Page 10 of Mafia Don's Twisted Union

“Not yet,” I say, holding up a hand. My gaze shifts back to Mia. “We’ll reconvene at The Venetian tomorrow. Be prepared to refine this concept further.”

“I will be,” she replies, her voice steady.

As we exit the ballroom, I fall into step beside her again. The faintest brush of her shoulder against mine sparks that same flicker of awareness.

“She’s stronger than I thought,” I murmur under my breath, my gaze fixed ahead.

Chapter 5

Mia

The Venetian Rooftop Terrace is more beautiful than I imagined. As I step out onto the sprawling open-air space, the Las Vegas skyline greets me, shimmering in the late-morning sun. The terrace feels like a hidden sanctuary above the city’s chaos, its polished stone tiles gleaming underfoot.

“This is... perfect,” I whisper, taking in the view.

“It’s functional,” Carlito replies from behind me, his tone measured.

I glance back at him, noting the way he surveys the space with a critical eye. Carlito’s presence has a gravitational pull—commanding, calculated, and utterly in control. It’s a sharp contrast to the serenity of the terrace.

Leo lingers near the terrace entrance, standing silently with his hands clasped in front of him. It’s easy to forget he’s there,always watching, always calculating. His presence adds a layer of formality to the meeting, but I chalk it up to Carlito’s prominence. A businessman of his caliber needs security, especially in a city like Las Vegas.

I focus on Carlito, who’s pacing slowly along the terrace’s edge, his gaze locked on the skyline. He’s dressed impeccably, as always, his tailored suit complementing his sharp features.

“Well?” he prompts, his voice snapping me back to the moment.

I straighten my shoulders and pull out my notebook. “It’s everything we need. The open layout allows for a customized setup that can highlight the skyline without obstructing it. Plus, the exclusivity ensures no distractions or interruptions.”

Carlito stops pacing, turning to face me. “And the logistics? Accessibility? Privacy?”

“Covered,” I reply confidently. “The terrace has multiple access points for staff and equipment, but all are discreet. Privacy is absolute, and the location keeps the event central yet separate from the hustle of the casino floor.”

He studies me for a moment, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly. “Good. But logistics aren’t enough. What about the impact? Will this venue make people remember the Marcelli name?”

The weight of his question settles over me, and I pause. There’s something deeper in his words, a personal stake that goes beyond the gala itself.

I meet his gaze. “With the right design and execution, this venue won’t just host an event—it will make a statement. People will leave talking about the Marcelli legacy for all the right reasons.”

For the first time, I see the faintest flicker of approval in his expression. It’s subtle, but it’s there.

“Let’s walk,” he says, motioning for me to follow him.

We move toward the far end of the terrace, where the view is at its most breathtaking. As we walk, I catch glimpses of his profile—strong, composed, and enigmatic. His silence feels heavy, as though he’s carrying something he hasn’t yet shared.

When we stop at the edge, he leans against the railing, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “This gala isn’t just another event,” he says, his voice quieter now. “It’s personal.”

Something in his tone makes my breath hitch. I glance at him, trying to read his expression, but his focus remains on the skyline.

“Personal, how?” I ask, unable to resist the pull of curiosity.

Carlito doesn’t answer right away. His gaze stays locked on the skyline, the tension in his posture palpable. I wait, unsure whether I’ve overstepped.

“Every move I make, every event I host—it all has consequences,” he finally says. “A name like Marcelli carries weight, but only if you can keep it from being crushed.”

The words hang between us, heavy with unspoken meaning. I watch him carefully, trying to decipher the layers beneath his carefully measured tone.

“So this gala... it’s not just for business?” I ask, my voice softer now.

He exhales a faint chuckle, though there’s no humor in it. “It’s always about business. But sometimes, business is survival.”

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