“Mandy!” Jackson gasped, reaching for her, but I stopped him with a gentle hand, feeling the weight of her pain in the silence that fell around us.
“Let her go,” I said softly, watching as she walked away. Her shoulders shook with each step, grief and anger radiating off her as she left me standing there—alone with her family.
The air hung heavy with humidity as I stood on the cracked pavement outside the clubhouse, the cicadas humming their endless summer tune. I watched Miranda step into the waiting Uber, her shoulders rigid beneath the weight of her grief. She didn’t glance back—not at her brother, not at Stella—just climbed in, her bags trailing behind her like baggage she could never truly leave. As the taillights faded into the dusk, a hush settled over us, broken only by Stella’s quiet sobs. Her absence was sharp, scraping raw at the edges of everything familiar. I lingered in the uneasy silence, feeling the ache of her departure echo through the night.
Turning to her brother, I extended my hand, my voice low. “I’m sorry for the chaos I brought into your home. Protecting her was all I meant to do. I never intended to cause your family any pain.”
Ravage’s jaw tightened as he looked at me, his eyes shadowed with disappointment and anger. He huffed and then strode off, leaving my hand hanging in the thick air. Watching him go, guilt settled deep in my chest, bitter and cold.
Digger, boots planted firm in the muddy grass, cut through the silence. “Fancy words for a man who just let his wife drive off without him,” he drawled, voice rough with Southern grit. “Tell me, Italian, were you raised to walk away when life goes up shit’s creek?”
Taken aback, I glanced at Guilio, who only shrugged, his expression as uncertain as my own. The heat pressed against my skin, thick with expectation. I turned back toward where Ravage had disappeared. “No,” I answered quietly, the word landing between us like a stone.
Digger, the broad-shouldered mechanic with grease on his jeans, barked from the edge of the group, his voice cutting through the haze of tension, “Then why the hell are ya still standing here? That girl’s heart is breaking, and yer standing here kissin’ our ass.” He jabbed a finger toward me, boots planted wide. “Either ya fix what ya broke, or we’re gonna stomp our boots in yer ass. I don’t know how you fancy Italians do shit up North, but here in the South, when our woman is hurtin’, we fuckin’ fix it, and fast.” The muscles in his jaw twitched, anger and concern mixing in his stare.
Stella, her face splotchy with tears, voice trembling with empathy, stepped forward, clutching a tissue between her fingers. “Give her a day. No more.” She looked at me, pleading. “Mandy’s hurtin’ bad, but if you let her stew, it will take hold andyou’ll never be able to break her wall.” Her gaze lingered on me, hope and warning mingling in her eyes.
Digger nodded, jaw set, as Chipper, leaning against the wall, spoke up, his voice firm and steady. “Girl ain’t afraid to throw down when her back’s against the wall. So don’t turn yer back on her.”
Trout shook his head, his cap pulled low over dangerous eyes. “She’s gonna pitch a hissy fit,” he piped up, voice gravelly and strong. “She doesn’t mean anything by it and will feel guilty afterward. Let her. She will apologize when she’s ready.” He offered a frightening half-smile, attempting to lighten the heaviness that pressed down on me.
Jessica, arms crossed tightly over her chest, eyes narrowing with concern, let out a frustrated sigh. “And for the love of God,” she groaned, voice heavy with the exhaustion of heartbreak, “don’t coddle her. We women hate nothing more than being coddled.” Her gaze dared anyone to argue, as her husband Savage nodded in agreement, his stance protective and formidable.
Karlyn, the shy, delicate woman who belonged to Ravage, leaned in close, her voice hesitant but direct. “Don’t lie to her,” she cautioned, meeting my eyes. “Honesty is the best policy.”
Bullseye, the club’s known assassin, stepped into my space, his face inches from mine. His voice was a low, dangerous growl. “And if by the grace of God she forgives you,” he sneered, eyes flashing. “You better not screw it up again because if you do, I have a bullet with your fucking name on it.”
Chapter Fifty
Miranda
I felt numb as I walked the arrival concourse at Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport. The fluorescent lights above seemed to blur as tears welled in my eyes, and the distant hum of announcements felt oddly comforting amid my grief. Throughout the entire flight, I sat by the window trying to comprehend, accept, understand what had happened. I still refused to believe that Oliver had tried to have Massimo killed. I knew my best friend. Knew everything about him.
He was a lover, not a fighter.
And now he was dead, and I had lost the only person I trusted most.
I didn’t know where I was going, or what I was going to do, but I knew I wasn’t going to let Massimo or his family stop me from living my life. I’d worked too damn hard for my spot at Chicago Memorial Hospital, and if I had to work an extra job to survive, I would.
Grabbing my bags from baggage claim, I headed for the exit when I saw a familiar face entering the airport. Stopping dead in my tracks, it didn’t take him long to spot me before he strode over, with another man standing stiffly behind him.
“Mrs. Vitale,” Mr. Sinclair politely greeted.
“Not for long,” I grumbled.
Mr. Sinclair quirked his eyebrow and smirked. “Say the word, my dear, and I will have the matter taken care of by morning.”
I rolled my eyes, biting back a retort. There was a time when I would have laughed at his dry humor, but now everything felt raw and exposed. The air between us was thick with unspoken words and a tension I couldn’t name. Still, I kept my composure, straightening my shoulders as I replied, “Thanks, but I can handle this myself.”
Mr. Sinclair’s expression softened, and for a fleeting moment, I saw genuine concern etched across his features. The man behind him shifted uncomfortably, but I barely noticed; my focus remained locked on the strange comfort radiating from Mr. Sinclair’s presence. He didn’t press further, only nodded in understanding, his hand lingering at my elbow—a silent offer of support I never expected to need. I didn’t know why, but the next thing I knew, I found myself in Mr. Sinclair’s arms crying.He never said a word as he held me there in the middle of the airport, consoling me. It felt strange yet comforting, almost as if I somehow knew he would protect me.
We stayed like that for what felt like hours, time suspended in the blur of travelers and announcements echoing overhead. Slowly, my sobs faded, leaving a heaviness inside me I wasn’t sure would ever lift. When I finally pulled away, I wiped my eyes and tried to find my voice, grateful for Mr. Sinclair’s quiet strength. For the first time since landing, I allowed myself to hope—just a little—that somehow, things might turn out okay, and when he reached into his coat and produced a silk handkerchief, handing it to me, I graciously accepted it.
“Silas, please gather her bags,” Mr. Sinclair ordered as he gently guided me out of the airport and into his waiting car.
As the car pulled away from the curb, I watched the city lights flicker past the window, their glow reflecting off the glass and dancing in my eyes. The weight of recent events pressed against my chest, but for the first time in days, I felt a sliver of calm settle within me. With Mr. Sinclair sitting quietly by my side, I realizedI didn’t have to carry everything alone—even if just for tonight, I could let myself lean on someone else.
We arrived at Mr. Sinclair’s home an hour later, and just as before, I was shown to the same room where I had spent the night after marrying Massimo. The familiarity of the space struck me as Silas quietly set my bags down. I stepped further into the room, letting my fingertips brush lightly across the edge of the dresser. Everything here seemed untouched, preserved just as I remembered it, yet the atmosphere felt different now—warmer, safer. The quiet hum of city life drifted in through the window, mixing with my memories and offering a gentle reminder that healing sometimes comes in the most unexpected places when my gaze drifted to the Monet painting, which had previously hung in the hallway, now displayed prominently in the room.
