Every Mafia's Favorite Girl novel Chapter 92

Chapter 92: "Highly Desirable"

For as long as Aren remained silent, Jordan felt the air slowly leaving his lungs.

She didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, her gaze settled somewhere near the center of his chest, unfocused and distant, as she quietly turned over every word he had said.

To Jordan, it looked as though she were trying to solve a complicated mathematical equation rather than respond to what was, in essence, a confession.

His pulse hammered painfully in his ears.

’Say something.’

’Anything.’

The truth was, the bet itself had been nothing more than a bluff.

Whether she won or he did, he would still end up with what he wanted most — an excuse to spend time with her.

If she won, they would stand side by side in kitchens while he taught her every recipe he knew.

If he won, perhaps they would sit across from each other at restaurants instead.

The destination changed, but the outcome remained the same.

’Please... just don’t reject me outright.’

Meanwhile, Aren was conducting an entirely different calculation.

Every activity Jordan had described sounded less like romance and more like another commitment that would have to be carefully fitted into her already overflowing schedule.

’I don’t mind spending time with Jordan.’

’He’s friendly, kind, and I like how comfortable we are around each other.’

’But taking on more activities means dividing my attention across my other contracts.’

’Conclusion: highly risky.’

Her brows knit slightly.

Yet when she considered the other side of the equation, Jordan’s offer hardly sounded unreasonable.

’If Jordan can really teach me that many recipes... then perhaps my bakery dream could come true one day.’

A tiny smile tugged at her lips.

’Conclusion: highly desirable.’

Satisfied with her analysis, Aren finally looked back up at him.

"Would me accepting the bet make you not upset anymore?"

Jordan froze.

An unexpected warmth tightened in his chest.

’She’s... worried about whether I’m upset?’

Swallowing past the sudden lump in his throat, he managed a quiet,

"...Yeah. I guess so."

A gentle smile softened Aren’s features.

"Then we have a bet."

Relief crashed through Jordan so abruptly it nearly made his knees weak. Before he could fully savor it, however, Aren tilted her head.

"Though... there’s one thing I want to do before I can fully commit to our wager."

His attention sharpened instantly.

"What is it?"

Aren smiled brightly.

"Shall we go and bake?"

He blinked.

"...Uh... bake?"

Aren nodded at once.

"Yes. Of course we’ve got to bake. You only learned last week, didn’t you?"

She looked at him playfully.

"If we don’t bake, how can I know whether you’re actually good enough to teach me everything? I won’t fully commit to the bet unless you can help me improve my bread."

A soft laugh escaped her.

The sound wrapped itself around Jordan’s heart with embarrassing ease.

Heat climbed the back of his neck, and he immediately stepped back half a pace, finally giving her the space she had unknowingly lost while he’d cornered her against the shelves.

"Ha... right. Of course."

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying very hard to sound composed.

"I’m gonna show you everything I’ve learned in one week."

─ •✧• ─ ✿ ─ •✧• ─

By the time they returned to the main kitchen, the room had settled back into its familiar rhythm.

Jordan stood opposite Aren with his sleeves neatly rolled to his forearms. Between them rested a large bowl of smooth, lightly floured dough.

He demonstrated the motion once, pressing both palms gently into the dough before folding it back over itself.

"Here, Ariana. Fold it like this."

Aren watched his hands with absolute concentration.

He was entirely focused, the exact same way he looked when calibrating components in the workshop, but there was an unfamiliar warmth radiating from him now.

It softened him.

Made him look relaxed.

For the first time, she found her eyes quietly drifting to him instead of his hands.

’Is this what Jordan is like when he bakes?’

’He feels like an entirely different person.’

’No longer stiff and formal around me. Just... comfortable and natural.’

Shaking the distraction away, she stepped forward, determined to act as if she hadn’t missed a single beat.

"Like this?"

Jordan smiled warmly.

"Yeah."

Aren nodded sharply.

"I understand."

She immediately attempted to imitate him.

By assaulting the dough with the same intensity she normally reserved for calibrating experimental firearms.

Jordan could only stare.

Then, very quickly, he covered his mouth to hide the smile threatening to escape.

’Now I understand why she said her bread was disastrous...’

Before she could launch another merciless attack on the poor dough, Jordan stepped forward.

"No, Ariana, you can’t do it like that. The dough isn’t your enemy."

Aren looked up at him in surprise.

"It isn’t?"

"No."

She regarded the sticky mass with open suspicion.

"It feels like it is."

Jordan laughed outright.

─ •✧• ─ ✿ ─ •✧• ─

Several hours later, the two of them stood shoulder to shoulder before the industrial oven, staring through the glass door with matching intensity.

The loaf inside had risen beautifully, its crust turning a rich golden brown beneath the steady heat.

Somehow, thanks to Aren’s enthusiasm and Jordan’s inability to refuse her, they had also managed to squeeze a tray of twelve cupcakes into the remaining oven space during the final stage of baking.

Aren watched with shining eyes as the cupcakes continued rising into perfectly rounded domes.

Right on cue, her stomach growled, loudly enough for Jordan to hear.

Grrrr... Glug.

Jordan fought back a laugh, burying a snort in his shoulder.

"Pff—"

Aren cleared her throat with complete dignity.

"Um... I’m pretty sure the time is right."

Jordan didn’t even bother checking the timer. She had declared the bread ready exactly one minute earlier.

"The time is not right," he rejected outright. "You’re just hungry."

Aren puffed out her cheeks into an unmistakable pout.

─ •✧• ─ ✿ ─ •✧• ─

At last, five minutes later, the oven timer chimed.

The loaf that emerged was, without question, the most beautiful bread Aren had ever seen.

Its crust gleamed a deep, lustrous gold, while elegant floral patterns bloomed across the surface where Jordan had carefully scored it before baking.

For several long seconds, Aren simply stared.

’It’s beautiful...’

’Bread can look this beautiful?’

When Jordan picked up a long bread knife, Aren found herself holding her breath.

The blade slipped effortlessly through the crust.

Crunch.

The crisp, resonant crack echoed through the kitchen. Steam curled immediately from the soft interior, carrying with it the warm fragrance of wheat and butter.

Jordan tore off a small piece and tasted it first.

’It’s perfect.’

At her feet, Biscuit let out an eager little yip.

’...This feels so nice.’

’Am I... really that good at it?’

’Of course she wants to show him...’

’Father will kill me the moment she leaves the compound.’

Aren tilted her head, puzzled.

"Why? You’re the one who taught me. You did most of the work."

Jordan couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes.

"It’s just... my father probably wouldn’t like the idea very much."

Aren fell silent as she studied him. His posture had gone rigid, and embarrassment was written plainly across his face.

Her expression softened.

"Okay... I’ll say I made them."

Jordan visibly relaxed.

Before the silence could grow awkward again, Aren reached up and gave his broad shoulder a gentle, reassuring pat.

"And then... afterward, shall we go register?"

Jordan blinked.

"Register?"

"For the Marchetti Trials."

A slow smirk returned to his face.

"Ah... right. You haven’t registered yet. We can’t possibly miss that."

Aren smiled back.

Biscuit barked at once, as though wholeheartedly agreeing with the plan.

Together, they carefully arranged the freshly frosted cupcakes and neatly sliced bread inside a box.

Once everything had been packed away, they left the kitchen and made their way through the sprawling halls in search of Eduardo and Caio, wherever the two Dons had chosen to conduct their meeting.

When they stepped through the kitchen doors, however, neither of them noticed the lone figure moving swiftly down an intersecting corridor in the opposite direction.

Diego advanced with quick, measured strides, his eyes sweeping constantly from side to side for wandering guards or curious servants.

Only after convincing himself that no one had followed did he pull out his phone, his fingers frantically dialing a number.

Earlier, Eduardo had sent him to the kitchen to request additional refreshments for the ongoing meeting. Caio’s unusually large security convoy had already devoured an alarming quantity of the estate’s baked goods.

While waiting outside the pantry, he had also overheard the final moments of Jordan and Aren’s conversation.

The call connected.

A woman’s sharp voice answered before the first ring had fully faded.

"Why are you calling so suddenly? Is it not still working hours?"

Diego had expected exactly that reaction. Swallowing hard, he steadied his breathing before speaking.

"Lady Natalia. There is an urgent matter I must report immediately. I couldn’t risk waiting."

Natalia Porto sounded thoroughly irritated.

"What is it?"

Diego wasted no time.

"Ariana Lombardi is participating in the Marchetti Trials this weekend."

Silence descended over the line.

Immediate.

Absolute.

Even through the phone, Diego felt the temperature drop.

When Natalia finally spoke again, her voice had changed completely. Every trace of irritation had vanished, leaving behind only cold, measured venom.

"Say that again."

Diego swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat.

"Ariana Lombardi is participating in the Marchetti Trials this weekend, my lady. I overheard her saying those exact words to the Young Boss. They’re on their way to the administration office right now to register her."

Another long silence followed.

Diego shifted uneasily where he stood.

’She’s thinking...’

’That’s never a good sign.’

At last, Natalia spoke.

"Tell me. How many soldiers competing this year can we trust completely?"

"About ten, my lady," Diego answered without hesitation.

"And Nazario? Is he competing?"

"Yes. That has already been confirmed."

Diego hesitated.

"But... what exactly do you intend to do, Lady Natalia?"

Natalia didn’t hesitate.

"Arrange a meeting with Nazario immediately. I need to ensure Jordan doesn’t win this year’s Trials. And that Ariana Lombardi doesn’t walk out of the Marchetti Trials alive."