Page 2 of Mafia Don's Twisted Union

Her confidence in me is unwavering, but it only adds to the gravity of what’s ahead. My fingers trace the edge of the folder as I take a steadying breath. “What’s the vibe he’s going for?”

“Elegant but not boring,” Bianca says immediately. “Sophisticated but not pretentious. And absolutely no glitter or neon.”

I snort at the last part. “Well, there go all my best ideas.”

She laughs, and for a moment, the tension in the room eases. “You’re ridiculous,” she says, shaking her head. “But seriously, just keep it classy. Daddy’s all about appearances, and this gala is as much about his image as it is about celebrating his success.”

I nod, scribbling notes in my planner as my mind starts piecing together ideas. Themes, color palettes, potential venues—they all swirl in my head, competing for attention.

Bianca leans forward, her expression softening. “You’ve got this, Mia. I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t believe that.”

“Thanks,” I say quietly, meaning it.

Her phone buzzes on the coffee table, breaking the moment. She glances at the screen and sighs. “I’ve got a meeting downtown, but stay as long as you need. Go through the folder, take notes, whatever. Just text me if you need anything.”

I nod, clutching the folder like a lifeline.

As she grabs her purse and heads toward the door, she pauses to look back. “Oh, and Daddy’s assistant will confirm your first meeting with him soon. Don’t overthink it—you’ll be great.”

The door clicks shut behind her, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I exhale slowly, sinking back into the plush white couch. The late afternoon sunlight spills across the room, highlighting the gold accents of the penthouse. It’s beautiful, sure, but also a little overwhelming—like everything in Bianca’s world.

I open the folder again, flipping through the pages carefully. Each detail feels heavier than the last: an exhaustive guest list of power players, notes on logistics, and the faint outline of a timeline. There’s something almost surgical about the precision in these documents.

The name at the top of every page—Carlito Marcelli—stands out like a flashing neon sign in my mind. Bianca talks about him like he’s larger than life, and I can’t deny that the name carries an almost mythical weight. A commanding presence, she’d said. Intense. The kind of man who can own a room.

My stomach twists as I imagine meeting him for the first time. What do you even say to someone like that? What kind of expectations does a man like Carlito Marcelli have?

The soft buzz of my phone interrupts my thoughts. I glance at the screen, and my breath hitches.

The subject line of the email reads:Meeting Venue Confirmed— Time and date to be sent later.

The message itself is as sparse as it is formal:“You will present your initial ideas at The Wynn’s private dining room. I expect professionalism. Carlito Marcelli.”

That’s it. No pleasantries, no room for interpretation. Just instructions.

I read it again, my pulse quickening. His words are precise, clipped, and utterly commanding. Even through an email, his presence feels tangible.

I close the email and set my phone on the coffee table, staring at the glowing skyline beyond the windows. I’ve worked for demanding clients before, but something about this feels... different.

My mind starts racing with questions. What kind of man sends an email like that? What does he expect from me, and what happens if I don’t meet those expectations?

A shiver runs through me as I lean back against the couch, clutching the folder to my chest.

This isn’t just about planning an event anymore. It’s about proving myself to a man who seems impossible to impress. A man whose reputation alone makes me second-guess every decision.

But I’ve faced high-stakes situations before, and I’ve come out stronger every time.

As the penthouse falls into silence, a quiet resolve settles over me. Whatever Carlito Marcelli throws my way, I’ll handle it.

I have to.

Chapter 2

Carlito

The sun dips below the horizon, casting a warm amber glow over the grounds of my villa. The view from my office window is serene—a sprawling backyard lined with hedges cut to geometric precision, the faint hum of a fountain in the distance.

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