Sold To The Mafia Don

Chapter 205 - 15 ~ Mira & Jace

Shopping wasn’t supposed to feel like a covert operation, but with my husband’s hand resting on the small of my back as if the entire city was out to get me, it always did.

"Jace," I said, trying not to laugh as I looked up at him, "you do realize this is just a store, right? Not an ambush."

He didn’t even blink. "Stores have people."

"People who buy clothes," I said dryly, tugging on his arm.

"People who stare at you," he countered, voice low, eyes flicking briefly toward the group of women near the window who clearly recognized him. Or maybe me. We had both learned that being a Romano drew attention even when we weren’t trying.

He adjusted his sunglasses and followed me deeper into the store.

It was a boutique downtown, small and tastefully quiet, the kind that smelled faintly of roses and money. A far cry from the crowded malls I used to wander through years ago, but I loved it here. I loved the calm, the low hum of music, the freedom to breathe.

I ran my hand over a rack of silk blouses, enjoying the way they slipped between my fingers. My belly was showing now not just a bump anymore, but something round and visible enough that strangers smiled at me in public. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Some days I wanted to wrap myself in Jace’s clothes and hide; on other days, I couldn’t stop touching the curve of my stomach.

Cecilia, our wedding planner turned part-time stylist, trailed behind me with a fond smile. "We can get you a few new dresses for comfort, Mira. You deserve to look as radiant as you feel."

We had gotten into a more cordial relationship after our vow renewal. And because Jace wouldn’t let just anyone have access to us, she was doing a great job helping me shop instead of the several stylists we could have requested for. Overprotective as always.

I snorted before responding to her. "I feel like a balloon."

Jace’s voice came from behind me. "A beautiful balloon."

I turned and shot him a look. "You’re not helping."

He only smirked, completely unbothered, and brushed a loose strand of hair away from my face before dropping a kiss on my forehead. His hand lingered there for a beat too long, protective even in affection.

Cecilia cleared her throat softly. "I’ll... check on the fitting room."

The moment she was out of sight, I leaned against him and whispered, "You know, you’re terrible at pretending to blend in."

"I’m not pretending," he murmured, pulling me closer by the waist. "I just don’t like anyone looking at what’s mine."

I rolled my eyes. "You’re lucky that sounds romantic coming from you."

He smiled, one of those rare, unguarded ones that made me forget how dangerous he used to be or maybe he still was.

"Lucky me."

We spent the next thirty minutes trying to agree on something I’d actually wear. Jace hated maternity clothes. I did too. The floral prints, the shapelessness, I couldn’t do it. I preferred his shirts, his sweatpants, the smell of his cologne clinging to the fabric.

So when the attendant came back with another armful of dresses, I sighed. "No more."

"But Mrs. Romano, this one—"

"I’d rather wear his T-shirt," I said flatly.

Jace’s mouth curved into a grin he was trying too hard to hide. "See? She has great taste."

The poor woman laughed awkwardly, sensing it was safer to give up.

Eventually, I picked a few things anyway — soft knit tops, a sundress in pale cream, a cardigan that felt like heaven. Jace paid before I could reach for my purse, of course, and as we stepped outside, the afternoon light hit my face. Warm. Familiar. Comforting.

I reached for his hand, and for a while, we just walked. We didn’t need words.

Downtown LA shimmered in its usual rhythm with cars gliding past, café chatter, a few people recognizing us but pretending not to. I was used to it by now, the occasional glance, the faint sound of a camera shutter somewhere behind us. Still, something about it made the back of my neck prickle.

I squeezed his hand. "You ever feel like we’re being followed?"

His thumb brushed over my knuckles. "All the time."

"Comforting." I said with a glare.?

He gave a small laugh. "Ignore it, baby. We live in a city that loves gossip."

I wanted to believe that. I really did. But when I caught a flicker of movement from across the street, a man lowering his phone too quickly, I wasn’t so sure.

Still, I said nothing. I just leaned into him, inhaling that scent I’d memorized: smoke, leather, and something warm that belonged only to him.

"Promise me you’ll let me walk on my own sometimes," I murmured.

He smiled. "Not a chance."

"Control freak."

"Wife addict." He corrected.

I laughed then. He grinned in response, satisfied like he’d won something. Maybe he had. Maybe I wanted him to.

We stopped for coffee on the way home — decaf for me, obviously — and he insisted on holding both cups despite my protests. We looked like a normal couple. Almost.

Almost was enough for me.

As we waited for the car, a woman approached — a stranger with too-wide eyes and a phone half-hidden in her hand. She smiled nervously. "You’re Mira Romano, right? From the bakery?"

I hesitated. "Yes."

Her smile brightened. "My sister loves your cakes. You and your husband are—" she paused, gaze flicking toward Jace, then added softly, "—goals."

I smiled, a little flustered. "That’s sweet. Tell her thank you."

She nodded quickly and disappeared into the crowd.

I turned to Jace. "See? Fans. Not enemies."

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw was tight, eyes following the woman until she was gone.

"Jace."

He blinked and forced a small smile. "Yeah. Fans."

But I knew that look. I knew that silence. He didn’t like strangers near me. He never had.

I nudged him with my shoulder. "You can stop glaring. She’s gone."

He exhaled through his nose. "I know."

"Then relax. You’re starting to look scary again." I pointed out.

He glanced at me then, his hand automatically sliding around my waist. "I’ll relax when we’re home."

I smiled softly, knowing better than to argue.

As the driver opened the door, I looked up at him. "You know, this was fun."

His eyes softened. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. You even smiled."

He smirked faintly. "You make me."

I kissed his cheek before getting into the car, and as the door closed, I glanced once more through the tinted glass. Across the street, near the boutique’s window, someone lifted a camera. A flash. Quick.

I blinked, unsure if I imagined it.

When I turned back, Jace’s hand was already on my thigh, his gaze fixed on me like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Maybe that was for the best.

Jace’s POV

She was still talking about that sundress when we got home — how it reminded her of the bakery walls and how she wasn’t sure it would fit once the baby grew more. I just listened. Every word out of her mouth grounded me.

We entered through the side entrance, away from the main gate, and as she went upstairs to freshen up, I walked into my office.

The first thing I did was check the feed.

There it was — timestamped twenty minutes earlier: a man with a press badge standing near the café. His phone aimed at us just long enough to capture a few shots. His face was familiar — one of the names that had surfaced in the reports about "the Romano exposé."

I let the footage play again.

Mira laughing, sunlight in her hair, the world soft around her. And that man framing her like she was a story he could sell.

I felt the quiet anger settle under my ribs.

People thought the mafia died when the guns did. They were wrong. The world had just changed weapons — guns for cameras, threats for headlines.

And whoever wanted to turn our life into a spectacle... they’d chosen the wrong man to provoke.

Still, I didn’t go upstairs raging. I didn’t slam my fist or call Tomas immediately. I just sat there, watching that image of her - my wife, my light, and thought of all the ways the world could twist something pure.

Then I closed the laptop, stood up, and went to her.

She was in bed, wrapped in one of my shirts again, damp hair falling over her shoulders. She smiled when she saw me in the doorway. "You look serious."

"Just thinking," I said.

"About?"

"You. That dress. Us."

Her laughter filled the room. "In that order?"

"In every order." I said as I approached the bed. But she chased me into the bathroom to take a shower.

It didn’t take long and as soon as I came out, I climbed into bed beside her, pulling her close, her bump fitting perfectly between us. Her skin smelled faintly of soap and home. I brushed my fingers along her arm, slow and careful.

"Everything okay?" she asked softly.

"Yeah," I lied. "Everything’s perfect."

And maybe, for her sake, it needed to stay that way.

Because outside this house, the cameras were flashing again. And inside it, I would make damn sure the world never reached her.

Even if it meant going back to the man I swore I’d never be again.