Sold To The Mafia Don

Chapter 221: 31 ~ Mira

I should’ve known something was wrong the moment Tomas showed up at my bakery.

He didn’t walk in like himself.

He didn’t tease my staff, or steal a freshly baked croissant, or pretend to inspect the ovens like he usually did when he got bored of guarding the perimeter.

He walked in stiffly with his back straight, jaw tight, shoulders squared like he expected an ambush.

And my heart reacted before my brain did.

"Where’s Jace?" I asked immediately, wiping my hands on my apron even though they weren’t dirty.

Tomas didn’t answer right away. Instead, he glanced around, scanning every corner of my bakery. The customers. The staff. The front display. The windows. And when his eyes finally settled on me again, the softness I usually recognized in them had faded.

Oh no.

"What happened?" I whispered.

"Nothing happened," he said quickly. Too quickly. "He’s in New York. Meetings took longer than expected."

I squinted at him. "Tomas."

His stance faltered slightly but not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for me. "You should sit down," he said quietly.

My pulse began to race. "Why?"

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he reached for his phone and pulled up something. I saw the hesitation in his eyes. I saw the split second where he wanted to hide it, shield me, keep it away.

But he also knew me well enough to understand that hiding things would only make it worse.

He handed me the phone.

And when he did, my entire world tilted.

There, filling the screen, was the infamous Isabella Moretti. There she was with her perfectly styled hair, her cold smile, her voice dripping with polished venom as she narrated the teaser for the documentary.

A documentary about my husband.

About our family.

About the Romano empire.

And the opening clip was our walk through LA.

Me in Jace’s shirt.

My bump visible.

My cheeks flushed.

His hand around mine.

Our bags of baby clothes swinging between us.

A sweet moment twisted into something sinister.

I felt all the blood drain from my face.

Then the next image hit. Hard.

A still photo of my Lisbon bakery.

A bold headline:

"Sweet Mira Bakery — Built On Love or Blood?"

My throat closed.

Then a fuzzy screenshot of Jace with Don Castillo taken years ago flashed across the screen with heavy, accusatory music underneath.

Then Donna.

Younger.

Standing beside men who weren’t alive anymore.

My body started to shake. fɾeeweɓnѳveɭ.com

Isabella’s voice cut straight through me:

"The Romano family claims to be legitimate now.

But every rose garden has its thorns.

And every empire has its shadows."

I didn’t realize I was breathing too fast until one of my employees rushed toward me with wide eyes.

"Mrs. Romano? Mira? Are you okay?"

I blinked at her, vision swimming, and handed Tomas his phone back. My hand trembled so hard I nearly dropped it.

"This... this is a joke," I whispered. "Tell me it’s a joke."

Tomas didn’t respond.

He didn’t have to.

The fear in his eyes said everything.

"This is just a teaser," he murmured. "The full documentary isn’t out yet. We’ll manage this."

Manage this?

My bakery was trending.

My name was trending.

Jace’s empire was being dissected as if it wasn’t built on sweat and strategy and endless nights of work.

And the worst part was that people online were dragging my business into the mud like it wasn’t built from scratch with my own hands.

My chest tightened painfully.

"Have you talked to Jace?" I asked, already pulling my phone out.

"Don’t—"

But it was too late.

I dialed him.

It rang once.

Twice.

Three times.

Four.

Voicemail.

"No." I whispered. "No, no, no."

I called again.

Voicemail.

One more time.

Straight to voicemail.

My breath hitched.

Tomas stepped closer. "He’s in back-to-back meetings. It’s chaos over there. He’ll call you back."

"I need to hear his voice," I said, trying not to sound desperate. "I need— I need him to tell me what’s going on. I need him to—"

My voice cracked.

The bakery staff pretended to be busy, hovering around their stations with nervous eyes. Customers whispered as they scrolled through their phones, some recognizing me instantly.

I couldn’t breathe.

"I want to go to New York," I blurted out. "Right now."

Tomas’s eyes widened. "Mira, you can’t fly."

"I don’t care!" I exclaimed.

"You’re pregnant."

"I don’t care!" I snapped louder than I meant to. The room went silent. My chest heaved, breaths short and erratic. "I just... I can’t stay here while people are ripping us apart."

Tomas’s expression softened into something painfully gentle.

"But you must," he said. "Because Jace would burn the world down if you even tried."

I pressed a shaking hand to my stomach. My daughter moved under my palm, a reminder that she was there alive, listening, feeling everything with me.

Another wave of panic crashed over me.

"What if this affects her?" I whispered. "What if the stress— what if something happens?"

"It won’t," Tomas said firmly. "We won’t let it."

But I didn’t believe him.

Not entirely.

I sank into a chair behind the counter and bowed my head, desperately trying to gather myself. The panic wasn’t just about the documentary. It was about everything behind it the secrets, the shadows, the ghosts of Jace’s past clawing at our present.

And I couldn’t stop thinking..

What if this was my fault?

I insisted on opening more branches.

I wanted growth.

Visibility.

Success.

Visibility meant attention.

Attention meant scrutiny.

Maybe I had been naïve.

Maybe believing we could have a normal life was naïve.

The door chimed. Someone walked in, and my entire staff stiffened. I didn’t even look up. I didn’t have the strength to pretend everything was fine.

Tomas crouched beside me. "Breathe, Mira. Just breathe."

I shook my head and tried to steady myself again, but every time I closed my eyes, I saw headlines. Comments. Hashtags. People twisting every piece of our life into some dramatic narrative that made me look like a pawn, made Jace look like a criminal, and made our daughter look like a weapon.

Another tear slipped out.

"I want my husband," I whispered. "I just... want him home."

"He will be," Tomas said. "Tonight."

"How do you know?" I asked, feeling a flutter of hope swell through me.

"Because he hasn’t gone this long without you in months." Tomas said.

That should’ve comforted me. But it didn’t.

The hours that followed passed in slow motion.

I canceled my afternoon appointments.

I tried to distract myself with paperwork.

I failed. Miserably.

Every few minutes, my eyes drifted to the door.

To the windows.

To my phone.

The customers kept whispering. My staff kept glancing at me with worried eyes. And Tomas stayed glued to my side like I was made of glass, even though I told him I needed air.

When I finally got home, everything felt off.

Quieter without Jace.

Colder without him.

I sat on the couch and tried calling again.

Voicemail.

This time, it broke me.

I curled into myself, hands gripping my bump, and cried quietly. They were not loud sobs but quiet, helpless tears that slipped down my cheeks and hit my shirt one by one.

I hated crying.

I hated feeling out of control.

But tonight, the panic refused to let me breathe fully.

He finally texted hours later.

Jace: Still in the boardroom. I’ll call when I can. I love you.

Short.

Rushed.

Not him.

But I clung to it like it was oxygen.

I kissed my phone screen, feeling ridiculous but desperate, and curled into the pillows.

I whispered quietly against my belly, "He’ll be home soon. Daddy will fix it. He always does."

My daughter moved as if she understood.

I closed my eyes, focusing on her movements.

I didn’t sleep.

Not really.

I just hovered in that space between fear and exhaustion, waiting for the sound of the door opening.

Waiting for the moment I could finally breathe again.

Waiting for Jace.