Sold To The Mafia Don

Chapter 212 - 22 ~ Jace

London mornings always felt too grey.

Too slow and too quiet in a way that didn’t suit the kind of tension simmering beneath my skin.

When I stepped out of the hotel and into the cold air, the sky was still covered in that heavy London fog. Cars rushed by, and people moved with purpose, but everything still felt muted like the whole city was breathing through cloth. I couldn’t wait to be back home.

I adjusted my coat and headed toward the waiting car.

There were meetings lined up from 9 a.m. straight through noon. For LA, that meant Mira was still asleep. The thought made something loosen in me. At least she had peace... even if it was temporary.

I slid into the back seat.

"Morning, sir," the driver said.

"Morning," I replied, tapping open the encrypted messages Tomas had forwarded overnight.

Nothing alarming.

But nothing comforting either.

Everything felt... paused. Like the air before a storm.

I leaned back, closing my eyes for a second, and Mira’s voice echoed somewhere in the back of my mind. She’d called last night, half-asleep, her voice wrapped in drowsy sweetness as she asked if I was eating and if the pillows in the hotel were too soft for my back.

I’d lied and told her I was fine.

She’d believed me.

Barely.

I opened my eyes again just as the car pulled into the financial district. Towering glass buildings reflected back the morning light, sharp and cold. Men in suits rushed past the sidewalks with coffee cups and briefcases.

It reminded me why I hated this part of business. It was too public, too formal, too exposed.

Inside the private boardroom, the meeting began almost immediately.

Lawyers. Analysts. Investors.

All talking at once.

All wanting details, explanations, projections.

I handled it the way I always did, with precision and control. But as the hours stretched on, something about the questions shifted. One of the investors, an older man with a clipped British accent, began circling back to the same topic.

"Mr. Romano, we just want reassurance that the upcoming audit will reflect the legitimacy of all your assets. Especially considering recent online... chatter."

My jaw almost tightened.

Almost.

"Everything will come through clean," I replied evenly.

Another investor pushed gently, too gently.

"As long as there aren’t any... skeletons?"

I leaned forward, voice steady. "If there were skeletons, gentlemen, you wouldn’t be sitting here in front of me."

Silence tightened the room.

The meeting moved on.

But I had already sensed it. Someone had been feeding them information. Someone close enough to know what words would reach me.

My gaze slipped toward a woman seated near the far end of the table.

She looked young. She was in her early thirties maybe with sleek dark hair pinned behind her ear, legs crossed, a tablet in her lap. She wasn’t dressed like the legal team or the investors. And she didn’t speak.

She watched calmly.

Too knowingly.

When our eyes met, she offered a polite smile. One that didn’t reach her eyes.

I didn’t smile back.

She held the gaze for a beat... then lowered her eyes to her tablet.

I didn’t need an introduction.

Isabella Moretti was many things — journalist, documentarian, master of digging into the cracks people tried to hide. And she was here. In the same room. Watching me work.

Why?

A coincidence?

No. I didn’t believe in those.

She didn’t approach me at the end of the meeting. Didn’t attempt a conversation. Didn’t even pretend to network.

She simply slipped out the door with the same quiet grace she arrived with.

But not before looking back at me once.

A single look that was measured and knowing.

Like she carried information she wasn’t sure I deserved to hear yet.

My phone buzzed.

A message from Tomas:

Tomas: Still nothing new on Moretti’s contacts. Whoever is backing her has resources.

I pocketed the phone and followed Marcus down the hallway toward the next meeting, but my mind was nowhere near business anymore.

Someone was moving pieces.

Someone wanted the spotlight, noise and chaos.

And Isabella Moretti?

She was their weapon.

~

Hours later — around 7 p.m. London time, which was barely 11 a.m. in LA — I finally got back to the hotel.

The moment I stepped inside, the silence felt heavier than before. My chest tightened with something I didn’t want to label as vulnerability. Missing her was one thing... but this?

This was an ache. A pure, sharp and exhausting one.

The sun hadn’t fully set, but the room was already dim. I loosened my tie, tossing it onto the chair, and checked my phone.

No new messages from Mira.

She wasn’t the type to bombard me. She respected my work. But right now... I wanted her to bombard me. To ask what I was eating. To tell me she missed me. To say something that steadied the parts of me that felt too wired.

I took a slow breath and dialed her anyway.

The phone rang twice before she picked up.

Her voice was warm, soft and sleepy.

"Jace?"

I closed my eyes.

God, I needed that sound.

"Hey," I murmured, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Did I wake you?"

"No," she said gently. "I was just getting up"

A small smile tugged at my mouth. "Of course you were."

I heard her laugh lightly. "You sound tired."

"Long meetings," I admitted. "But hearing you helps."

She didn’t say anything for a second. I knew she was probably smiling, cheeks slightly warm the way they always got when she was quietly flattered.

"How’s London?" she asked.

"Cold," I said. "Annoying. Overcrowded. And too far from you."

Her breath caught just barely she always reacted to honesty like it was a kiss. "I miss you too," she whispered.

Something in my chest clenched.

"Tell me about your day," I said.

So she did.

She talked about the bakery, about Ariel dropping by, about Roberto sending her food even though she had insisted she wasn’t craving anything. She told me our daughter had hiccups and she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry because the sensation felt strange.

I tried to imagine her with her hand on her stomach, head tilted, eyes full of wonder.

My throat tightened.

When she paused, I said, "I’ll be home soon."

"I know."

But her voice trembled just slightly.

"You okay?" I asked quietly.

There was a silence — a soft one.

"I just... don’t like when you’re far."

I exhaled slowly, hand pressed against my forehead.

"I’m coming back," I promised. "As soon as I can."

She whispered, "I’ll be waiting."

And something inside me steadied.

Even if the world was shifting beneath us, even if enemies whispered in the dark... her voice grounded every sharp edge inside me.

We talked a little longer — about dinner, about how she wanted gelato later, about how the baby kicked when she said my name.

Eventually, she yawned.

"Sleep," I murmured.

"With you on the phone?" she mumbled.

"Yes."

She obeyed easily, curling under the blankets, breathing slowly until she drifted off. I stayed on the line long after she fell asleep, listening to the soft rhythm that reminded me who I was fighting for.

Who I was going home to.

Eventually, I whispered:

"I love you," even though she couldn’t hear it.

Then I ended the call and rose from the bed, staring out into the daylight as the city busied itself.

I was staring but I was distracted by the noise in my mind. I couldn’t concentrate. Not when I knew someone out there was watching my family.

And not when the only place I wanted to be was thousands of miles away.

Tomorrow, I would start digging.

Harder.

Deeper.

Because someone had made a mistake.

They touched my family with their eyes.

And I never let that go unpunished.