My voice rang out, unwavering and assertive—a clear statement of the boundaries I intended to keep and the life I envisioned for myself, with or without Massimo by my side. I would not abandon my dreams, nor would I let my future be determined solely by the path others set for me. Then, with equal determination, I added, “And I want to get to know my father.”
The impact of my words was immediate. Massimo’s eyes grew wide, surprise and concern flickering in his gaze. He hesitated before responding, his voice low and uneasy. “Baby, he isn’t a nice man.”
A wry smile played at my lips as I shot back, “And you are?”
Massimo let out a small, disgruntled sound, his frustration evident as he averted his gaze. Unable to look at me, he rose from his seat, pacing the room with restless energy. His agitation showed in the way his hands curled into fists and the repeated shake of his head. Finally, he stopped and spoke, his voice tight with emotion. “You don’t understand. Crispin Sinclair is the Devil. He’s evil, like a poison that slowly destroys everything he touches. I don’t want that for you.”
His words echoed in the charged silence between us. I felt a shiver run down my spine—not from fear, but from the realization that I was about to step into a world full of unknowns. Even so, the resolve in my chest only hardened; I would not let Massimo’s warnings dictate the boundaries of my own choices.
I squared my shoulders, refusing to let fear take root. “I know who he is, Massimo. But I have to see for myself. I need answers—about my past, my—” I gasped, looking up at him when something occurred to me and I whispered, “Sinclair was looking for his son. Massimo. Do I have a brother?”
Massimo’s eyes softened. “Yes.”
“After our wedding, I asked Sinclair about him. He said he hadn’t found him. Do you know where, who he is?”
He nodded. “Yes, and so does Sinclair. He recently learned his identity.”
“I have a brother?”
Massimo smiled. “A very big one too, from my understanding.”
“What does that mean?”
He grumbled, giving in as he shook his head. “It means I am taking you to see your father tomorrow, so he can answer your questions.” He sighed right before his expression hardened, and his jaw set with grim determination as he stepped closer. His voice was low and unwavering, carrying a fierce promise. “But let me be perfectly clear here, if he so much as upsets you, puts you in danger, makes you cry once, I will kill him.”
His words wrapped around me, heavy with the weight of his devotion and protectiveness. I knew it wasn’t an empty threat, but a vow—a line he was willing to draw for my safety, no matter the consequences. In that moment, I knew his resolve was unmistakable: he would do anything to shield me from harm, even if it meant becoming the darkest parts of himself—the parts he loathed—and, weirdly... I was okay with that.
It was late when I stepped out of the shower, steam still clinging to my skin as I wrapped a towel around myself. The faint scent of lavender from my shampoo lingered in the air, and the cool tiles sent a shiver up my legs as I moved. Somewhere downstairs, the distant hum of voices drifted through the halls—a constant reminder that I was never truly alone in this house.
It had been almost a week since Massimo had demanded I return to the Vitale family home, and since then, not much had changed—except for the fact that Massimo never seemed to leave my side. Even as he hovered nearby, a part of me felt comforted by his attention, while another part bristled at the reminder of his betrayal. The conflict inside me was exhausting, but I couldn’t ignore the small hope that things might change. After his heartfelt talk, some of the anger I’d carried from his lies—lies that had been spun just to make me fall in love with him—had loosened its grip on me.
Still, forgiveness didn’t come easily. While I wasn’t ready to let go of the hurt, I noticed how he tried to be as open and honest as possible whenever I asked. I wasn’t searching for complete transparency—maybe I’d stopped believing it was ever possible between us—but when it came to my life and my well-being, I would demand it. Standing there, wrapped in warmth and uncertainty, I tried to make sense of the tangled emotions inside me, hoping that today would clarify a lot of my confusion, but equally worried it would lead to more unanswered questions.
“Miranda.” Massimo’s voice echoed down the hallway, sharp and impatient as he called out my name. The next moment, the bedroom door slammed open with a heavy thud, a clear sign of his growing agitation. “We’re going to be late!”
With an exasperated sigh and a roll of my eyes, I emerged from the bathroom, not in any particular hurry. “So what if we are? What’s the big deal?” I asked, my tone intentionally flippant.
Massimo’s response was quick, his voice tense. “The big deal is, Crispin Sinclair prefers punctuality. He doesn’t like being kept waiting.”
I couldn’t help but smirk, a hint of defiance coloring my words. “Well, then he should never have had a daughter, or one raised in the South for that matter. He will get over it. Besides, he’s the one who asked for this dinner, not me. I was perfectly content to see him here, but for some reason, he insisted on neutral ground.” I turned a pointed stare at my husband, who suddenly seemed very interested in everything but meeting my eyes. My suspicion grew. “You wouldn’t happen to know why, would you?”
Massimo hesitated for a moment, his eyes darting away from mine before he quietly confessed, “I may have told him he’s not welcome here.”
His confession stopped me in my tracks. My hands halted in the middle of getting dressed. I stared at him, a mix of confusion and irritation flooding my thoughts. The disbelief in my voice was unmistakable as I demanded, “Tell me, Massimo, are you planning to monitor everyone who comes to see me, or is it only my father you’re so intent on screening?” The question lingered between us, charged with my shock and growing anger, waiting for his response.
Massimo’s voice was firm as he looked at me and declared, “I don’t trust him.”
“You barely know him, nor do I, for that matter,” I shot back, the frustration clear in my tone as I tugged a sweater over my jeans. “And it’s not for you to decide who I can and can’t see.”
Massimo’s eyes met mine, unwavering as he insisted, “You are my wife.”
I glared at Massimo, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. My patience was wearing thin, and I let my words slice through the charged air between us. “So you keep telling me,” Ireplied flatly, my tone leaving no room for argument. “And he is my father.” I paused for a moment, my eyes never leaving his as I continued, unable to hide the warning in my voice, “Now, before you say something that will guarantee your spot on the couch tonight, we should go.” With that, I exhaled sharply, shrugged into my coat, and swept past him, determined not to let the argument escalate further as I strode purposefully out of the bedroom.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Miranda
The STK Steakhouse, located near River North in downtown Chicago, was nothing short of striking. Its vibrant atmosphere, designed for high-energy dining while retaining the hallmark elegance of a classic steakhouse, was on full display—even though the restaurant itself was entirely empty. The only occupants were my father and several armed men, each positioned with calculated precision around the room. The moment my father stood and smiled in our direction, I distinctly heard Massimo let out a low, warning growl from beside me.
