Page 25 of Mafia Don's Twisted Union

I’m making a mental note to check in with the catering team when I feel it—a shift in the atmosphere, subtle but undeniable. Conversations lower by a fraction, and heads turn almost imperceptibly toward the entrance.

Carlito Marcelli has arrived.

I glance up just as he steps onto the terrace, his commanding presence impossible to ignore. Dressed in a charcoal suit that fits him perfectly, he moves through the crowd with a confidence that’s both effortless and deliberate. Guests part for himinstinctively, their deference a testament to the weight his name carries.

My heart pounds against my ribcage as his dark eyes scan the room, unerringly finding mine. He holds my gaze for a moment longer than necessary, and something electric passes between us, a connection that feels both exhilarating and dangerous.

He approaches slowly, nodding to a few key figures as he makes his way across the terrace. When he reaches me, the noise of the crowd seems to fade, leaving only the steady thrum of my pulse in my ears.

“Mia,” he says, his voice low and deliberate.

“Carlito,” I reply, trying to keep my tone steady despite the way my nerves flare under his intense gaze.

He looks around briefly, as if to ensure the audience he’s gathered is paying attention, before turning his full focus back to me. “This is impressive. You’ve done exceptional work.”

His words carry weight, not just because of who he is, but because of the quiet authority in his tone. It’s not just a compliment—it’s a declaration.

“Thank you,” I say softly, my cheeks warming under the scrutiny of the nearby guests. “It means a lot coming from you.”

He steps closer, just enough that the space between us feels charged. I catch the faint scent of his cologne, warm and heady, and it sends my thoughts tumbling back to that night in hispenthouse. His hands, his breath, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered in the world.

I force myself to focus as he speaks again, his voice dropping slightly. “You’ve proven you can handle pressure. That you can excel under it.”

There’s something in the way he says it, an undercurrent of pride that feels almost personal. I glance up at him, my hazel eyes meeting his dark ones, and for a moment, the rest of the world fades away.

But then the sound of laughter nearby pulls me back to reality, and I take a step back, creating a sliver of distance between us.

“I should check on the staff,” I say, my voice a little too rushed. “Make sure everything’s running smoothly.”

“Of course,” Carlito replies, his expression unreadable but his eyes still locked on mine. “You have a gift for that.”

I nod and turn to leave, but I can feel his gaze lingering on me as I move through the crowd. My skin tingles under the weight of it, the memory of his presence staying with me long after I’ve walked away.

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The evening moves at a measured pace, the kind that’s both satisfying and nerve-wracking. Guests laugh and mingle, the quartet plays seamlessly, and the caterers work like clockwork.Yet, despite the event’s success so far, I can’t shake the feeling of being watched.

I glance around, half-expecting to see the stranger from the vendor meeting lurking in the shadows. Instead, I find Carlito, standing near the edge of the terrace. He’s speaking with Leo, his posture relaxed but his expression serious.

The sight of him brings a rush of emotions I’m not ready to unpack. His presence has always been magnetic, but tonight, there’s something else—a vulnerability beneath the surface that makes my chest tighten.

I shake my head, willing myself to focus. This is a professional triumph, a night I should be proud of. But the closer I get to Carlito, the harder it is to separate the personal from the professional.

It’s a bit later in the evening when Carlito finds me again. I’m standing near the edge of the terrace, watching as the quartet transitions into a livelier tune, when his voice cuts through the noise like a thread pulling me back to him.

“Mia.”

I turn, and there he is, his dark eyes steady as they lock onto mine. He’s close enough now that I can feel the faint heat of his presence, and it takes all my focus to keep my breath even.

“Carlito,” I reply, my voice softer than I intend.

“The gala is flawless,” he says, his tone low but resolute. “You should be proud.”

“Thank you,” I say, though the words feel inadequate against the weight of his gaze. “It means a lot to hear that from you.”

For a moment, the world around us seems to blur. The laughter, the music, the clinking of glasses—all of it fades, leaving only the charged silence between us.

“I need a moment with you,” Carlito says suddenly, his voice quieter now, almost intimate.

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