Page 5 of Mafia Don's Twisted Union

It’s not just a celebration. It’s a chessboard, and every move matters.

My thoughts shift back to Mia. Bianca’s faith in her is unwavering, but Bianca has the luxury of optimism. I don’t. Optimism doesn’t win wars.

I close the portfolio and rise, moving to the large windows overlooking the villa’s grounds. The night is still, the stars faint against the glow of the city in the distance.

“She’ll rise to the occasion,” I murmur aloud, testing the words. But I’m not convinced.

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The next morning comes quickly, and the villa is alive with quiet efficiency. Leo greets me in the kitchen, a coffee already waiting on the counter.

“Mia’s meeting is confirmed for ten o’clock at The Wynn,” he says without preamble.

I nod, taking the coffee. “And security?”

“Already cleared,” Leo replies. “It’s a private dining room. Discreet.”

I take a sip, the bitter heat sharpening my focus. “Good. Let’s see how she handles this first test.”

Leo raises a brow. “First test?”

I smirk faintly. “Everyone gets tested, Leo. Miss Caruso is no different.”

He chuckles softly, shaking his head. “I almost feel bad for her.”

“Don’t,” I say, setting the cup down. “She’s chosen this path. If she can’t handle it, she’s in the wrong business.”

As I prepare for the day, the thought of meeting her sharpens my curiosity. Bianca’s words echo in my mind—She’s different.

By the end of tomorrow, I’ll know if that difference is real.

Chapter 3

Mia

The lobby of The Wynn is breathtaking, a blend of modern elegance and quiet opulence. Polished marble floors gleam under the soft glow of crystal chandeliers, and the scent of fresh lilies from a nearby arrangement fills the air.

I take a deep breath, clutching my portfolio against my chest as I walk toward the private dining room. My heels click softly against the floor, a steady rhythm that’s oddly comforting.

The confirmation email about the venue from Carlito Marcelli replays in my mind—precise, commanding, and devoid of pleasantries. It wasn’t just an invitation; it was an order.

The double doors to the dining room loom ahead, each one flanked by sleek gold accents. A staff member stationed nearby greets me with a polite nod and gestures for me to enter.

As the doors open, my heart skips a beat.

The room is bathed in natural light from the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Las Vegas Strip. The table, a long piece of polished walnut, is set with nothing but a glass of water and a leather notepad.

And then there’s him.

Carlito Marcelli stands near the window, his back to me as he gazes out over the city. Even from behind, his presence is magnetic. He’s tall, his broad shoulders filling the tailored lines of his charcoal suit effortlessly.

I clear my throat softly, and he turns.

The air shifts the moment his dark eyes meet mine. They’re sharp and assessing, a gaze that seems to cut straight through me.

“Miss Mia Caruso,” he says, his voice low and smooth, yet carrying an unmistakable authority.

“Yes,” I manage, my voice steady despite the nerves twisting in my stomach.

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