3. Mia

Chapter 3

Mia

The lobby of The Wynn is breathtaking, a blend of modern elegance and quiet opulence. Polished marble floors gleam under the soft glow of crystal chandeliers, and the scent of fresh lilies from a nearby arrangement fills the air.

I take a deep breath, clutching my portfolio against my chest as I walk toward the private dining room. My heels click softly against the floor, a steady rhythm that’s oddly comforting.

The confirmation email about the venue from Carlito Marcelli replays in my mind—precise, commanding, and devoid of pleasantries. It wasn’t just an invitation; it was an order.

The double doors to the dining room loom ahead, each one flanked by sleek gold accents. A staff member stationed nearby greets me with a polite nod and gestures for me to enter.

As the doors open, my heart skips a beat.

The room is bathed in natural light from the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Las Vegas Strip. The table, a long piece of polished walnut, is set with nothing but a glass of water and a leather notepad.

And then there’s him.

Carlito Marcelli stands near the window, his back to me as he gazes out over the city. Even from behind, his presence is magnetic. He’s tall, his broad shoulders filling the tailored lines of his charcoal suit effortlessly.

I clear my throat softly, and he turns.

The air shifts the moment his dark eyes meet mine. They’re sharp and assessing, a gaze that seems to cut straight through me.

“Miss Mia Caruso,” he says, his voice low and smooth, yet carrying an unmistakable authority.

“Yes,” I manage, my voice steady despite the nerves twisting in my stomach.

He gestures toward the seat across from him. “Please, sit.”

I move quickly, settling into the chair and placing my portfolio on the table. He watches my every movement with a focus that’s both unnerving and oddly captivating.

“Bianca speaks highly of you,” he begins, his tone measured. “But I don’t make decisions based on words alone.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” I reply, surprising myself with the firmness in my voice.

One of his eyebrows lifts slightly, as though amused, but he says nothing. Instead, he leans back in his chair, his fingers steepled as he waits.

Taking a deep breath, I open my portfolio and begin. “I’ve prepared an initial concept for the gala. It focuses on elegance and timeless sophistication, with an emphasis on creating a lasting impression for the guests.”

As I speak, I slide the portfolio across the table toward him. For a moment, our fingers brush as he takes it. It’s a fleeting contact, but the warmth of his hand lingers longer than it should.

He flips through the pages, his expression unreadable. Every so often, his gaze flicks up to meet mine, sharp and assessing, as though measuring more than just the work in front of him.

“Interesting,” he says finally, his voice giving nothing away.

The word hangs in the air, heavy and ambiguous. Is it a compliment? A critique? I can’t tell.

I sit straighter, keeping my hands folded neatly on the table to hide the faint tremor in my fingers. “If there’s anything you’d like adjusted or refined, I’m happy to make changes.”

Carlito studies me, his dark eyes steady and unflinching. “Your work shows restraint. That’s rare.”

I blink, caught off guard by the comment. “Thank you,” I say cautiously, unsure if it’s meant as praise.

He turns another page in the portfolio, his fingers moving with a deliberateness that mirrors his tone. “Restraint can be a strength, but it can also be a weakness. It depends on the execution.”

My pulse quickens, but I nod. “I agree. That’s why I aim for balance—restraint where it adds elegance, boldness where it leaves an impression.”

His lips twitch slightly, the closest thing to a smile I’ve seen from him. “And do you think this gala will leave an impression?”

“I do,” I reply, my voice firm.

He leans back in his chair, closing the portfolio with a quiet snap. The sound echoes in the stillness of the room, making me hyperaware of the charged silence between us.

“This isn’t just about a party,” he says, his tone shifting to something sharper, more deliberate. “It’s about legacy. Image. Status.”

The intensity of his words sends a shiver down my spine. For a moment, I’m struck by how different he is from Bianca. She’s vibrant and effusive, all warmth and light. Carlito, on the other hand, is like a storm contained within a polished exterior.

“I understand,” I say, meeting his gaze. “Every detail will reflect the importance of the occasion. It will be exactly what you envision.”

He watches me for a beat longer, his expression unreadable. Then, without a word, he rises from his seat and moves to the window. The sunlight streaming in outlines the sharp angles of his face, making him look both imposing and almost otherworldly.

“You have confidence,” he says after a moment, his back still to me. “That’s good. Confidence is necessary in this business.”

I swallow, unsure how to respond.

“But confidence without results is useless,” he continues, turning back to face me. “Don’t let me regret trusting you with this.”

The weight of his words settles heavily over me. “I won’t,” I promise, my voice steadier than I feel.

He nods, his expression softening by a fraction. “Good. We’ll start touring venues together in a few days. I want to see how you work in real time.”

The sudden shift in the conversation catches me off guard. “Venues?”

“Yes,” he says, his tone leaving no room for debate. “Caesars Palace. Four days from now, be ready.”

The words linger in the air like a command, leaving no room for hesitation. I nod, clutching the edge of my portfolio. “I will be.”

Carlito’s gaze holds mine for a moment longer, his dark eyes unreadable. Then, with a sharp nod, he turns his attention back to the cityscape outside the window. It feels like a dismissal, but I stay seated, unsure if I’m meant to leave or wait for further instructions.

Just as I’m about to stand, he speaks again. “Bianca told me you’re adaptable. That you can handle challenges most people can’t.”

The unexpected remark catches me off guard. “She’s generous with her praise,” I reply carefully.

“She’s honest,” he counters, his tone firm. “But I’ve learned not to take anyone’s word at face value.”

I swallow, feeling the weight of his scrutiny. “That’s fair. I believe actions speak louder than words.”

His lips curve into something that almost resembles a smile—sharp, fleeting, and gone before I can fully register it. “Good. Then you’ll have no problem proving yourself.”

The room falls silent again, the tension thick and palpable. I rise slowly, sliding my portfolio back into my bag. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Marcelli,” I say, my voice steady despite the knots tightening in my stomach.

“Carlito,” he corrects, his gaze flicking to me.

“Carlito,” I echo, his name feeling foreign on my tongue.

As I turn to leave, his voice stops me mid-step. “Mia.”

I glance back, my hand hovering over the door handle.

“Don’t disappoint me,” he says, his tone a perfect balance of warning and expectation.

My chest tightens, but I nod. “I won’t.”

The door closes behind me with a soft click, and I release a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. The hallway feels cooler, less suffocating, but the weight of the meeting lingers.

Carlito Marcelli is nothing like I expected. Bianca’s descriptions barely scratched the surface of the intensity he radiates. Commanding is an understatement. Intimidating is more accurate.

I walk through the pristine corridors of The Wynn, my heels echoing against the polished floors. As I head toward the exit, I replay the meeting in my mind—his sharp gaze, his deliberate words, the way he seemed to size me up with every response I gave.

I didn’t crumble under the pressure, but I can’t help wondering if I impressed him enough.

The midday sun greets me as I step outside, its warmth a stark contrast to the icy focus of Carlito’s presence. I pull my phone from my bag, intending to jot down notes from the meeting, when a text from Bianca pops up on the screen.

“How did it go? Did Daddy scare you? ;)”

A small laugh escapes me despite the tension still coiled in my chest. Scare me? That’s an understatement.

I type back quickly: “It was... intense. But I’m still standing.”

Her reply is instant. “Told you he’d like you! You’ll be fine.”

I hope she’s right.