Page 37 of Mafia Don's Twisted Union

I lower myself into the chair, setting the plate aside untouched. My appetite isn’t for food. It’s for vengeance.

Dominic’s betrayal is bad enough. But if Matteo knows what Mia means to me, this war is only beginning.

Chapter 17

Mia

The penthouse, for all its luxury, feels like a prison today. The polished marble floors and towering windows project elegance, but the tension inside makes the space suffocating. Hours have passed since Carlito locked himself in his study with Leo, leaving Bianca and me to sit in an unbearable silence.

Bianca sits curled on the couch, her knees tucked against her chest. Her gaze is distant, fixed on the untouched cup of tea I placed in front of her earlier. She hasn’t spoken much since the attack.

I move to sit beside her, resting a tentative hand on her knee. “Bianca,” I say softly, “let me get you something. Tea? Water?”

She shakes her head, her expression unreadable. “No,” she whispers.

“You haven’t eaten all day,” I press. “You need—”

“I don’t need anything,” she snaps, her voice sharp and raw. Her head turns, and her green eyes lock onto mine. They’re bloodshot, her grief spilling out in the redness around them. “What I need is for Dario to not be dead.”

Her words cut like a knife, and I recoil slightly. “Bianca...”

“How can you sit here,” she continues, her voice cracking, “and act like everything’s fine? How can you be so calm when we’re stuck in this place, and Dario is dead, and my father refuses to tell us anything?”

I open my mouth to respond, but no words come. What could I possibly say? That she’s wrong? That everything is fine?

“I’m not calm,” I manage eventually. “I’m trying to figure things out, Bianca. Just like you.”

She lets out a bitter laugh, one that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Figure it out faster, Mia. Because if you don’t, we’re both going to end up like him.”

Her words hit like a slap, but it’s what she says next that truly stings.

“My father’s arrogance—it ruins everything.” she spits. “Sometimes I wish I had a different one.”

Before I can respond, she stands abruptly and storms down the hall. A door slams, the sound reverberating through the penthouse like a gunshot.

I sit frozen on the couch, her words ringing in my ears.

Sometimes I wish I had a different one.

It’s a cruel statement, born of grief, but it sticks with me as I stare at the empty space she left behind. My parents’ faces flash in my mind, unbidden. My father’s strong, calloused hands guiding me as a child. My mother’s warm smile as she pulled me into her arms. They weren’t perfect, but they were good, honest people.

Or so I thought.

Now, doubt creeps in like a shadow. Would they have made the same choices Carlito has? Would they have kept secrets, justified it as protection? The thought twists in my chest, an ache I can’t shake.

I glance toward the hallway, my gaze landing on the door to Carlito’s study. It’s slightly ajar, a crack of light spilling into the corridor. My pulse quickens.

“Carlito?” I call softly, taking a hesitant step forward.

No answer.

The door creaks as I push it open, revealing an empty room. The faint scent of Carlito’s cologne lingers, mixing with the leather and paper of his study. The desk is cluttered, an uncharacteristic mess of folders, documents, and files.

One folder catches my eye, marked with bold black initials: “M.R.” My hand trembles as I reach for it, curiosity pulling me forward.

The folder feels heavier than it should, the weight of its contents pressing against my palms. I know I shouldn’t be snooping—it’s not like Carlito left this out for me to see—but something compels me to open it.

Inside, the first page is a list of properties. Most of the addresses and names mean nothing to me, but one stands out: Matteo Russo.

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