Sold To The Mafia Don

Chapter 203 - 13 ~ Jace

There were certain comforts I had learned to take for granted.

The soft hum of the AC. The faint scent of Mira’s shampoo lingering on the hallway. The subtle warmth in the house that came from her presence even when she was in a different room.

Those things grounded me.

But tonight, grounding wasn’t working.

My mind was too loud.

Mira was in the living room, curled into the corner of the couch with her journal open and her legs tucked beneath her. She wrote slowly, the tip of her pen pausing every few seconds, like she was thinking deeply before choosing each word.

It was something she did when she needed to breathe, and I let her have that space.

I stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, my phone in my hand — screen still lit with the last message I received.

Marco:

"We found the initial source. It’s not a rival family.

It’s media."

Media.

Not guns.

Not raids.

Not threats of violence.

Something far worse.

Exposure.

Press had always circled the Romano name like vultures — hungry, patient, waiting for blood. But this wasn’t background noise or whisper gossip. This was structured. Coordinated. Investigative.

And someone had given them breadcrumbs.

Which meant someone with access.

Someone who had been close.

I scrolled.

Marco:

"Headlining journalist: Isabella Moretti. European syndicate. Known for mafia exposés. Three months of research already underway."

Three months.

This wasn’t new.

This wasn’t the beginning.

This was the point where the trap was already built — and I was only now noticing the walls.

My jaw locked hard enough to ache.

I typed back quickly.

Jace:

Find out her funding. No reporter works alone.

If someone wants her to dig into us, we find who is feeding her.

Quietly.

Marco:

Already on it.

Good. Because the moment Mira felt anything resembling fear from this — it would be too late to undo the damage.

Truth was dangerous, yes.

But narratives were deadlier.

And Mira’s businesses were clean, spotless, legitimate.

But the money that built my empire?

The name I carried?

The men that still owed loyalty to me?

If that line blurred publicly everything she built could be questioned.

And I would burn cities before I let her suffer for my sins.

My phone buzzed again. It was another message, different sender.

Roberto:

"I heard whispers in Italy. Someone wants to resurrect the Romano story. You need to get ahead of this."

So it wasn’t just the media.

It was international.

Which meant someone wanted us destabilized.

The enemy wasn’t loud.

The enemy was patient.

I looked over at Mira again.

She had paused writing. She was rubbing small circles over her stomach — absent, gentle, affectionate. Our daughter had been moving a lot lately. I could tell from the way Mira’s expression softened in a way that I could never describe, only memorize.

It hit me in the chest again, that feeling I couldn’t articulate.

Fear.

Love.

The kind of love that made fear unbearable.

She lifted her head and met my eyes.

"You’re thinking too loudly," she said.

I tried to smile. "That obvious?"

She gave a small nod, closing her journal. "Come sit with me."

I should have said that I’d join her in a minute.

I should have gone upstairs to the office, to the screens, to the files, to war.

But I didn’t.

I walked to her.

She pulled a blanket aside so I could sit, and I lowered myself onto the couch beside her. Her hand came to rest on my thigh — not possessively, not clingingly, it was just... there. Like she needed to feel me to know I was real.

"You left so early this morning," she said. "I didn’t even hear you get up."

I exhaled slowly. "I had a call."

"With whom?"

She didn’t ask it like a challenge.

She asked because she cared.

"Marco," I answered.

Her fingers paused slightly.

"What happened?"

There was the question.

The door I didn’t know whether to open.

She trusted me with everything.

But trust didn’t mean burden.

I looked at her for a long moment.

Her skin was glowing in that way pregnant women get when they are surrounded by love. Her eyes were softer. Brighter. Her heartbeat — I could almost sense it from here. She was building a life. Making space for joy. Hope.

Dragging darkness into that space felt wrong.

So I chose honesty without weight.

"There are... conversations," I said slowly. "Some people want the past to resurface. Old information. Old ties. Nothing immediate. Nothing dangerous. But I’m watching it."

She studied my face carefully.

"You’re protecting us again," she whispered.

"Always."

Her hand slipped into mine. "Then we’ll handle it. Together."

I swallowed. The word together hit deeper than she knew.

She didn’t flinch at the idea of chaos anymore.

She didn’t run from shadows.

She knew this life.

But even strength deserves peace.

And I wanted her to have peace.

"Hey," she said gently, tilting her head. "Look at me."

I did.

"You’re not carrying this alone, Jace."

I hadn’t realized how much I needed to hear that until she said it.

I leaned forward, pressing my forehead to hers. It was not desperate, or possessive. I just needed the closeness. The kind that didn’t have questions attached.

She lifted my hand and placed it over her belly.

As if to remind me what we were fighting for.

The baby kicked. Strong. Sure.

My throat tightened.

"She’s going to be stubborn," Mira said softly.

I huffed a quiet breath. "She gets that from you."

We stayed like that for a while — no words, just breathing, just existing together in the middle of everything I couldn’t control.

Then Mira leaned her head on my shoulder, lips curving faintly.

"Whatever is coming," she whispered, "we face it like we always have. Side by side."

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t.

My chest ached with a love that felt too big.

I wrapped my arm around her and held her closer, careful but secure.

Because she was my anchor.

My peace.

My reason to wage wars and my reason to avoid them.

But in the back of my mind, beneath the quiet and the warmth, the war was already beginning to shape itself.

Not with bullets. But with information, exposure and influence.

And I knew one thing with absolute certainty:

The worst enemies are the ones who wait until you finally feel safe.

And for the first time in my life, I did feel safe.

Which meant I had everything to lose.

And I would not lose.

Not her.

Not our daughter.

Not the life we bled for.

Not again.