Page 8 of Mafia Don's Twisted Union

Her response is quick, deliberate. It’s a good answer.

“And the acoustics?” I ask, my tone sharper, testing.

She pauses, taking a moment to step further into the room. Her heels click softly against the polished floor as she tilts her head, almost as if she’s listening.

“It’s a challenge,” she admits, her gaze sweeping the space. “But with the right placement of speakers and sound dampeners, it can be managed. I’d recommend subtle live music during dinner and something more dynamic for the later hours.”

Her confidence surprises me. Most would falter under this kind of scrutiny, but she meets my gaze steadily when she turns back to me.

“I’ll refine the details once we finalize the venue,” she adds.

I step closer, narrowing the distance between us. “Do you always adapt this quickly?”

Her lips twitch, almost a smile. “It’s part of the job.”

Her answer is neutral, professional. Yet there’s a spark of something else—pride, maybe? Determination? It’s enough to make me linger for a second longer than I should before stepping back.

Leo waits near the far corner of the room, discreet but alert. His presence is a reminder of the stakes, though I doubt Mia sees it that way. To her, this is a gala for my legitimate business ventures, nothing more.

And it needs to stay that way—for now.

I gesture toward the center of the room. “Sketch out a rough layout. I want to see how you’d organize the space.”

She nods, immediately flipping open her notebook and scribbling notes. As she moves, I observe her closely—not just her process but the way she carries herself. There’s a calm precision to her actions, a quiet confidence that stands in stark contrast to the loud desperation I’ve seen in others trying to impress me.

“You’re thorough,” I say after a moment.

She glances up, surprised by the comment. “Isn’t that the expectation?”

“It is,” I reply, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. “But not everyone meets it.”

Her shoulders straighten slightly, as if bolstered by the remark.

I let her work in silence for a moment, watching as her pen glides over the page. There’s a certain efficiency to the way she moves, like she’s done this a hundred times before. But there’s also a spark of creativity—a willingness to think beyond the obvious.

“Do you always work this fast?” I ask, my tone deliberately neutral.

She glances up briefly, her expression calm but alert. “Deadlines don’t wait, and neither do clients.”

I let out a low hum of approval. “True enough.”

As she continues sketching, I step away, taking a slow walk around the ballroom. The sheer scale of the space reminds me why this venue is a contender. It’s a statement—a place meant to command attention and respect.

But even the most impressive setting can falter under poor execution.

My gaze drifts back to Mia. She’s leaning over her notebook now, studying her design with a focused intensity. There’s no hesitation in her movements, no sign of the nervousness I spotted earlier.

Interesting.

“You seem confident,” I say, coming to stand beside her again. “But confidence can be dangerous if it isn’t earned.”

She straightens, meeting my gaze without flinching. “I don’t take anything for granted, Mr. Marcelli. Confidence is just preparation in disguise.”

The corner of my mouth twitches, almost a smile. “And are you prepared for this?”

Her answer is immediate. “Yes.”

The certainty in her voice catches me off guard. Most people stammer under pressure, scrambling to justify themselves. But not her.

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