“Are you sure you want to proceed this way?” I asked as Dominic and Guilio helped Cesar back into his bed. The strain from the visit to Sinclair’s home had taken its toll on him, and right now, I wasn’t so sure. While I was certain with time he could rectify the rift between Sinclair, I worried that the cost of today’s excursion was too much for him.
“I am not afraid of Crispin Sinclair.” Cesar sighed. “I can handle him. In the meantime, I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything.”
Cesar leveled his eyes with mine as the old fear of family loyalty crept in whenever he asked something of me. Cesar’s gaze was unwavering, and for a moment, I saw both the leader and the brother—each waging their own war behind haunted eyes. Whatever he requested, it wouldn’t be easy.
“Sinclair’s words were not a threat. He will make our lives a living hell until the matter of your marriage is resolved. I don’t care how you do it but fix your marriage.”
The room fell silent after Cesar’s command, the gravity of his words echoing long after I left. I lingered outside my bedroom door, my hands balled tightly as I tried to steady my breath, knowing she was on the other side. The thin thread holdingour family together felt more frayed than ever, and the weight of expectation pressed heavily on my shoulders. For a moment, uncertainty warred with defiance—how could I mend a union built on fractured loyalties and lies?
It was impossible.
Opening the door, I entered the room and saw her seated by the window. She was curled up in a chair, her posture small and guarded, as she gazed out over the grounds beyond the glass. The gray light of the afternoon painted her silhouette with a quiet melancholy, her attention fixed somewhere far beyond the present moment. Though she didn’t turn as I approached, the distance between us felt impossibly wide, a silent barrier shaped by everything unspoken.
Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, I sighed. “We need to talk.”
She didn’t move, her gaze remaining fixed on the world beyond the window. The silence stretched between us, heavy with everything unspoken. Finally, she spoke, her voice monotone and stripped of warmth. “What is there left to say?” The lack of emotion in her words unsettled me, and I realized how wide the distance had grown between us. I hated the coldness that had settled in the room, a chill that had nothing to do with the fading afternoon light.
I hesitated, searching for any remnant of warmth in her expression, but her features remained distant, shuttered from me. The silence between us was heavy, begging to be broken, and I questioned whether words could ever bridge the gulf that had grown. Still, there was something inside me that compelled me to speak—a need to share a story that had shaped so much of who I was.
“My mother’s name was Isabella Marie Moscato Vitale,” I began, unable to stop once the words started. “She was beautiful—gentle, and she meant the world to my father, Vincenzo. He fellfor her the moment he saw her, and they were married just two weeks later. She wasn’t born into a prominent family; she was the daughter of a schoolteacher. But none of that mattered to my father. He wanted her, so he married her.”
I looked at her, searching for a reaction. “You’re a lot like my mother in many ways. Like you, she never understood our way of life. She fought against it, she ran away, she even sent a letter to the Vatican, pleading with the church for permission to divorce my father.”
She looked at me, her voice barely above a whisper. “What happened?”
I drew in a slow breath, the memory of my mother’s sorrow and pain vivid in my mind. Her yearning for freedom was always etched in her eyes, a silent plea that lingered long after she first voiced it. “She waited for a response from Rome that never came. Instead, she found herself trapped, her pleas for freedom dismissed as foolishness. My father loved her in his way, but that love became both a comfort and a cage. In the end, she stopped fighting. She accepted a life she never truly chose, carrying her sorrow quietly until her final days.”
Her voice trembled as she broke the silence. “Is that what you are expecting from me?”
I shook my head gently, choosing my words with care. “No, that isn’t what I want for you. I want you to have a choice, to feel free to decide what you need and who you are. I don’t expect you to erase yourself for me, or to bear a burden that isn’t yours to carry.” My voice wavered, honesty laid bare between us.
For a moment, the air seemed to shift. Her posture softened slightly, and though she still looked away, I sensed her listening. The old pain lingered, but a fragile hope flickered in the quiet—a faint promise that perhaps, in time, the rift between us could heal.
“I was seventeen when my mother and father died. The sorrow of losing her left a permanent scar on my soul—an abscess that refused to heal. As the years passed, I found myself increasingly adrift, sinking further into despair. My sense of self eroded until I became a stranger, hollow and numb, simply moving through life without purpose or hope. But everything changed the moment I met you. It was as if, after endless nights, a single star appeared in my sky—a spark that cut through the darkness I had grown so used to. Your presence illuminated something in me I thought was lost forever. That light drew me in, compelled me to reach for it, to cling to the possibility of something better. So you see, I can’t let you go, Miranda, because you are the hope I never believed I’d find again.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
Miranda
My eyes glistened with unshed tears as I listened, my defenses wavering. The silence that settled between us was no longer cold or impenetrable. Instead, it felt gentler—like a fragile space quietly opening itself, inviting the possibility of something new to take root. I reached for his hand, noticing the way his fingers trembled beneath my touch. At that moment, I sensed the first tentative threads of forgiveness weave around me, delicate but real, offering hope where before there had only been pain.
He squeezed my hand in return, his eyes meeting mine with a vulnerable sincerity that left me momentarily breathless. The weight of his past pressed in around me, and yet, in that moment, I felt a fragile possibility—an opening towards building a future that would be ours alone. Despite my fear and uncertainty about this life and him, I found myself beginning to understand Massimo more deeply, seeing the man behind the mask, behind his actions and the pain he carried.
My voice was barely audible as I spoke, my eyes fixed on his. “I’m familiar with the dark side of this life, Massimo,” I whispered. The memories of my childhood, growing up in a Golden Skulls’ clubhouse, pressed in around me—memories that were as sharp as they were unyielding. “It wasn’t easy living in that world. I witnessed firsthand the toll it took on my family, on my brothers, and on the men who drifted in and out of our lives. The darkness you speak of isn’t just something I’ve heardabout; it’s something I know intimately, something I’ve carried with me for as long as I can remember. But there’s something I never became accustomed to. Lies. Say what you want about my family, but they never lied to me. Even when the truth was painful, even when they knew it would hurt, they refused to hide it from me. That’s what bothers me most about this. I don’t expect you to tell me everything, and I don’t want to know every detail about your life. But when I ask a question, I expect honesty from you. I need the truth—not what you think I want to hear.”
Massimo’s expression tightened, a flicker of unease in his eyes. He nodded, the gesture small but earnest. “You deserve the truth, Miranda. I know I’ve made mistakes—kept things from you out of fear or pride. I can’t undo what’s been done, but I promise you, from this day forward, I will meet your questions with honesty, no matter how difficult that becomes.” His voice was low, steady—each word a vow not only to me, but to himself.
“That’s good.” I sighed, getting to my feet. “Because I’m pregnant.”
My revelation hung between us, heavier than any silence. Massimo’s eyes widened, his breath catching as if the very air had been stolen from the room. For a heartbeat, neither of us moved—both captive to the enormity of what I’d just revealed. I watched a thousand emotions flicker across his face: shock, wonder, fear, and finally, a quiet awe that softened the hard lines I’d come to know so well.
He reached for me, his hand trembling, and when his fingers found mine, they held tight—not out of desperation, but with a gentle reverence I’d never felt before. In that moment, I understood that everything between us had just changed.
Massimo’s voice was barely a whisper as he asked, “Are you sure?” His uncertainty filled the air, mingling with the weight of everything that had just been said between us.
I met his gaze, a smirk tugging at my lips as I tried to break the tension. “About as sure as I am that if you ever lie to me again, I will cut off your balls and feed them to you,” I said, letting a trace of humor slip through the seriousness of the moment. Determined, I continued, “And I’m not giving up my residency. I don’t care what you or your family think. I will not be a sheltered woman. I have dreams, and I plan to see them come true. I’ve worked too damn hard to give them up just because you knocked me up.”
