Page 12 of Mafia Don's Twisted Union

The terrace feels impossibly quiet without him, the absence of his presence almost jarring. I gather my things, trying to steady myself. Tomorrow. His words echo in my mind, carrying a weight I can’t quite decipher.

As I make my way out of The Venetian, I can’t shake the feeling that this is more than just a professional challenge. Carlito Marcelli is a puzzle—one I’m both terrified and desperate to solve.

Chapter 6

Carlito

The city lights begin to twinkle outside the penthouse windows as the evening settles in, casting long shadows across the room. The pristine calm of my space feels deceptively steady compared to the undercurrent of tension I know tonight will bring.

The elevator chimes softly, and then the doors slide open, revealing Mia. She steps inside, looking more composed than I would have expected, given the limited time she’s had to prepare since yesterday’s tour at The Venetian. She’s dressed professionally, but there’s a spark of something less guarded in her eyes—determination, perhaps.

“Mr. Marcelli,” she greets, though her tone carries an edge of weariness.

“Carlito,” I correct, my voice firm but not unkind.

She nods slightly, her movements brisk as she sets her bag on the sleek glass coffee table and pulls out a few pages of notes. “I’ve made adjustments based on yesterday’s discussion. They’re not polished, but they’re actionable.”

The admission is unexpected. She’s usually meticulous, prepared down to the last detail. But she isn’t making excuses, and that earns my respect more than flawless execution ever could.

“Show me,” I say, gesturing toward the chair across from mine.

She hands me a slim stack of papers, her fingers brushing mine briefly. The touch is fleeting but enough to make me pause for a moment longer than necessary before I take the documents.

As I scan the pages, I note the ideas are sharp—streamlined, almost ruthless in their efficiency. They’re good. But they’re not great.

“This feels rushed,” I say, setting the papers down and leveling her with a steady gaze.

“It was,” she replies without hesitation. “But I didn’t want to present something that wasn’t relevant to the feedback you gave me yesterday. I focused on what matters.”

Her honesty is disarming. Most people would try to bluff their way through, but Mia lays her cards on the table with an almost reckless confidence.

“Fair enough,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “And if I find this inadequate?”

“Then I’ll fix it,” she says simply, meeting my gaze without flinching.

I study her for a moment, intrigued by the fire simmering just beneath her calm surface. “You seem to enjoy being tested,” I remark.

“No,” she replies, a hint of a smile playing at her lips. “But I do enjoy proving people wrong.”

The corner of my mouth lifts in a slow smile. “Good. Then you’ll fit in just fine.”

For the first time tonight, her composure cracks slightly, and I catch the flicker of uncertainty in her expression. It’s gone almost as quickly as it appears, replaced by that resolute confidence I’ve come to expect from her.

“Let’s continue,” I say, gesturing toward the rest of her notes.

Mia adjusts in her seat, smoothing her skirt as I glance through the rest of her notes. There’s a faint hum of tension in the room, one I can’t quite ignore.

“These placement ideas for the VIPs,” I say, gesturing to one of the diagrams. “What’s the logic behind them?”

She leans forward, pointing to the layout. Her perfume lingers in the air—a soft, subtle scent that catches me off guard. “Thegoal is to balance visibility and access. The keynote speaker and sponsors should feel central without overshadowing the overall atmosphere. It keeps the flow dynamic.”

Her explanation is sharp and to the point, but I don’t let her off the hook easily. “Dynamic isn’t always practical. What happens when one of these sponsors wants to leave early or demands a last-minute change?”

Mia’s lips press together briefly, and I know I’ve struck a nerve. But instead of faltering, she surprises me. “Then we adapt,” she says firmly. “These aren’t rigid placements—they’re starting points. I can pivot if needed, as long as the main structure stays intact.”

Her confidence is refreshing, even if it grates against my tendency to control every variable. “You’re awfully sure of yourself.”

“No,” she replies, meeting my gaze directly. “I’m sure of my work.”

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