Page 38 of Mafia Don's Twisted Union

My breath catches. Matteo Russo. The name repeats in my mind, unfamiliar yet tinged with something ominous.

I scan the page for context, but it offers none. My fingers skim through the rest of the folder, turning pages quickly as my pulse races. Each document feels more cryptic than the last: financial records, timelines, and what look like surveillance reports, all connected to Matteo Russo.

Who is he?

I pause on a page where Leo’s sharp handwriting stands out in the margins, phrases like “escalating conflict” and “potential retaliation” scrawled in bold strokes. My stomach tightens. Is Russo one of Carlito’s business rivals?

That’s what it has to be, I tell myself. Carlito has always maintained he’s a legitimate businessman—powerful, yes, butabove board. If Russo is tied to these files, it must be because of some corporate dispute.

But then why does everything about this feel so much darker?

I turn another page and freeze. It’s a photocopy of what looks like a deed, the name “Matteo Russo” bold and unmistakable. The property address listed doesn’t ring any bells, but a scribbled note beneath it makes my pulse spike:Under close surveillance. High risk.

“High risk,” I whisper to myself. What does that mean?

Footsteps echo in the hallway, pulling me out of my thoughts. My head snaps up, and I shove the folder back onto the desk. My heart pounds as the footsteps grow louder, each one like a drumbeat in my ears.

The door creaks open, and Carlito steps inside. His sharp gaze sweeps over the room, landing on me. His expression is unreadable, but the tension in his shoulders is hard to miss.

“What are you doing in here?” His voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it that sends a chill down my spine.

“I... I was looking for you,” I say quickly, trying to sound casual.

He doesn’t move, his eyes flicking briefly to the desk. For a moment, the air between us feels charged, like he’s weighing whether to press further.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” he says finally, his tone softening just enough to ease some of the tension. “Go back to the living room Mia, now. I’ll join you soon.”

I hesitate, searching his face for any sign of what he’s thinking. There’s nothing—just the same calm, controlled exterior I’ve come to expect. Reluctantly, I nod and slip past him, my hands trembling as I step out of the study.

Back in the living room, I collapse onto the couch, clutching my knees to my chest. The name Matteo Russo echoes in my mind, louder now, insistent. If Carlito won’t tell me who he is, I’ll have to find out myself.

I sit, clutching my knees, the weight of everything pressing down on me. My head swims with questions I don’t have answers to, each one circling back to the same thing: Matteo Russo.

Who is he? And why does his name feel like the thread that unravels everything I thought I knew?

Bianca’s words from earlier replay in my mind, stinging more now than they did before.“My father’s arrogance—it ruins everything.”

I can’t help but wonder. Was my father like that too? Arrogant? Reckless? Could his decisions have put us in danger, even now?

It’s an uncomfortable thought, one I’ve never let myself entertain before. My father was a good man, a hardworking man who built his small construction company from the ground up.He wasn’t a risk-taker or someone who dealt in secrets—at least, that’s what I’ve always believed.

But the longer I sit here, the more those beliefs feel like sand slipping through my fingers.

I pull my knees tighter to my chest, staring blankly at the window. Outside, the Las Vegas Strip glitters in the distance, its bright lights a sharp contrast to the darkness I feel creeping in.

The sound of footsteps pulls me from my thoughts. Carlito appears in the hallway, his suit jacket off and his tie loosened. He looks as tired as I feel, but his expression remains unreadable.

He steps into the room, his gaze settling on me. “You should get some rest,” he says, his voice softer than it was in the study.

“I’m fine,” I reply, though my tone comes out sharper than I intended.

His brows knit together, and he steps closer. “Mia, I know this has been a lot, but you need to trust me. I’m handling it.”

“Handling what?” I ask, standing abruptly. “Because from my point of view, it feels like you’re keeping me in the dark, Carlito. You don’t tell me anything, and I’m supposed to just... trust that you’ll fix it all?”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I see something flicker in his eyes—guilt, maybe, or hesitation. “I’m keeping you safe,” he says, his voice firm. “That’s all that matters.”

“But safe from what?” I press, my frustration boiling over. “From the things you’re keeping from me? From whatever mess you’re caught up in? I deserve to know the truth, Carlito.”

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