With those final words, Sinclair turned and strode out of the room, his movements calm and assured. Mischief, ever silent and watchful, followed in his footsteps, leaving behind a charged silence—and the sense that the confrontation was far from finished.
Guilio burst into the room, his voice edged with urgency as Luca and Officer Cimorelli followed close behind. Without hesitation, Guilio demanded, “What the hell was Sinclair doing here?” His concern was tangible, but I barely had time to respond as Cimorelli moved to unlock my cuffs, the metal scraping quietly as my wrists were freed.
“Not here, Guilio,” I said, keeping my voice low. The setting was far from safe for explanations. Turning to Officer Cimorelli, I asked, “Am I free to go now?” The question hung in the air as I waited for confirmation.
Cimorelli nodded, his answer direct and reassuring. “Yeah, the DA doesn’t have anything. The woman was dead long before you arrived. Poisoned too.” The revelation settled heavily, but beneath it was a current of relief—I was no longer a suspect.
I nodded in response and moved to leave the interrogation room, grateful for the support of my brothers. Their presence reminded me I wasn’t alone in this ordeal. More than anything, I wanted to return home and see my wife, to find comfort in the familiar after so much chaos.
While she was still legally mine.
The house was quiet, shadows pooling in the corners of the bedroom as I sat alone, a glass of scotch warming my palm. The faint burn of the liquor was almost comforting, grounding me in the hush, while my gaze lingered on Miranda— serene and unguarded in sleep, her breathing barely stirring the night air. The delicate curve of her cheek caught the stray glow of the bedside lamp, a lock of her hair feathered across her brow, and in that fragile stillness, I was flooded with gratitude and disbelief that someone so luminous, so untouched by the darkness I carried, would choose to share my bed.
But beneath that thankfulness, guilt gnawed at me with sharp, unrelenting teeth. I replayed every falsehood I’d woven—the omissions and deliberate shadows meant to keep Miranda close, to shield her from truths she might never forgive. Would she ever see the depths of my deception and, if so, could love survive the breach? The questions echoed in the silence, feeding a hollowness that no amount of scotch could fill.
Sinclair’s words reverberated in my mind, heavy and toxic—the way he’d said, “That is why you will never be good enough for her,” each syllable laced with certainty and contempt. It wasn’t just an insult; it was a verdict on my worth, a reminder of the secrets that stood between Miranda and me. And then there was Mischief, whose loyalty to Sinclair had driven him to orchestrate Cesar’s hospitalization—Cesar, my brother, hurt because of our family’s old entanglements and unfinished wars. The knowledge twisted my insides with rage and helplessness. Retaliation felt inevitable, a promise burning beneath my skin, but I understood that any move for vengeance would only widen the chasm opening between Miranda and me, risking the fragile peace I’d found in her arms.
Trapped between love and loyalty, the weight of duty pressed on me like a second shadow. Family had always demanded sacrifice, but Miranda’s presence made me question what I wastruly willing to lose. My brothers depended on me; our lives were bound together by blood and history. I could never abandon them, not even for her, yet the devotion I felt for Miranda was no less fierce—perhaps even more desperate because it was new and uncertain, a hope I’d never dared to claim before. In the hush of the night, I pressed my palm to my brow, torn between the need for justice, the ache for forgiveness, and the terror that every choice might cost me the only peace I’d ever known. The uncertainty pressed against my chest, cold and relentless, making me wonder if, with the decisions looming ahead, I might lose her forever.
I knew there was only one way to win this wicked game I started, and while I reached for my phone, I prayed that she would forgive me.
Chapter Forty-Three
Miranda
The sun was shining as I woke, its warmth spilling softly across the sheets. Blinking away sleep, I realized there was someone sitting on the bed beside me. A familiar face—Stella. Her presence was a balm, and I couldn’t help but grin. I sat up and pulled her into a hug, breathing in the sweet scent of wildflowers and honey that seemed to cling to her, grounding me in the moment.
“Hey, baby girl,” Stella whispered, her voice soft and comforting as she hugged me tightly. I closed my eyes for a brief second, silently praying this wasn’t another fleeting dream.
When she finally released me, she gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I looked at her, feeling a rush of questions. “Why are you here? Not that I’m not happy to see you, but how?”
Stella’s smile flickered, but I noticed it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Massimo called last night. The boys and I drove through the night. We’re here to bring you home.”
Confusion swept over me as I slowly shook my head. “Home? Why?”
“Best get dressed, baby. He’s waiting for you downstairs,” Stella said, rising to her feet. I watched her as she walked to the door and opened it, her silence leaving me with more questions and a sense of urgency as I wondered what the hell was going on.
Throwing back the covers, I jumped out of bed, forgoing my morning shower.My hands trembled as I swiftly dressed,each movement weighed down by a sense of dread I couldn’t shake. The hallway outside my door felt longer than ever, shadows stretching along the walls as I made my way toward the staircase.
With each step down the staircase, the ancient floorboards groaned beneath my feet, echoing the turmoil in my chest. The air was thick—a mix of old pine furniture, the lingering musk of cigarettes, and, drifting up from below, the sharp tang of whiskey. My heart hammered in my ears, dread and hope fighting for dominance inside me, because I knew I was heading straight into a confrontation that could shatter the fragile peace I’d built. Below, I heard the rough, unmistakable voices of the people I both loved and feared losing.
“You better fucking tell her the truth,” growled Chipper, my hot-headed brother whose fierce loyalty sometimes scared me as much as it comforted.
“He will or I’ll kick his ass,” added Trout, Chipper’s younger brother, the one who’d been my childhood confidant and protector since we first scraped our knees together on the playground.
“Are you sure about this, brother?” That low, uncertain question belonged to Aurelio, the Vitale family mediator—always the voice of reason, but, this morning, he sounded afraid even of his own wisdom.
“What does Cesar say?” That was Luca, tall and broad-shouldered, who kept us safe but rarely revealed his own feelings. His voice, usually steady, trembled as he looked at Guilio who spoke to someone on his phone, eyes darting to the window.
“I don’t have a choice. It’s the only way,” came Massimo’s voice—low and raw. He was my anchor and the man I loved. Yet in the last few days, I’d felt him drifting away, locked behind walls I couldn’t scale.
“Quiet,” Stella’s voice—my safe haven—rang out, steely and strong. “She’s here.”
I paused on the final step, no longer able to hide. With a shaky breath, I crossed into the sitting room, my nerves tingling with each stride. There they all stood—my family, their postures tense and eyes clouded with worry. Clustered among them were the Vitale brothers, club allies. Massimo, usually so composed, now stood with his back rigid to the room, staring through the sun-streaked window as if hoping it could burn away whatever pain he carried.
Stella crossed to my side, her arm slipping around my waist with practiced tenderness. Across from us, Guilio and Emanuelle—always the silent sentinels—rose from their seats, concern etched on their faces. My gaze swept the room, clinging to the familiar, but the person I ached to see most—Massimo—refused to meet my eyes.
“Massimo,” I managed, my voice so tight with fear it barely escaped my lips. Chipper and Trout glanced away, unable to face me. Between them, Aurelio offered a helpless shake of his head. Leaning against the wall, Whiskey—his gaze always cold—stood with Luca, the brooding strategist, both shooting daggers at Massimo. Digger and Guilio paced in restless circles, phones pressed to their ears, murmuring urgent words to unseen allies. By the fireplace, Bullseye—my estranged brother, notorious for his absence—hovered near Tomasso, the youngest Vitale, his gaze watchful and suspicious, as if Tomasso’s presence alone threatened everything. The smell of whiskey grew stronger as I stepped closer, mingling with a crisp chill from the window, and my own doubts. “What’s going on?” I whispered, my question trembling on my lips as my world threatened to unravel.
