17. Mia

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.

My breath catches. Matteo Russo. The name repeats in my mind, unfamiliar yet tinged with something ominous.

I scan the page for context, but it offers none. My fingers skim through the rest of the folder, turning pages quickly as my pulse races. Each document feels more cryptic than the last: financial records, timelines, and what look like surveillance reports, all connected to Matteo Russo.

Who is he?

I pause on a page where Leo’s sharp handwriting stands out in the margins, phrases like “escalating conflict” and “potential retaliation” scrawled in bold strokes. My stomach tightens. Is Russo one of Carlito’s business rivals?

That’s what it has to be, I tell myself. Carlito has always maintained he’s a legitimate businessman—powerful, yes, but above board. If Russo is tied to these files, it must be because of some corporate dispute.

But then why does everything about this feel so much darker?

I turn another page and freeze. It’s a photocopy of what looks like a deed, the name “Matteo Russo” bold and unmistakable. The property address listed doesn’t ring any bells, but a scribbled note beneath it makes my pulse spike: Under close surveillance. High risk.

“High risk,” I whisper to myself. What does that mean?

Footsteps echo in the hallway, pulling me out of my thoughts. My head snaps up, and I shove the folder back onto the desk. My heart pounds as the footsteps grow louder, each one like a drumbeat in my ears.

The door creaks open, and Carlito steps inside. His sharp gaze sweeps over the room, landing on me. His expression is unreadable, but the tension in his shoulders is hard to miss.

“What are you doing in here?” His voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it that sends a chill down my spine.

“I... I was looking for you,” I say quickly, trying to sound casual.

He doesn’t move, his eyes flicking briefly to the desk. For a moment, the air between us feels charged, like he’s weighing whether to press further.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” he says finally, his tone softening just enough to ease some of the tension. “Go back to the living room Mia, now. I’ll join you soon.”

I hesitate, searching his face for any sign of what he’s thinking. There’s nothing—just the same calm, controlled exterior I’ve come to expect. Reluctantly, I nod and slip past him, my hands trembling as I step out of the study.

Back in the living room, I collapse onto the couch, clutching my knees to my chest. The name Matteo Russo echoes in my mind, louder now, insistent. If Carlito won’t tell me who he is, I’ll have to find out myself.

I sit, clutching my knees, the weight of everything pressing down on me. My head swims with questions I don’t have answers to, each one circling back to the same thing: Matteo Russo.

Who is he? And why does his name feel like the thread that unravels everything I thought I knew?

Bianca’s words from earlier replay in my mind, stinging more now than they did before. “My father’s arrogance—it ruins everything.”

I can’t help but wonder. Was my father like that too? Arrogant? Reckless? Could his decisions have put us in danger, even now?

It’s an uncomfortable thought, one I’ve never let myself entertain before. My father was a good man, a hardworking man who built his small construction company from the ground up. He wasn’t a risk-taker or someone who dealt in secrets—at least, that’s what I’ve always believed.

But the longer I sit here, the more those beliefs feel like sand slipping through my fingers.

I pull my knees tighter to my chest, staring blankly at the window. Outside, the Las Vegas Strip glitters in the distance, its bright lights a sharp contrast to the darkness I feel creeping in.

The sound of footsteps pulls me from my thoughts. Carlito appears in the hallway, his suit jacket off and his tie loosened. He looks as tired as I feel, but his expression remains unreadable.

He steps into the room, his gaze settling on me. “You should get some rest,” he says, his voice softer than it was in the study.

“I’m fine,” I reply, though my tone comes out sharper than I intended.

His brows knit together, and he steps closer. “Mia, I know this has been a lot, but you need to trust me. I’m handling it.”

“Handling what?” I ask, standing abruptly. “Because from my point of view, it feels like you’re keeping me in the dark, Carlito. You don’t tell me anything, and I’m supposed to just... trust that you’ll fix it all?”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I see something flicker in his eyes—guilt, maybe, or hesitation. “I’m keeping you safe,” he says, his voice firm. “That’s all that matters.”

“But safe from what?” I press, my frustration boiling over. “From the things you’re keeping from me? From whatever mess you’re caught up in? I deserve to know the truth, Carlito.”

He steps closer, his dark eyes locking onto mine. “You’ll know the truth when you need to.”

The words hang between us like a challenge, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I exhale shakily, the fight draining out of me as I turn away. “Good night, Carlito,” I say quietly, retreating toward the bedroom.

As I close the door behind me, my mind is a storm of unanswered questions. The name Matteo Russo is burned into my thoughts now, demanding answers I’m not sure I want to find.

I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the note I swiped from the folder before Carlito returned. My father’s name is scrawled in the corner, along with the words: Unfinished business.