Page 42 of Mafia Don's Twisted Union

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he’s going to tell me the truth. But then he shakes his head, his expression hardening. “This isn’t something you need to worry about.”

I laugh bitterly, the sound cutting through the tense air. “Don’t patronize me, Carlito. My family’s past is tied to this, and now it’s putting all of us in danger. I deserve to know.”

“Mia,” he says softly, his tone almost pleading. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“Protect me from what?” I snap. “From who? Matteo Russo? Your rivals? The truth?”

His silence speaks volumes, and my frustration boils over. “I can’t keep living like this,” I say, my voice trembling. “I can’t keep wondering what’s real and what you’re hiding from me.”

Carlito exhales sharply, his shoulders slumping slightly as he runs a hand through his hair. “Mia, do you know what time it is? Try go get some rest,” he says finally, his voice weary. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow morning”

He turns and leaves before I can respond, the door clicking shut behind him.

As the silence settles, my phone buzzes on the desk. I glance down to see an unfamiliar number and a message that sends a chill through me:“You’re closer to the truth than you realize. I can tell you everything.”

I stare at the message, my thumb hovering over the screen. The words feel like a threat and a promise all at once, their weight pressing heavily against my chest.You’re closer to the truth than you realize.What truth? And who is this person claiming they can give it to me?

The number is untraceable—no name, no context. Just the message, stark and haunting against the glow of the phone.

I glance toward the closed door, Carlito’s words still ringing in my ears:“Go get some rest.”But rest feels impossible now. The pieces of the puzzle are scattered before me, and I’m desperate to make them fit.

The message is vague, but its timing is too precise to ignore. It’s as if this person—whoever they are—knew exactly when to reach me. Could it be the same man Carlito’s been trying to shield me from? The one behind Dario’s death?

A second message appears, the screen lighting up again:

“I know what Carlito won’t tell you. About your family. About Dario. About the property.”

My blood turns cold. Whoever this is, they know far more than they should. The mention of Dario twists the knife in my chest. Bianca’s raw grief, Carlito’s stony silence—both feel sharper now, more fragile.

I press the phone to my chest, trying to steady my breathing. There’s no way this message could have gotten through Carlito’s security—not without help. My thoughts race as I consider the possibilities. Could someone on the inside have passed it along? Or did they exploit a crack in the system, slipping through Carlito’s ironclad defenses?

The idea terrifies me. If they can reach me this easily, what else are they capable of?

I glance at the papers on the desk again, the nameMatteo Russotaunting me from the page. The same name Carlito refuses to explain, the same man whose presence seems to hang like a shadow over everything that’s happened.

My phone buzzes a third time, and the message is shorter, more direct:

“You can’t trust him.”

My breath catches, and I slam the phone down on the desk. The accusation feels like a slap, and yet, deep down, I know I’ve already been questioning Carlito for days. His refusal to let me in, his cryptic answers, the way he looks at me as if he’s carrying a burden I’m not allowed to share—it all adds up to something I can’t ignore.

But can I trust the person sending these messages?

I stand and pace the room, my thoughts tangled in a web of fear and frustration. Carlito says he’s protecting me, but from what? And at what cost?

The phone buzzes again, but this time, I don’t look. I can’t. My head feels too heavy, my chest too tight. The nausea returns, sharper than before, and I press a hand to my stomach, willing it to pass.

I sink back into the chair, staring at the scattered documents as the phone continues to vibrate insistently. I know I’ll have to make a decision soon. But right now, all I can do is try to breathe.

The messages stop, but their weight lingers. My thoughts are a storm of questions and doubts as I hear footsteps approaching the door again. It’s Carlito again—and he doesn’t look happy.

The door creaks open, and Carlito steps inside. His eyes sweep over the room, landing on the scattered documents still on the desk. His jaw tightens, and I can tell he’s holding back whatever storm is brewing inside him.

“Mia,” he says, his voice low but edged with tension. “We need to talk.”

I meet his gaze, my heart pounding. “About what?” I ask, trying to keep my tone steady.

“About this,” he says, gesturing to the papers. “I told you to leave it alone.”

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