Page 13 of Mafia Don's Twisted Union

For a moment, I don’t respond. Her words hang in the air, challenging me in a way few people ever do. There’s an intensity to her that’s impossible to ignore—a fire that makes me want to push her even further, just to see how far she’ll go before she breaks.

I set the notes down and fold my hands in my lap, leaning back slightly. “You’ve done well,” I say, though my tone remains measured. “But well isn’t good enough. Not for this event.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of frustration breaking through her polished exterior. “I’m aware of the stakes, Carlito. This gala isn’t just a reflection of your business—it’s a reflection of me.”

Her words are a sharp reminder that she has just as much riding on this as I do. And yet, there’s something else in her tone—something personal.

“Why are you really doing this?” I ask, my voice soft but insistent.

Her brows knit together in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“This isn’t just a job to you,” I say, watching her closely. “There’s something more. What is it?”

Mia hesitates, and for a moment, I think she’s going to deflect. But then she exhales softly and says, “Because I want to prove that I can handle something this big. That I belong here.”

Her honesty catches me off guard. Most people would’ve fed me some line about ambition or loyalty, but Mia lays her vulnerabilities bare with a courage that demands respect.

“And you think this gala will do that?” I ask.

“I know it will,” she replies, her voice steady.

Her determination is maddening—and intoxicating.

“You’ve got a lot of faith in yourself,” I say, leaning forward slightly. “Let’s hope it’s not misplaced.”

Her eyes lock onto mine, her chin tilting upward slightly in defiance. “It’s not misplaced,” she says, her voice quiet but firm.

The fire in her gaze sends a jolt of something dangerous through me. For a moment, the line between professional and personal blurs into something unrecognizable, and I feel the unmistakable pull of desire—one I haven’t allowed myself to feel in years.

I rise from my seat, pacing to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. The lights of Las Vegas stretch endlessly, bright and unyielding, a sharp contrast to the storm brewing inside me.

“You’re confident,” I say, my back to her. “But confidence can only get you so far.”

Mia stands as well, and I can hear the rustle of her clothes as she moves closer. “And what about you?” she asks, her tone tinged with something I can’t quite place.

I turn to face her, and the space between us feels smaller than it should. “What about me?”

Her gaze doesn’t waver, though I can see her chest rising and falling just slightly faster. “You push people, Carlito. But you never let anyone push you. Why is that?”

Her question is unexpected, and it cuts deeper than I care to admit.

“Because I don’t have the luxury of failure,” I reply, my voice low and measured.

Her brows knit together in thought, and for the first time, I see something other than determination in her expression. Empathy.

“Neither do I,” she says softly.

The words hang between us, charged with meaning neither of us is willing to fully acknowledge.

“Mia—” I start, but she cuts me off.

“No,” she says, taking another step closer. “I know what you’re doing, Carlito. You’re testing me. Trying to see how far you can push before I break. But let me tell you something—you’re not the only one who doesn’t break easily.”

Her words are a challenge, and they ignite something primal in me. Before I can think better of it, I close the distance between us, my hand brushing against her arm. The contact is electric, sending a shiver through me that I’m certain she feels too.

Her breath hitches, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of us. The professional walls we’ve both worked so hard to maintain crumble in an instant, and all that’s left is the undeniable pull of something neither of us can control.

“Mia,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

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