elegant bottles of chilled white wine rested inside a refrigerated cabinet, the liquid luminous beneath the amber light.

She swallowed silently.

’White wine...’

Almost immediately, Caio’s warning resurfaced in her mind.

’Ariana Lombardi hates white wine.’

Reluctantly dragging her eyes away, she answered as casually as she could.

"Um... just something... very strong."

Isidore caught the hesitation at once.

His eyes followed the direction of her gaze until they settled upon the white wine. Without another word, he walked straight to the refrigerator.

"Is white wine strong enough?"

Silent panic exploded inside Aren.

’No, Master Accardi...’

’Why did you have to choose white wine?’

Every instinct urged her to agree. Suppressing it took genuine effort.

Hastily, she forced what she hoped resembled genuine distaste onto her face, then shook her head.

"Um... I... I don’t like white wine."

The lie emerged painfully stiff.

"I hate white wine."

Isidore had already retrieved the bottle from the cabinet.

"Then I’ll drink it."

He glanced sideways at her.

"You can watch."

Aren stared mournfully at the bottle before looking up at Isidore, who was already searching for the corkscrew with complete indifference.

’...Why are you tempting me so badly?’

She bit her lower lip.

’No... I can’t.’

’Don Caio specifically said no white wine in public.’

Resolving to protect both her dignity and her self-control, she retreated to the nearest sofa while Isidore uncorked the bottle with practiced ease.

A soft pop echoed through the quiet lounge.

He poured two glasses before carrying them over.

Rather than offering one to her, he simply placed the second glass upon the table between them while lifting his own.

He gave the pale golden wine a slow swirl, watching it cling to the crystal before taking an unhurried sip.

The soft floral aroma drifted faintly through the room.

Aren followed every movement with painful restraint. Her eyes lingered on the untouched glass for a heartbeat too long before she forced herself to look away.

’Stay strong.’

’You promised Don Caio.’

Determined to distract herself, she returned to the question that had been gnawing at her ever since the exhibition.

"Um, Master Accardi," she began carefully, "...about your promise."

Isidore had expected that.

He settled comfortably onto the sofa opposite hers, then regarded her with the expression of a particularly demanding lecturer preparing to dismantle a student’s misconception.

"Have you ever wondered why I insist that you address me as ’Master Accardi’ throughout this contract?"

Aren blinked.

"Um..."

She searched for what seemed the most obvious explanation.

"Because... it’s professional?"

"Incorrect."

The answer came instantly.

He took another sip before setting the glass aside altogether.

"Because that’s how a slave addresses the person who owns them."

Aren frowned.

"A slave?"

"Not a labor slave."

His tone remained even.

"In this context, a sexual slave."

Aren’s face twisted with immediate discomfort.

"...Is that actually a thing? That sounds horrible."

"It is."

He neither softened the explanation nor dramatized it.

"When someone occupies that role, society generally prefers to disguise it behind a more palatable term."

He held her gaze without blinking.

"A pet."

Aren stared at him, confusion knitting her brows together.

"But... you and I aren’t engaged in any sexual activity."

He gave the faintest shrug, as though discussing nothing more consequential than the weather.

"We don’t have to be. It’s merely an identity I’ve created for you. It allows you to operate under this contract while attracting the kind of attention I want, and discouraging the kind I don’t. Especially from House Ombra."

Aren lowered her gaze to her hands, her fingers slowly intertwining as she worked through his explanation.

’No wonder Don Gian and Jordan kept asking about Master Accardi.’

’They weren’t asking because they were curious...’

’They believed the rumors.’

The memory surfaced unbidden.

Gian’s horrified expression. Jordan’s unmistakable discomfort. The genuine concern etched across both their faces after she had unknowingly confirmed every rumor simply by answering honestly.

A quiet heaviness settled in her chest.

’...The name I’m currently using?’

’No...’

’He knows?’

’What did I do?’

’How did I expose myself?’

"Have you ever wondered," he asked calmly, "why I only address you as ’Signorina’?"

’There’s something profoundly abnormal about the way she categorizes information.’

’Clearly, there is much work to be done.’

’Come to think of it...’

’Everyone else in this world calls me Lady Ariana... or Miss Lombardi...’

’Only Master Accardi never has.’

Even the instinct to move.

"You..."

Her voice trembled.

"...you already knew who I am?"

She stared at him in disbelief.

"But... but how?"

Isidore replied with perfect calm.

"I don’t know who you are."

One hand settled lightly against the back of the sofa behind her as he looked directly into her eyes.

"But does it matter?"

Aren frowned.

"What do you mean?"

His expression remained unchanged.

"Your identity has no bearing on House Ombra’s destruction. As long as you help House Accardi achieve its objective, you’ll remain my elite asset. Professionalism is my only concern. Everything else is irrelevant."

Silence settled over the lounge once more.

Aren studied him carefully.

He looked exactly as he always did — calm, detached, and utterly composed. As though revealing that he’d known she wasn’t Ariana Lombardi all along, only to dismiss the revelation as operationally insignificant, were the most ordinary statements imaginable.

’He’s not interested in exposing me.’

’He’s only interested in the contract.’

The realization slowly loosened the tension that had been gripping her shoulders.

At last, she nodded.

"I understand."

Drawing a slow breath, she met his gaze.

"In that case... I’d like to continue the contract under the current arrangement."

For the briefest instant, something unfamiliar stirred inside Isidore.

It was subtle.

Almost imperceptible.

His attention shifted inward.

’What was that just now?’

’Abnormal response detected.’

’Triumph?’

’Satisfaction?’

’...Irrelevant.’

The feeling was promptly discarded.

Without another word, he stepped back, picked up the untouched glass of white wine, and nudged it gently across the table toward her.

"White wine?"

Aren hesitated only a moment before accepting it.

"...Thank you."

She cradled the glass with both hands and took the smallest sip imaginable.

Almost immediately, a quiet sense of relief softened her features, a tiny expression of contentment blooming across her face before she could suppress it.

Across from her, Isidore watched in silence.

He watched the faint flush spread across her cheeks.

Watched the subtle brightness return to her eyes.

Watched the unmistakable satisfaction she tried — and completely failed — to hide.

’So you do like it.’

The observation was immediately filed away as operationally meaningless. Turning back toward the bar, he poured himself another glass before speaking in the same measured tone.

"Now that you’re fully aware of the identity you’re expected to maintain, there is one final part of today’s mission I haven’t yet briefed you on."

Aren looked up.

"What is it?"

"Text Caio Sartori."

She blinked, puzzled by the seemingly unrelated instruction.

"Um... okay. What should I tell him?"

Isidore merely took an unhurried sip of wine.

"Tell him that you won’t be returning to the Sartori estate tonight," he said flatly. "And that you’ll be spending the night with me."