Sold To The Mafia Don Chapter 97 ~ Jace

I was at the central warehouse the next morning with a plastered nose.

The first thing Tomas said when he walked in was, "What happened to your nose?"

"Mira punched ." I answered gruffly.

Tomas laughed. A full, unrestrained laugh that echoed off the office walls. I shot him an intense glare, but that only seed to encourage him.

"Jesus, Boss," he wheezed, clutching his stomach. "Two years away and the first thing your wife does is rearrange your face. Can’t say you didn’t deserve it."

I pinched the bridge of my nose carefully. It still throbbed, and the faint sting reminded of the fury in Mira’s eyes when her fist connected with it. She hadn’t hesitated, not for a second. My Mira. Still fire, still unpredictable. But I did not see that coming.

"You done?" I asked dryly.

"Not even close," Tomas grinned, leaning back in the chair opposite my desk. "You’re lucky she didn’t break it. She’s got good aim."

I leaned back, exhaling slowly, letting my irritation simr instead of boil over. If this had been anyone else, I’d have already had them tossed into the Hudson with bricks tied to their ankles. But Tomas had earned his place. He was more than an underboss. He was one of the few people I trusted enough to let laugh at my expense.

Still.

"Say another word," I warned, "and I’ll let Mira punch you next."

He raised a brow. "Considering how hard she hits, I think I’ll pass." He folded his arms, a smirk still tugging at his mouth. "But admit it. Seeing her again is doing a number on you."

I went still. The truth was, Tomas wasn’t wrong. Seeing Mira again had cracked sothing open inside that I’d tried to bury for two years. The way she looked at , like she wanted to kill and kiss all at once was haunting. She hated . I knew that. But the hate was alive, sharp, burning. And where there was hate, there was still a connection.

It was better than indifference.

"She’s different," I muttered, more to myself than to him.

Tomas tilted his head, studying . "Different how?"

I paused, searching for words. Mira had always been strong, but Lisbon had changed her. She wasn’t just surviving anymore. She was thriving. Confident. Cold. Untouchable. And it infuriated that Massimo Ricciardi had been close enough to witness it all.

"She doesn’t flinch anymore," I said finally. "She used to wear her heart on her sleeve, even when she tried not to. Now it’s like she’s wearing armor." My fists clenched unconsciously. "And I’m going to break through it."

Tomas’s smirk faded, replaced by sothing more serious. "Careful, Jace. You push too hard, you’ll lose her for good."

I t his eyes, my jaw tight. "She’s already mine. She can hate all she wants, but that doesn’t change a damn thing."

For a mont, silence stretched between us. Then Tomas let out a low whistle. "Obsession looks good on you."

I ignored the jab and reached for the glass of scotch on my desk. The burn was grounding. Necessary.

"She’ll co around," I said, more to myself than to him.

Later that night, I found myself pacing the halls of the mansion. Mira had locked herself in her room. Though she didn’t realize it, I’d made sure it was kept exactly as she left it, every trace of her untouched.

I stopped outside the door, my hand hovering just inches from the handle. I could hear faint movent inside. She was awake.

I should’ve walked away. Given her space. But patience had never been one of my virtues.

I knocked once before opening the door anyway.

She was seated by the window, arms folded, eyes sharp and defiant the mont they landed on . "Ever heard of privacy?"

"Ever heard of gratitude?" I countered smoothly, stepping inside.

"For what? Kidnapping ?" She scoffed, rising to her feet. "Flying across the country like so trophy you won’t let go of?"

I smirked, though inside, her words cut deeper than I let on. "If you were a trophy, Mira, I’d have locked you in glass. But you’re not. You’re..." I trailed off, swallowing the word that burned on my tongue. Mine. Always mine.

Her lips curled in disgust. "Save your poetry for soone who cares."

I closed the distance between us, ignoring the fire in her eyes. "I’m not here to write poetry. I’m here to remind you what we had."

"What we had died with our child," she snapped, her voice cracking on the word.

The air left my lungs in a rush. No bullet, no blade had ever hurt as much as that single sentence. And every ti she repeated it, it burned even more.

"Mira—"

"Don’t." She held up a hand, trembling but steady in her defiance. "Don’t twist this into so tragic love story where you’re the hero. You’re not the hero, Jace. You’re the villain I had to escape from."

I froze. Because deep down, I knew she was right.

But villains didn’t give up.

I leaned in, my voice low, dangerous. "And yet, even now, you’re still here. Even now, your eyes can’t lie to . You feel it. You hate it. But you feel it."

Her jaw tightened. Her silence told more than words ever could.

I stepped back, letting the tension hang between us like a taut wire ready to snap. "Get so sleep, Mira. You’ll need your strength."

"For what?" she demanded.

I gave her a slow, deliberate smile. "For rembering."

And then I left, closing the door behind , the sound of her ragged breathing following down the hall.

Back in my room, I poured another drink and sat in silence. I replayed the image of her standing there, fury blazing in her eyes, and beneath it - the flicker of sothing she refused to admit.

Hate or love, it didn’t matter. Both kept her tied to . And I’d use either one until she rembered that no matter where she ran, she’d never escape .

Not now. Not ever.