Chapter 23: "You Want Ice Cream?"
Aren stood motionless at the center of the luxury boutique, like the calm eye of a storm she didn’t realize she’d created.
Around her, three attendants circled in a frenzy of silk, velvet, and lace, their arms overflowing with dresses.
"Lady Ariana’s proportions are unbelievable..."
"She makes everything look custom-made..."
"She’s even prettier in person..."
Nearby, Caio had regretted this outing approximately thirty minutes ago. He sat sunk deep into a velvet armchair, one ankle crossed over his knee, fingers pressed hard against his temple.
’Of course she looks good in everything.’
That wasn’t the issue.
The issue was that every employee in the boutique had apparently abandoned professionalism altogether.
None of them seemed interested in actually selling clothes anymore. They hovered around Aren like worshippers around a sacred relic, bickering passionately over colors, fabrics, and cuts.
Meanwhile, Aren stood exactly where they positioned her, calm and cooperative as layer after layer of expensive fabric accumulated in her arms.
"She has such elegant posture..."
"The lighter shades soften her beautifully..."
"We should bring out the spring collection—"
"No," another interrupted sharply. "The black collection first."
Caio shut his eyes briefly.
’I should’ve just bought the damn store.’
Eventually, the attendants whisked Aren behind the fitting curtains with dramatic urgency. For the first time in nearly an hour, silence settled around the room.
Caio leaned back deeper into the chair, hoping — foolishly — for at least five minutes of peace.
He got exactly thirty seconds.
The curtain swept open. The sharp click of heels against marble made him glance up automatically—
—and instantly regret looking.
Aren stepped out dressed in black.
A catastrophic amount of black.
The gown clung to her body like liquid shadow. Her back was left completely bare, exposing pale skin in one smooth line down the curve of her spine. One slit climbed dangerously high along her thigh, revealing flashes of skin every time she moved.
The entire boutique collectively stopped breathing.
One attendant pressed both hands to her chest, visibly emotional. "This silhouette is breathtaking..."
Another instantly added, "Elegant but seductive—"
"Absolutely devastating—"
As for Caio, he simply leaned farther back in his chair.
His face remained perfectly blank, a flawless mask of Don-level authority.
Internally, however:
’Dear God.’
Meanwhile, Aren looked deeply dissatisfied.
She turned toward the mirror with a deadly serious face, testing her range of movement like a soldier evaluating armor instead of couture.
"There is nowhere to conceal knives," she observed, tone flat.
Caio answered with forced, painful calm. "That’s because women generally don’t attend dinner armed."
Aren frowned, lifting the slit. "It also restricts mobility."
"It’s made for galas, not storming buildings."
"The fabric looks highly flammable," she countered, rubbing the silk between two fingers.
The attendants collectively looked at the floor.
Caio closed his eyes again.
’...But it looks incredible.’
With visible restraint, he gestured vaguely toward the trembling employees.
"Find something less..." he paused, reluctant to voice the word, "...revealing."
The attendants scattered instantly.
Aren disappeared behind the curtains once more. Ten minutes later, she stepped back out.
This time, the room fell quiet for entirely different reasons.
The crimson dress covered nearly everything — long fitted sleeves, a high neckline, no dramatic slit, no exposed skin beyond her hands and face. Yet somehow, it was infinitely worse.
The deep red fabric embraced her figure with devastating elegance before cascading smoothly to the floor in clean, graceful lines.
Completely refined.
Completely dignified.
And absolutely lethal.
Aren studied herself in the mirror thoughtfully.
"This allows proper shoulder rotation for counter-strikes," she observed.
Meanwhile, something inside Caio’s nervous system had entirely short-circuited.
’No.’
’Absolutely not.’
’Why is this one even more dangerous?’
At last, he managed weakly.
"Mmm."
Aren, oblivious to the damage she was causing to his operating system, continued her technical analysis with growing seriousness.
"There’s enough space for concealed thigh holsters."
"Mmm."
"And hidden blade supports beneath the sleeves."
"Mmm."
"I believe I could run in this if necessary."
Caio immediately turned toward the attendants.
"Get her twenty more like this."
The attendants looked moments away from ascending into heaven.
"Yes, sir!"
"Immediately, sir!"
"Should we prepare jewelry selections as well?!"
By the end of the fitting, there were enough shopping bags to stock an entire department store.
Everything was sent directly to the Sartori estate via courier.
As Aren stepped outside beside Caio, she glanced back at the towering collection of purchases, concern written plainly across her face.
"That is a very large number of dresses."
"You’ll need them soon."
"Soon?" She looked at him. "When?"
Caio guided her down the boulevard, one hand resting lightly against the small of her back.
The city moved around them in waves of afternoon noise and fading sunlight.
"There’s a dinner this Wednesday," he said, lowering his voice. "You’re accompanying me. Wear the red one."
"Understood!" Aren replied at once, voice bright with excitement. "What should I know beforehand?"
Caio glanced sideways at her, faintly amused. She reacted to anything resembling a mission directive like a golden retriever hearing the word ’walk.’
"I’m meeting a distributor named Pietro Lamon," he told her. "The last negotiation didn’t go well. This dinner is intended to settle the contract."
"Location?"
"Rooftop restaurant. Accardi District."
As they walked, Caio continued briefing her in precise detail: potential threats, security blind spots, the placement of the emergency exits.
Aren absorbed every word with absolute, hyper-focused attention...
Until her attention drifted sideways.
Caio noticed the lapse instantly. He stopped mid-sentence and followed her line of sight.
Across the street sat a tiny ice cream cart beneath a striped umbrella.
The vendor was sculpting a perfectly rounded scoop of strawberry ice cream — a shade of pink so vibrant it almost glowed beneath the afternoon sun.
Aren was staring at it with dangerous intensity. She said absolutely nothing, but her silver eyes had significantly brightened.
Caio looked at her face.
Then at the cart.
Then back at her again.
He considered reminding her they were in the middle of a tactical discussion regarding a high-risk business meeting.
He failed almost immediately.
"...You want ice cream?"
Aren looked up so quickly it nearly startled him. Her entire face lit up with frantic excitement, yet somehow, she managed to stifle a joyous scream.
Instead, she bit down her lip, her voice a shy murmur.
"...Only if you are also getting one."
Caio exhaled slowly through his nose.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips before he suppressed it.
"What flavor is good?"
Five minutes later, they walked side by side through the streets of Borgata, holding ice cream cones like two perfectly ordinary civilians.
Aren looked absurdly content with her strawberry ice cream covered in crushed nuts. Beside her, Caio had somehow ended up with a dark chocolate and berry cone.
He took another bite, mildly irritated by the fact it tasted excellent.
"This is surprisingly good for something sold from a cart," he admitted.
Aren nodded seriously between bites.
"This makes me want to learn how to make good ice cream."
Caio stopped walking.
"...You want to make it yourself?"
"Yes." She glanced up at him with bright, eager eyes. "I like the feeling of making food. Especially when it turns out well!"
Something about that answer landed strangely inside his chest.
For a brief moment, the head of the city’s largest narcotics empire found himself considering the matter with complete seriousness.
"...The kitchen probably needs an ice cream machine."
Aren blinked.
"...Hah?"
Caio continued as though the statement were perfectly rational.
"I’ll have Mrs. Pecora arrange one."
Aren brightened like sunlight breaking across her face.
Before she could respond—
"Caio?"
A smooth female voice interrupted from nearby.
Both turned toward the boulevard.
A small entourage approached from the opposite side of the street.
At its center walked an elegant older woman draped in black silk and diamonds, regal enough to command attention without trying. Beside her strode a blond man with sharp blue eyes and an effortless smile.
Caio’s expression flattened instantly.
"Aunt Liviana."
Liviana Sartori smiled warmly.
"Well now," she purred. "What a pleasant surprise."
Her gaze immediately shifted toward Aren — first to the ice cream in her hand, then back toward Caio.
Her smile deepened.
"I see you’re still with Lady Ariana."
Aren had absolutely no idea who this woman was. She bowed politely anyway.
"Good afternoon, madam."
Liviana’s brows lifted slightly in surprise.
"My."
Her eyes flicked toward Caio with visible amusement.
"Caio, it seems you’ve been hiding things from your own aunt."
Her gaze drifted knowingly between them.
"Are you two finally in a relationship?"
"We’re not."
The answer came instantly, cold and flat.
Caio turned as though prepared to leave on the spot, but Liviana spoke again before he could.
"Oh, stop pretending, Caio." Liviana waved a dismissive hand. "Honestly, for once in your life, stop merely sleeping with beautiful women and actually marry one."
"Aunt."
His voice sharpened dangerously.
"Mind your business."
Beside him, Aren stood very still, quietly processing the exchange.
’Don Caio sleeps with beautiful women?’
Her gaze drifted toward him.
Her thoughts drifted briefly to the cramped barracks she used to share with her squadmates.
’Oh.’
’He doesn’t like sleeping alone.’
Satisfied with the conclusion, her attention shifted to the surrounding guards.
’Six firearms.’
’Two hidden blades.’
’One ankle holster.’
Eventually, her eyes landed on the blond man beside Liviana. He smiled the instant their gazes met.
"Gael Sartori," he introduced smoothly, stepping forward. "It’s a pleasure meeting you."
"I’m Ariana Lombardi," Aren replied politely.
Gael laughed softly, charm woven effortlessly into his voice.
"You hardly need introductions, my lady. Everyone in Borgata knows who you are."
"Oh. I see."
"Truthfully," he added, eager to impress, "you’re much more charming in person than in photographs."
"Thank you very much," Aren nodded.
The entire exchange was perfectly pleasant, save for the fact that Gael was leaning in a little too close, his face practically beaming with subtle eagerness.
None of it escaped Caio’s seasoned eyes.
Very quickly, Caio went from the mild irritation of bumping into an overly chatty aunt — and a cousin he had not cared to talk to for ages — to looking seconds away from committing homicide in broad daylight.
"Excuse us," he cut in flatly. "We have ice cream to finish."
"Oh dear," Liviana sighed dramatically. "How rude of us, interrupting your private outing."
Her smile sweetened further.
"When you two finally have children, do let your aunt know. Your father would’ve been delighted in heaven."
Caio ignored her entirely.
"Keep your fantasies to yourself," he muttered irritably, before he caught Aren by the wrist and steered her away down the boulevard.
Aren looked over her shoulder while being dragged off, one hand waving helplessly.
"Goodbye, madam."
Liviana waved back elegantly.
"Until next time, dear."
She watched until the pair disappeared around the corner.
The moment they were out of sight, every trace of warmth vanished from her face as if it had never existed.
Beside her, Gael exhaled wearily.
"You scared him off again, Mother."
Liviana ignored the comment completely.
"When is the next attempt?"
"This Wednesday," Gael answered quietly. "Dinner with Pietro Lamon."
His voice lowered further.
"Once Caio arrives, it’ll be his last meal."
Liviana’s expression darkened instantly.
"I’ve heard that too many times. We’ve been trying to kill that brat for over a year. How many failures do you intend to embarrass me with?"
Gael lowered his gaze.
"Everything is arranged this time, Mother. Pietro’s been paid generously. There won’t be any mistakes."
"Mm hm."
The air cooled at once.
Gael’s jaw tightened. He waited for her anger to settle before shifting to safer ground.
"...Mother. Are you attending Chiara Leone’s luncheon?"
Liviana’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"I heard Ariana Lombardi is on the guest list. She doesn’t resemble the girl I remember."
Gael frowned.
"You’ve called her a worthless whore for years. Why the sudden interest?"
A slow, dangerous smile curved across Liviana’s lips.
"That was before. Now I’m wondering whether she can be useful."
Understanding flickered across Gael’s face.
"You think she could kill Caio?"
"I heard she’s living with him now," Liviana said calmly. "If the Summit rumors are true... she could do it."
Gael looked visibly disappointed.
"Mother, the Wednesday plan will not go wrong," he claimed. "I assure you! You don’t even need to think that far ahead. Caio Sartori will be dead before Sunday."
Liviana waved a dismissive hand.
"Given your long history of failure, I wouldn’t be so confident, son."
Her dangerous smile returned.
"...Perhaps I should attend the luncheon myself. And see whether Ariana Lombardi can be persuaded to stand on our side."
