5. Mia

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.”

I blink at his response, startled by the rawness in his words. Carlito has always seemed untouchable—so composed, so in control. Yet here, on this terrace overlooking the city, there’s a crack in his armor. It’s fleeting, but enough to glimpse the man beneath the power.

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” I admit.

“You wouldn’t have,” he says, his gaze flicking back to me. “That’s not a criticism, Mia. It’s just reality. You’ve lived in a world where events like this are celebrations. For me, they’re statements—reminders of who is the best.”

I feel a knot form in my stomach, a strange combination of unease and intrigue. Carlito’s words are layered with a significance I can’t fully grasp, and yet I’m drawn to them. To him.

“Well, if that’s the case,” I say, trying to inject a lighter note into the conversation, “then we’d better make sure this statement is unforgettable.”

His lips quirk into something that might almost be a smile. “That’s why you’re here.”

As he says it, his tone softens just enough to send a ripple of warmth through me. It’s not quite approval, but it’s closer than I’ve gotten before.

We resume walking along the terrace, the sound of our footsteps echoing faintly against the stone tiles. I point out potential layout ideas, suggesting where guests could mingle and how to arrange the seating to highlight the view.

Carlito listens intently, occasionally asking pointed questions that challenge my reasoning. Each time, I hold my ground, and with every answer I give, his expression shifts slightly—less skeptical, more thoughtful.

When we reach the far end of the terrace, he stops again, his gaze sweeping over the space. “The Venetian Rooftop Terrace,” he says, almost to himself.

I turn to him, heart pounding. “So... does that mean this is the venue?”

He glances at me, his dark eyes unreadable. For a moment, I’m certain he’s about to dismiss the idea entirely. Then, with a nod, he says, “It is. I prefer it to Caesar’s Palace. Make it work.”

Relief washes over me, and I can’t help the smile that breaks across my face. “Thank you. I promise you won’t regret this.”

His gaze lingers on me a moment longer, and there’s something almost... unguarded in it. Then he turns back toward the skyline.

As Carlito turns to leave, I linger for a moment, taking in the breathtaking view. The weight of his words still clings to the air, and I can’t help but feel like there’s more to this gala—and to Carlito—than I initially understood.

When I turn back, he’s watching me, his expression unreadable. There’s a subtle shift in the atmosphere, something electric that makes my pulse quicken.

“You’re good at this,” he says, breaking the silence.

I blink, caught off guard by the rare compliment. “Thank you. I’ve worked hard to get here.”

“I can tell,” he replies, his voice low and deliberate. “But hard work only gets you so far. Success requires more than effort—it demands vision, conviction.”

The intensity in his gaze sends a shiver down my spine. “I have vision,” I say, holding his stare.

His lips quirk in that faint, almost-smile that I’m starting to recognize. “We’ll see.”

He starts walking again, and I fall into step beside him. As we near the terrace exit, Leo steps forward, his sharp eyes darting between us before settling back into his stoic stance. The reminder of Carlito’s ever-present security should feel reassuring, but instead, it adds to the tension simmering just beneath the surface.

Carlito stops near the doorway and turns to me. “Tomorrow, you’ll meet me at my penthouse. We’ll finalize the gala plans.”

“Of course,” I reply, already flipping through my mental checklist of tasks to prepare.

He steps closer, his presence filling the space between us. The scent of his cologne—warm and dark—makes my breath hitch.

“Mia,” he says, his voice softer now, almost intimate. “In my penthouse tomorrow, I will truly know if you’re ready for this.”

The way he says it sends a jolt of something undeniable through me. It’s not just the words, but the way his eyes linger on mine, heavy with meaning.

I nod, my throat suddenly dry. “I’ll be ready.”

His gaze flicks down to my lips for the briefest moment before he steps back. “Good.”

With that, he turns and strides toward the exit, Leo falling into step behind him. I exhale a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, my heart pounding as I watch him leave.

The terrace feels impossibly quiet without him, the absence of his presence almost jarring. I gather my things, trying to steady myself. Tomorrow. His words echo in my mind, carrying a weight I can’t quite decipher.

As I make my way out of The Venetian, I can’t shake the feeling that this is more than just a professional challenge. Carlito Marcelli is a puzzle—one I’m both terrified and desperate to solve.