Sold To The Mafia Don

Chapter 209 - 19 ~ Jace

The morning Mira woke up in my arms, clinging to my shirt like she didn’t want morning to come, was the same morning I had to tell her I was leaving.

I hated the timing.

I’d been pushing this trip for weeks, delaying meetings, rescheduling video calls, even pretending certain deals didn’t exist. But there was only so long a man could postpone the businesses trying to pull him fully into the light. Every legitimate empire required its king to show face.

And if I wanted my daughter to grow up in a home untouched by doubt or shadow, I needed these deals airtight.

Still, saying the words out loud felt like tightening a knot inside my chest.

"Mira," I whispered as I tucked a stray curl behind her ear, "I have to leave for a few days."

Her eyes fluttered open, soft and sleepy, then blinked again as the sentence settled.

"What? Today?" she asked, voice small.

I nodded, caressing her cheek. "It’s important, baby. Tied to the London expansion and the real estate partnership there."

She studied my expression as if searching for cracks. "How long?"

"Three days." My thumb brushed over her lower lip. "Four at most."

Her brows drew together. She didn’t pout — she never did that — but she looked at me with that quiet disappointment that cut deeper than anything dramatic ever could.

"I don’t want you to go," she said simply.

"I know." I pulled her closer, pressing my forehead to hers. "I don’t want to go either."

Her hands came up to my chest, gripping lightly, like she was anchoring herself to something steady.

"Can’t Tomas go?" she whispered.

"Tomas isn’t the Romano empire," I whispered back. "I am."

That wasn’t arrogance. It was the truth..

And she understood that. She closed her eyes for a second, long enough that I felt a flicker of guilt. Then she sighed, resting her head against my shoulder.

"Promise you’ll call me every hour?" She asked.

I smiled into her hair. "Every half."

That earned me the faintest smile, but it didn’t hide the worry swimming in her eyes.

"I’ll be fine," I murmured against her forehead. "I always come back to my girls."

Under my palm, our daughter kicked gently, and Mira’s expression softened instantly. She placed her hand over mine, her voice barely above a whisper.

"She’ll miss you too."

I kissed her again, lingering, slow, because I hated the distance already forming between us even though we were still tangled in the same sheets.

If I didn’t leave now, I might not leave at all.

I pulled back. "Pack me light?" I teased softly.

She rolled her eyes and squeezed my hand. "Go shower. I’ve got it."

I lingered anyway.

Because something felt off. Not the foreboding that had been trailing us for weeks. Not the threat from shadows or the press or the world outside these walls.

This was different.

This was the ache of leaving home.

Of leaving her.

Of leaving them.

And I swallowed the feeling down because I couldn’t afford to let her see it.

She had enough to worry about.

At the AirportI didn’t let Mira come with me. Not after the bakery incident and certainly not with strangers still poking around our lives like vultures waiting for a wound to reopen.

And especially not while she was over seven months pregnant.

She didn’t fight me on that one which was the only reason my nerves didn’t explode.

Instead, she walked me to the front door like it was something intimate. She fixed my collar, smoothed the lapel of my coat, and kissed my ring finger before letting me go.

"Text me the moment you land," she whispered.

"I will."

"And don’t skip meals."

"Yes, ma’am."

"And stay hydrated."

I chuckled. "Mira—"

"And please don’t freeze in London. Wear something warm. Or I’ll kill you." She warned me.

I kissed her forehead. "Done."

She pressed one last kiss to my mouth. It was a soft, barely-there kiss that made my entire chest go still and whispered:

"Come back to me."

"I always do."

That was the last thing she said before closing the door.

And the last thing I held onto as I slid into the car.

The flight wasn’t long by international standards, but long enough for business calls to stack up before I even reached the airport lounge.

London investors were already waiting.

The financial press wanted a statement.

Our partner firm kept requesting updates on the merger.

Real estate analysts wanted to discuss projections.

All the noise required someone calm. Someone sharp. Someone who knew exactly what the Romano name meant — and what it would mean ten years from now.

Someone like me.

But beneath all the sharpness and clarity, there was a tension burning low in my chest.

A quiet pull.

Something telling me this wasn’t like any other trip.

I ignored it.

Boarded the private jet.

And settled into work mode.

We were three hours into the flight when the sky shifted.

I noticed it before the captain spoke. There was the way the jet tilted almost imperceptibly, the way the engines deepened in pitch, the way the air felt thicker suddenly.

I set down the documents in my hand.

"Everything okay?" I asked the attendant.

She forced a polite smile. "Just a patch of rough air, sir."

She lied beautifully.

But I’d lived around enough danger to know when someone was hiding panic.

Minutes dragged.

The first jolt came like a single, sharp kick under the cabin.

My hand gripped the armrest before I could think.

The documents slid off the table.

Then the second jolt hit harder.

The jet dipped suddenly, violently, and the cabin lights flickered.

My breath caught but not from fear. It was from instinct.

Survival was something my body never forgot.

The seatbelt sign pinged overhead.

The captain’s voice followed. It sounded strained, too calm to be genuine.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please remain seated. We’re encountering unexpected turbulence—"

All of a sudden, there was another drop. It was even harder.

The kind that makes your stomach slam into your spine.

The attendant fell against the wall, catching herself last second.

Now she wasn’t hiding panic.

"This isn’t normal turbulence," she whispered.

I’d been in storms. In shootouts. In fires. I had faced death with a blade pressed against my throat.

But nothing prepared me for the feeling of a plane losing stability thousands of feet in the air.

Nothing.

Another violent drop shook the entire cabin.

The lights flickered again.

Something metallic clattered in the galley.

My hand tightened around the armrest until my knuckles went white.

And for the first time in a very long time... I felt something sharp and cold slide up the back of my neck.

Fear.

Not for myself.

But because an image slammed into my mind with blinding force:

Mira in our living room, wearing my shirt, laughing while I massaged her feet.

Her head on my chest.

Her hand over our daughter.

Her whisper:

"Come back to me."

Another jolt came. It was louder and sharper, like the sky cracking open.

And I saw another image.

It was daughter.

Not born yet.

Not even ready to breathe.

My hand on her through Mira’s skin.

Her kicking fiercely like she wanted to remind me she existed.

Like she needed me.

Like she was saying:

Daddy, don’t you dare leave us.

My throat tightened. Breath hitched.

Everything inside me went still.

"What’s happening?" I demanded when the attendant passed again, gripping the backs of chairs for balance.

"We— we’re trying to stabilize— the storm wasn’t on radar—"

Storm.

Storm.

That word echoed in my skull.

My entire life, storms had been the easiest thing to fight.

You braced. You aimed. You struck before the lightning did.

But this?

I couldn’t punch wind.

I couldn’t out-think gravity.

I couldn’t bargain with the sky.

The plane shook again violently enough that the oxygen masks dropped from overhead.

A sound escaped my chest. It was low and raw— the sound of a man realizing he might not make it home.

My daughter would never meet me.

Mira would wake up alone.

She would read a headline.

She would break.

And I—

I would have failed them.

The jet lurched sideways.

My hand clenched the mask but I didn’t put it on yet.

I closed my eyes and for the first time in twenty years... I prayed.

Not to be spared.

But to go back.

To her.

To them.

To the small, quiet life that became the only thing that ever mattered.

I whispered her name under my breath.

"Mira..."

The turbulence dragged on for minutes, hours, maybe seconds. Time warped when fear tightened around your throat.

But then slowly the shaking stopped. The engines steadied and the plane leveled. The oxygen masks stopped swinging. The air settled like a sigh.

And the captain’s voice returned — shaken this time.

"We... apologize for that. We’ve cleared the worst of it. Please remain seated until further instruction."

I didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

My pulse still thundered oddly.

My hands trembled faintly, something that almost never happened.

I exhaled, long and unsteady.

My entire life had flashed behind my eyes — every kill, every risk, every moment I thought I was invincible.

But only two faces stayed with me through all of it.

Mira.

And our daughter.

The turbulence wasn’t the kind you forget.

It was the kind that rearranged something inside you.

Shifted a boundary.

Marked the beginning of a decision.

I picked up my phone with a shaking hand, even though we were still midair and without signal.

I typed the message anyway.

To Mira.

Jace: I love you. Both of you.

I stared at it for a long moment.

Then whispered into the cabin’s silence:

"I’m coming home after this deal. No more risks. No more distance."

The words settled heavy and certain in my chest.

The sky had tilted.

And so had something inside me.