Every Mafia's Favorite Girl👉
The soul known as Aren didn't arrive in her next life through a tunnel of light or the singing of angels. One moment, she had been trapped in the searing heat of a thermal detonator inside a subterranean bunker — a final, selfless act to save her brothers-in-arms. The next, she woke to the cloying scent of expensive lilies and high-grade narcotics. Aren blinked. The ceiling above her stretched high, vaulted and ornate. Nothing like the reinforced concrete and exposed steel of the bunker she remembered dying in. Everything felt wrong. Her body, most of all. Where there should have been the hardened muscle of a lifetime spent in elite combat, there were only slender limbs, delicate skin, and an unfamiliar softness. Aren looked down. 'Oh?' She froze. 'No clothes?' "Finally, you're awake." The male voice cut through the silence like a blade, low and edged with unmistakable contempt. "I was beginning to think I'd need to call Moretti's cleaners to drag your corpse out of my bed." Aren instinctively turned toward the sound. A man stood near a tall wardrobe, his back turned to her as he buttoned a black silk shirt. The muscles across his shoulders shifted beneath the fabric with a predatory grace that Aren recognized. 'Balanced stance.' 'Controlled movement.' 'He knows how to kill. And does it often.' As though sensing the weight of her gaze, the man — Caio Sartori — turned. Blue eyes met hers. Cold eyes. Sharp enough to carve flesh from bone. To him, the woman lying in his bed was Ariana Lombardi — a frivolous socialite whose value extended no further than her family name and her predictable addictions. His gaze swept over her with habitual disdain, already expecting the usual behavior: a glass-shattering scream, a loud demand for attention, maybe a desperate plea for another hit of the drugs his House specialized in. Something irritating. "The Summit, Ariana," he said, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. "Are you planning to attend, or have you finally managed to fry your
