Sold To The Mafia Don

Chapter 211 - 21 ~ Jace

Hotel nights used to mean nothing to me.

Just temporary walls, silent hallways, clean sheets I didn’t care about, and a bed I barely touched because work always stretched deep into the night. I’d lived my life in airports, penthouses, meeting rooms, private lounges, safehouses, all of it blending into one endless blur where I existed without ever being anywhere.

But tonight...

London felt like a prison.

The hotel room was large with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the Thames, city lights flickering on the river like stars drowning underwater. The room had every luxury a man could ask for: a king-sized bed, a marble bathroom, a bottle of aged whiskey left on the table to welcome me.

None of it mattered.

The air felt wrong.

Too still.

Too quiet.

Too empty without her.

I lay on the bed for hours, sheets untouched on the other side, staring at the ceiling like it was mocking me with silence. I checked the time every ten minutes, even though I knew Mira would be asleep by now. My chest tightened each time I pictured her curled up alone, one hand on her stomach the way she always did when she felt uneasy.

My wife.

My child.

My entire goddamn world sleeping over six thousand miles away.

And London kept breathing cold air down my neck like a warning.

My phone lit up at midnight with a message from Tomas.

Tomas: All quiet. Perimeter secure.

Tomas: Mira is home. Resting.

I stared at the screen until it dimmed again, but the reassurance didn’t settle.

Nothing settled.

A deep ache sat under my ribs — something between dread and longing — twisting with every breath. I turned onto my side, closing my eyes.

It didn’t help.

All I could see was Mira.

The way she’d touched my cheek before I left... trying not to let her disappointment show. The way her smile softened even when she was trying to be strong for me. The way her hand brushed her bump like she was reminding our daughter Daddy would come back.

I exhaled sharply and sat up again, running a hand through my hair.

Sleep was impossible.

So I stood.

The carpet was soft under my feet as I crossed to the window. The city was alive outside — cars rushing by, tourists laughing on the street below, boats drifting along the river. But despite all that life... everything felt cold.

Cold in a way I hadn’t felt since before Mira.

Cold in a way I used to live in.

A knock sounded on the door.

Two short taps.

I already knew who it was.

"Come in," I said.

Marcus, one of the London branch managers, stepped in with a folder tucked under his arm. I looked at him. He was young, sharp, overly eager to impress. I’d worked with him long enough to know he meant well, but he still talked too much when he was nervous.

Which meant tonight was going to be long.

"How was the flight, sir?" he asked.

I leveled him with a look. "Sit."

He swallowed and complied immediately.

I sank into the armchair opposite him, rolling my sleeve up slightly. "Let’s get this done. I want to leave as soon as possible."

Marcus nodded quickly and passed the folder to me. "These are the documents regarding the Romano Foundation transfer. The assets under your name have been re-evaluated. The legal board wants a full audit to ensure everything is clean before the new project launches."

Good.

This was why I was here.

Legitimate business.

Transparent finances.

A future that wasn’t tied to blood or shadows.

Everything I was doing now was for Mira. For our daughter. For the life we were so close to building without fear clawing at the edges.

Marcus continued, "And Moretti Global reached out this morning. The journalist—"

My head snapped up.

"Who?" I asked quietly.

He hesitated. "Isabella Moretti."

The name slid into the room like a blade.

I had heard it before recently, in passing from Roberto. A journalist with a reputation for digging deep. A woman who loved controversy the way sharks love blood. Her portfolio was full of exposés that ruined CEOs, politicians, entire corporations.

She was dangerous.

Because she didn’t fear power. She fed on it.

Marcus cleared his throat. "She requested an exclusive interview for her documentary on legacy empires transitioning into legitimate business. She wants to feature the Romano family’s transformation."

I stiffened slowly.

"No."

Marcus blinked, startled. "But sir—"

"No interviews," I repeated, voice colder. "Not now. Not ever."

He nodded quickly. "Understood."

I leaned back in the chair, jaw ticking.

Why was Isabella Moretti sniffing around my name?

My business?

My family?

Women like her didn’t ask questions out of curiosity. They asked because someone whispered in their ear. Someone wanted her to dig. Someone wanted her eyes on me.

And no one ever did that without a motive.

"Tell the legal team to increase security on internal documents," I said. "No files leave the building without clearance."

"Yes, sir."

"And I want to know exactly who Moretti’s sources are. Every name. Every connection."

Marcus hesitated. "That might take time. She protects her leads."

"Find a way," I said, voice low. "Everyone wants something. Use that."

Marcus swallowed. "Yes, sir."

I dismissed him with a nod, and he exited.

The moment the door closed, the room felt heavier like someone had turned the air into water.

Isabella Moretti...

She wasn’t just a journalist.

She was a strategist.

A hunter.

Someone who built an entire career destroying the untouchable.

And she was looking in my direction.

My phone buzzed.

A message from Mira.

Mira: Did you sleep yet?

A breath left me slowly.

Jace: Not yet. Working.

Jace: How are you?

There was a pause.

Then another text came in.

Mira: I miss you.

Mira: It feels strange without you here.

My chest tightened painfully. I typed:

Jace: I’m coming home soon. I promise.

But the promise felt like it was hanging on a thread I didn’t trust.

Another message came in, slowly, softly:

Mira: Our daughter keeps looking for you.

My throat tightened.

God.

I wanted to go home.

I wanted to hold her.

I wanted to feel my daughter kick under my hand again, that grounding pulse that reminded me life wasn’t just blood and legacy — it was Mira. It was the tiny heartbeat growing inside her. It was the future I was burning everything for.

I tossed the phone aside and walked to the window again, forehead pressed against the glass.

I needed to finish this trip.

Fast.

Because something was shifting around us.

A new enemy was circling.

And Mira...

Mira felt it. I felt it.

Even our home has felt different lately.

My gaze caught on a billboard across the street an advertisement for a news network.

The tagline in bold letters:

"Truth Always Finds a Way."

My stomach tightened.

It felt like a warning.

Or a promise.

I stood there for a long time, watching the reflection of the city flicker in the glass. Cars moved below. People lived their lives. London breathed.

But the world inside my chest didn’t calm. It couldn’t..

Not while Mira was thousands of miles away.

Not while someone like Moretti had my name in her mouth.

Not while shadows were gathering again.

Sleep never came.

Not even for a second.