Sold To The Mafia Don

Chapter 238 - 48 ~ Jace

The flight back to Los Angeles felt slower than death.

Maybe because I had too much time to think.

Too much time to sit with the weight that had settled in my bones ever since I put a bullet in Alejandro Valencia’s skull.

For years, I’d imagined what it would feel like to kill a man I hated that deeply. A man I had always felt wasn’t worthy of breathing the same air as my mother. I’d expected satisfaction... maybe even relief.

But what I felt instead was something colder.

Cleaner.

Like wiping grime off a window and seeing the world clearly for the first time.

I didn’t regret it. I didn’t ache over it.

I wasn’t asking for forgiveness.

He threatened my family.

And men who did that did not get to walk away alive.

Still... Donna’s trembling voice lingered in the back of my mind. The way she clutched her robe when she opened her bedroom door, face pale, eyes wet but refusing to break. The way she pressed a hand to my cheek and whispered:

"I won’t hate you for protecting me... but don’t let this pull you back into darkness."

I kissed her forehead and said nothing.

Because she didn’t know, couldn’t know, that I wasn’t sinking back into darkness.

I was simply finishing something that should’ve been finished a long time ago.

But now? Now it was time to go home.

To my wife.

My daughter.

My world.

I checked my watch again.

The pilot said we’d land in twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes too slow.

I hadn’t held Mira in over a week.

I hadn’t heard her whisper my name.

I hadn’t felt her hand on mine as she peppered me with unnecessary warnings about my health and sleep.

And God... I missed her.

I missed her in a way that clawed at my chest, the kind of missing that felt like oxygen deprivation. She’d been awake for days now—aware, healing, steady—and I hated that I wasn’t there, hated that she had to look at the hospital ceiling and wonder where the hell her husband was.

I met our daughter before she did. That truth sat heavier than any bullet wound I’d ever had.

I rubbed my thumb over the wedding band on my finger, staring out the jet window into the dark stretch of sky.

"Captain?" I called.

"Yes, sir?"

"Tell the tower I need ground transport waiting. No delays."

"Already done."

Good.

I leaned back, closing my eyes for a moment, just long enough to breathe.

And then a voice I wasn’t in the mood for snapped me back.

"Well, if it isn’t the man everyone’s terrified of."

My jaw clenched before I even opened my eyes.

Isabella Moretti stood near the aisle, leaning one shoulder against the wall like she was waiting for an invitation into Hell.

Tight black coat. Red lipstick. Eyes like she thought she understood the world better than anyone else.

The woman was bold—too bold for someone who should be hiding.

I didn’t remember asking her to be here.

"How did you get on my jet?" I asked, voice flat.

She smirked. "Your mother’s estate is swarming with police and fire trucks. Cameras, too. The press was dying for blood. I figured you’d move fast. And fast men forget to lock doors."

"Get to your point."

She stepped closer, heels clicking softly on the carpet.

"I heard about Alejandro," she said lightly. "Quite a mess you left behind."

My fingers curled. "Choose your next words carefully."

Her smile wavered but only for a second.

"The documentary goes live in seventy-two hours," she continued. "Everything’s already scheduled. Teasers, interviews, podcasts—maybe even a Netflix pitch. The whole world is—"

"You’re not releasing anything."

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"Jace, sweetheart," she scoffed. "You can’t intimidate the entire—"

"I don’t need to intimidate anyone," I said. "I’ll shut you down cleanly."

She laughed. She actually aughed. "You think you can buy me off?"

"I don’t need to buy you," I said. "I’ll take you."

Her smile dropped.

Good.

"You want access?" I continued. "Fine. I’ll give it to you. A full tour of my legitimate empire, filmed, documented, signed off. An exclusive story—neutral, not flattering, not demonizing."

Her eyes widened.

"Or," I added, "I buy your company outright. At triple what it’s worth."

She swallowed. Her throat bobbed.

"And if I refuse?"

"I’ll destroy your sponsors. One by one. Quietly. Legally. You’ll lose so much funding you’ll be shooting interviews on a cracked phone." My glare was stern as I spoke.

She froze.

"And when that’s done," I finished, "I’ll make sure every journalist in this country knows you collaborated with a man tied to four murder investigations."

Her eyes snapped to mine. "You don’t have proof—"

"I don’t need proof. You do."

There was silence for several seconds.

"Fine," she whispered. "You win."

"No," I corrected, stepping closer until her back hit the cabin wall. "I didn’t come here to win."

Her breath hitched.

"I came here to end this."

I held out a pen.

A contract slid across the counter between us, pre-written by my legal team before she even arrived.

She paused.

Then she signed.

And just like that... the war she helped ignite died in her hands.

I left her standing there and walked back to my seat. The rest of the flight was silent.

LA was waiting. Mira was waiting.

~~~

The hospital was dim when I arrived.

Late enough that visitors had left. Quiet enough that all you could hear were machines humming softly, night-shift nurses whispering, the distant echo of a closing door.

I moved through the hallway with long, steady steps, ignoring the way my chest felt like it was being squeezed from the inside out.

Room 407.

I stopped outside the door.

My hand hovered over the handle for almost a full second before I finally pushed it open.

And there she was.

My wife.

Propped up against pillows, hair slightly messy, cheeks pale but glowing faintly. Her eyes were half-open—tired, but aware. Soft. Warm.

Her arms were curled around the tiniest bundle I had ever seen.

Our daughter.

My knees almost buckled.

Mira blinked slowly when she saw me. "Jace...?"

There was a tremble in her voice I hadn’t heard since the night I thought I’d lost her.

I crossed the room in three strides.

Her eyes filled immediately. "You’re back..."

"I’m here," I breathed, brushing her hair gently behind her ear. "I’m here, baby."

She reached up, touching my face with trembling fingers.

"You came back..."

"Always."

I kissed her forehead. Her cheek. Her temple. Her hands. Anything I could reach without hurting her.

When I pulled back, she turned slightly toward the bundle in her arms.

"Do you want to hold her?" she whispered.

Every emotion I’d buried for days surged up at once.

"Yeah," I said softly. "I do."

She placed our daughter in my arms so gently, like she was handing me the universe.

And maybe she was.

She was tiny. Too tiny. Wrapped in a soft floral blanket, cheeks round, mouth the perfect bow, eyes closed but peaceful.

My daughter.

My miracle.

My second chance.

I held her close, so close she fit right against my heartbeat.

"Hi, principessa," I whispered, voice rougher than I intended. "Daddy’s here."

Mira started crying again. They were silent tears, the soft kind that soaked her pillow.

I sat beside her, lowering our daughter carefully so Mira could keep touching her tiny arm.

"This is the last time anything comes near either of you," I whispered to them both. "I swear it."

Mira leaned her head against my shoulder. "Is it over?"

"Yes," I whispered, kissing her hair. "It’s over."

For the first time in weeks... I believed it.

Because the moment I saw them together—alive, breathing, safe—I knew there was nothing left worth fighting except for them.

And everything else?

Everything else could burn.