Sold To The Mafia Don

Chapter 217 - 27 ~ Jace

The house felt wrong the moment she walked away from me.

Not loud-wrong, not even chaotic-wrong. It was just quiet in a way that cut straight through bone.

Her footsteps up the stairs were soft, but every single one of them landed on my chest like a punch I knew I deserved.

I stood in the foyer long after she disappeared behind the bedroom door, staring at the space she’d just been standing in, replaying the whole argument in my mind.

I hadn’t yelled. She hadn’t screamed. But somehow it felt like the worst fight we’d had in months. And I caused it.

It was my fault. My choices and my fear kept getting in the way.

I dragged a hand over my face, trying to breathe past the tightness in my ribs. My chest felt too small, like my heart was trying to claw its way out and apologize for me since I clearly didn’t know how to do it properly.

I wasn’t trying to control her.

I wasn’t trying to take anything from her.

I just...

My mind was in a place of turmoil after the scare that happened about a week before. I could still see her collapsing in that bakery.

I could still hear her breath stuttering when her blood pressure went up a few times after we returned fro the hospital.

I could still feel the weight of her going limp against me.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it all over again.

I thought I was protecting her.

But all she saw was a cage. Mira couldn’t understand how I felt and what my intentions actually were.

And I couldn’t blame her.

I hated the version of myself she just had to meet again. I understood how it reminded her of me from the beginning. But this was different now. I needed to make her understand that.

I checked my watch out of habit. The charity event I was supposed to attend was in less than two hours. Normally, I would skip it without thinking because nothing mattered when she wasn’t okay.

But she said she needed space.

Space.

God, that word hurt more than it should’ve.

I took a slow breath and nodded to myself.

Fine.

If she needed breathing room, I would give it to her.

Even if it killed me to walk out of this house without fixing what I broke.

I went upstairs quietly, pausing outside our bedroom. My knuckles hovered just above the wood. I wanted to knock. I wanted her to open the door and look at me the way she usually does with that soft, warm and forgiving gaze.

But I knew I didn’t deserve that right now.

So I let my hand fall.

The help brought me my freshly dry cleaned outfit and I changed into the black suit in another room, adjusted the cuffs mechanically, and took a long look at myself in the mirror. I looked like I was heading to war, not a charity fundraiser.

Maybe I was.

Tomas drove me to the event because I didn’t want to drive myself. I took a few guards with me. No need to draw attention. I planned on breezing in and out as quickly as possible. The ride was silent except for the occasional static of my own thoughts. My phone stayed in my hand the entire time. I kept waiting for her name to flash on the screen.

It didn’t. And it hurt my chest to see that.

When we pulled up to the venue. It was an unnaturally bright hall decorated with golden lights. I forced myself to step out. Cameras flashed the second I hit the carpet, but I barely registered anything.

A staff member walked over, smiling too wide. "Mr. Romano, welcome."

I nodded stiffly and moved inside.

People mingled in clusters, dressed in high-end fashion, sipping champagne like it was oxygen. A pianist played something elegant in the corner. The scent of expensive perfume hung thick in the air.

It was everything I hated.

And yet I stayed.

Because going home too soon would make Mira think I was hovering again. And the last thing I wanted was to make the crack between us deeper.

I made small talk when I had to. Shook hands. Said the appropriate words. Pretended my chest wasn’t burning.

Halfway through pretending to listen to some investor talk about a new renewable energy venture, the temperature in the room shifted.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

Like the air itself tightened.

I didn’t need to turn around to know why.

Isabella Moretti had walked in.

She didn’t enter rooms, she claimed them. A blood-red dress hugged her curves, high slit, plunging neckline paired the kind of confidence that wasn’t accidental. Her dark hair fell in soft waves, her lips painted to match the dress.

People looked at her the way they looked at fire. They were fascinated, wary and a little afraid to get too close.

I kept my eyes forward.

The investor droned on.

But a few seconds later, Isabella’s perfume drifted behind me, subtle and sharp. She was approaching. Purposefully.

I swallowed irritation and kept my posture straight.

"Romano," her voice chimed lightly, dripping with amusement.

I didn’t turn. "Ms. Moretti."

"Are you ignoring me?" she asked, stepping into my line of sight.

I gave her a single glance. "No. Just choosing who is worth responding to."

Her smile grew. "Ah. So I am worth responding to."

God.

I clenched my jaw, forcing myself not to provoke anything in public. I didn’t need my name trending again.

She slid closer, stopping at a polite-but-too-close distance. "Your wife looked lovely yesterday. Comfortable in your clothes, wasn’t she?"

My pulse raced dangerously. But I wasn’t going to let her push me over the edge.

"I wonder," she continued, swirling her champagne, "how long comfort lasts when the world starts asking questions."

"Careful," I said quietly. "You’re trespassing."

She raised a brow. "On what?"

"Boundaries." I stated clippedly.

"Oh sweetheart," she said, leaning in slightly, "I don’t believe in boundaries. Journalists only believe in stories. And yours is... delicious."

My eyes narrowed into slits. "Is that a threat?"

"Not at all." She toyed with the rim of her glass. "Just a reminder that the truth always finds a way out."

"My truth is already out."

"No." She smiled wider. "Your past is out. Your truth? That’s what we’re still digging for."

My heart slammed once against my ribs, but I kept my face unreadable.

"And when Mira reads everything," she added softly, "will she live with your truth?"

Something inside me snapped tight. It was not enough to show, but enough to freeze my blood.

I stepped closer, voice low enough only she could hear.

"If you ever bring my wife into your career again," I said, "I will make sure you never work in this city, or any other, ever again."

She tsked softly. "Threatening the press? How barbaric. How very... Romano."

I didn’t blink. "Try me."

The smile that curved her lips was slow, wicked, and full of someone else’s agenda not hers.

"You should get some rest tonight," she murmured. "You look tired."

I didn’t respond. There was no point in exchanging words with the enemy.

She brushed past me, fingertips grazing my sleeve. It was a deliberate act. After that, she disappeared into the crowd, leaving behind the faint scent of roses and danger.

I exhaled once. Hard.

For a second, my mind actually drifted to violence. It would have been quick, efficient and final But then Mira’s face flashed behind my eyes.

No. No. No.

I fought back the urge to shake my head along with my thoughts.

I wasn’t that man anymore. I was trying to turn a new leaf for her and for our daughter. I heard her voice strain when she said she wanted normalcy. I wanted to give her that.

I left the event early.

The second I got in the car, I pulled out my phone. Still no call or message from Mira. My throat tightened.

"Home," I told Tomas.

He started driving.

The city lights blurred past the windows as I pressed the phone against my knee and stared into the dark.

I didn’t know how to fix what happened this morning.

I didn’t know how to navigate my fear without swallowing her in it.

I didn’t know how to hold her without making her feel trapped.

But I knew one thing ..

I couldn’t sleep without touching her.

I couldn’t breathe without knowing she was okay.

I couldn’t go another second without making it right.

So I texted her.

Just one word.

Jace: Home soon.

No reply.

My chest ached, but it also grounded me.

Space.

She needed space.

But I was coming home anyway.

Not to control her.

Not to hover.

Not to argue.

But to be there.

To wait outside her door if I had to.

To apologize properly when she was ready.

To prove, not with force, but with patience, that I respected her.

That I loved her enough to learn how not to lose her.