Sold To The Mafia Don

Chapter 224 - 34 ~ Mira

If there was one thing pregnancy had given me besides swollen ankles and a daughter who loved practicing karate inside my womb, it was sensitivity to energy.

People’s moods.

Their intentions.

The air around me.

That was why the world felt... strange today.

Not dangerous or threatening.

Just... sharp. Like walking through a room filled with invisible needles.

But Jace was asleep. He was sleeping heavily for the first time in days. And I couldn’t bring myself to wake him just because my intuition was being dramatic.

Plus, I needed fresh air.

I didn’t want to suffocate both of us by hovering over him in bed while he tried to rest. So after leaving him a note on the nightstand, I slipped into his hoodie, pulled my hair into a bun, grabbed my purse, and decided to run a small errand.

Just ten minutes.

In and out.

Nothing stressful.

I had a craving for strawberries.

I had been craving them all night, but the stress overshadowed it. Now that my body had calmed down, I wanted them desperately.

And not just any strawberries.

The ripe ones at the gourmet grocery store two blocks away.

I drove myself, something Jace specifically told me not to do. But I needed to feel normal again. I didn’t let any guards follow me either because as I mentioned earlier, I needed to breathe.

The parking lot wasn’t too crowded. Families. College kids. A couple with a stroller. Normal things.

I breathed out slowly. Good.

I walked through the entrance, heading straight to the produce section. The cold air felt wonderful on my face. My baby moved just a little. It was a gentle flutter, like she agreed we needed this outing.

I picked a box of strawberries, lifted it to my nose, and inhaled the sweetness. Perfect.

I was scanning for another pack when I heard someone whisper behind me.

"Is that her?"

My shoulders stiffened.

Another voice followed immediately, louder.

"That’s her — the girl from the article."

I turned slowly.

Two women stood near the avocados, phones already angled a little too high. One of them didn’t even bother pretending she wasn’t recording.

I held her gaze.

Calm. Unmoving.

Because I refused to shrink for anyone.

She blinked but didn’t drop her phone. "Wow... so it’s actually true."

I raised a brow. "What exactly?"

"That you’re... you know." She gestures vaguely, voice dripping with fake innocence. "Married to a mafia prince."

Here we go.

I didn’t roll my eyes even though I wanted to. "My husband is a legitimate businessman."

"Right," the other said, smirking. "That documentary says otherwise."

I didn’t flinch.

Even though my pulse picked up.

Even though the words poked at something raw.

"Documentaries can say anything," I said evenly. "Doesn’t make them true."

The first woman tilted her phone a little higher, zooming in. "Can you say that again? I want to get it clearly."

I stared at the bright red record button.

My jaw tightened.

"You’re not allowed to film me without my consent," I said firmly.

"Oh relax," she laughed. "It’s a public place."

"Then film the strawberries instead," I said, reaching for another pack. "They’re much juicier."

The woman blinked, confused for a second and that second was all I needed.

I turned away.

But they followed.

"So are you scared now that the world knows who you married?"

"Is your bakery funded by blood money?"

"You look stressed — is he treating you badly?"

My hands curled around the handle of my basket.

Not because their words hurt.

But because they were getting louder and drawing attention which is something I absolutely hated.

A man in a business suit paused near the oranges, subtly lifting his phone in my direction.

A teenage girl gasped and whispered something to her friend.

Two more strangers stopped to stare.

I lifted my chin in defiance.

I was not running, certainly not shrinking or letting strangers with too much time dictate my energy.

I started walking toward the register.

But one of the women moved in front of me, blocking my path.

"You didn’t answer the question," she pressed. "Is your husband dangerous?"

I stepped closer so close she had to tilt her head up to meet my eyes.

"My husband is the safest place I have ever known," I said quietly. "Now move."

My voice didn’t shake.

My expression didn’t break.

And maybe that was why she finally stepped aside.

But the whispers followed me to the checkout counter.

"She’s lying."

"She’s scared."

"She looks like someone hiding something."

The cashier looked horrified, fumbling through my items. "Ma’am, I’m so sorry—"

"It’s alright," I said gently.

But my heart...

My heart was beating too fast.

Not because I was afraid.

But because all of this was happening while my daughter was inside me, feeling everything.

I paid quickly, bagged my strawberries, and walked out.

The sunlight outside was too bright.

The parking lot felt too open.

And the sensation from earlier — the sharp edge in the air — returned stronger.

I inhaled deeply and kept walking.

When I opened the car door, my phone buzzed.

Tomas.

Tomas: Are you outside?

I stared at the message.

My chest tightened.

Mira: How do you know?

He texted back almost immediately.

Tomas: We got footage. Someone recorded you in the store. It’s circulating already.

Of course they did.

Of course it was.

Mira: I’m fine.

Another pause.

Longer this time.

Tomas: Did anyone touch you?

Mira: No.

Tomas: Did anyone get too close?

Mira: No. I handled it.

Tomas: He’s going to be furious.

My throat constricted at the reminder of Jace being furious. He never wanted me facing things like this and he would think he failed at protecting me again.

I pressed a hand gently over my belly, trying to soothe the flutter inside.

I put the strawberries in the passenger seat, switched on the ignition, and drove home carefully.

The moment the gates opened and the house came into view, the tension eased a little but not completely.

I stepped inside, expecting quiet.

But I heard movement upstairs.

Soft footsteps.

The familiar, steady rhythm of someone pacing.

Jace.

He must’ve woken up.

A part of me wanted to run upstairs and hide the day from him.

Another part of me wanted to tell him everything.

But neither part got very far... because as I climbed the stairs, every hair on my arms stood up.

There he was, looking even more furious than I expected him to be.