Page 23 of Mafia Don's Twisted Union

She crouches to inspect one of the crates, scanning the small, misaligned label. Her brow furrows as she mutters something to herself, then she turns to the staff. “Bring me a dolly. We’ll relocate the misplaced boxes to the secondary holding area for now.”

The staff member hesitates but nods, hurrying off to retrieve the equipment. I step closer, staying just out of the way but observing her intently. She doesn’t notice me watching—or if shedoes, she pretends not to. Her focus is entirely on solving the problem.

When the dolly arrives, Mia wastes no time directing the staff to reposition the crates. Despite the chaos, her tone remains calm, her instructions clear. Within minutes, the path is cleared, the flow of deliveries resuming as if the disruption never happened.

She exhales softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. There’s a faint flush to her cheeks, a sign of the energy she’s poured into fixing the situation.

“Efficient,” I say, stepping forward.

Her head snaps up, her hazel eyes locking onto mine. For a moment, she looks surprised, as if she forgot I was there. “It was a minor issue,” she says, straightening her blazer.

“Minor issues can derail major events,” I reply. “You handled it well.”

She hesitates, her lips curving into a faint smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Thank you.”

I notice the way her hand lingers on the crate she steadied, as if she’s anchoring herself. Stepping closer, I place a hand on the same crate, the briefest contact sparking something between us.

Mia looks away quickly, tucking her notepad under her arm as she pivots back toward the terrace. “Shall we continue?”

---

We walk the length of the terrace, her confidence returning with each step. She points out the adjustments she’s made since our last visit—the refined layout of the seating arrangements, the repositioned lighting to highlight the skyline.

“This will be the main photo area,” she explains, gesturing toward an arch of cascading floral arrangements framing the cityscape. “It’s designed to draw guests toward the view while keeping the flow of the event natural.”

“It’s bold,” I say, studying the design. “But it works.”

A flicker of surprise crosses her face, quickly replaced by satisfaction. “I thought so too.”

As we near the terrace edge, I catch a faint breeze carrying the scent of freshly cut flowers. Mia pauses, her gaze sweeping over the venue. There’s a quiet pride in her expression, tempered by the weight of responsibility.

“It’s coming together,” she says softly, almost to herself.

“It is,” I agree, stepping beside her. “You’ve done well, Mia.”

She turns to me, her hazel eyes searching mine. There’s something unspoken in her gaze, a vulnerability she doesn’t often show. “I just want it to be perfect.”

“It will be,” I say, my tone softer than I intend. “Because you made it that way.”

Her lips part slightly, but whatever she’s about to say is interrupted by a gust of wind sending a stray piece of paper fluttering across the terrace. She laughs lightly, the tension breaking, and bends to retrieve it.

When she stands, the moment has passed, but its weight lingers.

As the walkthrough draws to a close, the terrace settles into a steady rhythm. Vendors continue their work, but the earlier sense of chaos has ebbed, replaced by a calm efficiency that mirrors Mia’s leadership.

She turns toward me, flipping through her notepad. “That’s everything for now. The rest of the setup will be finalized tomorrow morning, but I’ll be here early to oversee it personally.”

“Good,” I say, noting the determination in her voice. “This is your vision, Mia. See it through.”

Her gaze softens at my words, but she quickly refocuses, her pen tapping lightly against the edge of her notepad. “Is there anything else you’d like to review while we’re here?”

“No,” I reply, glancing once more at the terrace. “You’ve covered everything.”

Her shoulders relax slightly, the tension she’s carried throughout the day easing just a fraction. Still, I can see the questions flickering behind her eyes, though she doesn’t voice them.

“Tomorrow will test you,” I say, stepping closer. Her breath catches, though she keeps her expression neutral. “Stay alert, stay professional, and trust your instincts. You’ve earned this.”

She hesitates, then nods, her hazel eyes meeting mine. “Thank you. That means more than you know.”

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