Page 15 of Mafia Don's Twisted Union

We collapse onto the couch, our hearts pounding in unison. I hold her close, my hands stroking her back as we catch our breath. "Fuck, Mia," I breathe, my voice hoarse. "That was incredible."

She turns in my arms, her eyes sparkling with satisfaction. "It was," she agrees, her lips curving into a satisfied smile.

As she stands, her body still trembling from the intensity of our encounter, I can't help but feel a sense of possessiveness. I want to keep her here, claim her as mine, but I know that's not how this works.

She straightens her dress, her movements graceful, and looks at me with a mixture of desire and uncertainty. "I should go," she says, her voice soft.

I nod, my hand reaching out to caress her cheek one last time. "Thank you, Mia."

She bites her lip, her eyes holding mine for a moment longer than necessary. "Oh, the pleasure is all mine," she whispers, her voice laced with desire.

As she walks toward the elevator, I feel the pull to stop her, to say something—anything—that makes sense of this. But I stay silent, my hands clenched into fists at my sides.

When the elevator doors close behind her, the tension in my chest tightens further.

“This changes everything,” I mutter to myself, staring out at the city that suddenly feels smaller, less certain.

Chapter 7

Mia

The morning sunlight filters through the thin curtains of my apartment, casting a soft glow over the room. I sit cross-legged on the edge of my bed, notebook open in front of me, but the words blur together as my mind replays last night in vivid detail.

Carlito’s hands on me. The heat of his breath against my skin. The way he looked at me, like he saw something more than just the gala planner he hired.

I press my fingers to my temple, trying to silence the whirlwind of emotions. Last night wasn’t supposed to happen. It shouldn’t have happened.

But it did.

I close the notebook, setting it aside as I rise to my feet and pace the small room. The rational part of me knows this changes everything. Professional boundaries have been crossed, andthere’s no undoing that. But the other part of me—the part that still feels the phantom weight of his touch—can’t stop wondering what it means.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I snatch it up, half-expecting to see his name. Instead, it’s Bianca.

“I’m coming over. We need to talk!”

I groan, setting the phone down without replying. Bianca always has a knack for showing up unannounced, but today of all days, I don’t think I’m ready for her endless questions and probing looks.

There’s a knock at the door barely twenty minutes later, and I open it to find her standing there, coffee cups in hand and a mischievous grin on her face.

“Good morning!” she chirps, brushing past me into the apartment.

“Hi,” I reply, shutting the door and trailing after her.

She sets the cups on the kitchen counter, her gaze sweeping over me with a calculating look. “You look... different.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Different how?”

She shrugs, leaning against the counter. “I don’t know. Less stressed. More... distracted.”

I force a laugh, hoping it doesn’t sound as strained as it feels. “It’s probably just the lack of sleep. I was up late working on some final touches for the gala.”

Bianca narrows her eyes, clearly unconvinced, but she lets it slide—for now. Instead, she grabs one of the coffee cups and hands it to me.

“You should take a break,” she says. “You’ve been working nonstop, and trust me, my dad’s not worth that level of stress.”

Her words hit differently now, after last night. “Your dad’s intense, but he’s also... passionate,” I say carefully.

Bianca snorts. “Passionate about control, maybe. Don’t let him bulldoze you, Mia. He respects people who stand their ground. It’s rare, but he has a soft side under all that gruffness.”

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