Chapter Twenty-Four
Miranda
I was pissed. Not just irked or annoyed but trembling with a molten fury that burned beneath my skin.
My hands balled into fists beneath the sheets, nails biting into my palms, and my heart crashed against my ribs in uneven waves.
I could taste the sour edge of adrenaline at the back of my throat, the kind that made my limbs itch to move, to do something—anything—other than sit with this helplessness.
From the moment I woke up tangled in his sheets, the world tilting as he told me we were married, I let myself fall for the lie.
I wanted to believe him—maybe needed to—but looking back, the heat prickled across my scalp with humiliation.
I never questioned it. I never demanded proof.
The memory of my trust, so easily surrendered, sent a pulse of self-directed anger shooting through my chest.
Well, not anymore.
I needed proof, damn it. There was no way I’d let myself be trapped in this mausoleum another day—not as his pawn, not as his wife, not as anything but my own person.
The idea of spending one more night in that colossal bed, his scent still clinging to the pillow, made my skin crawl.
My resolve hardened, icy and sharp: never again.
I ripped the covers back, the chill of the room slapping against my bare arms and legs.
Goosebumps rose instantly, but the cold was nothing compared to the icy dread settling deep in my chest. My breaths came fast and shallow as I swung my feet to the floor, each inhale jagged with the effort of keeping it together.
My mind raced, questions swirling like a winter storm: What was he hiding?
What had he pulled me into? Who the hell could I trust now?
The urge to run buzzed in my muscles, but the instinct to survive cautioned me—escape wouldn’t be simple. Not here.
Resentment thickened the air, a suffocating presence pressing down on my shoulders.
I could almost feel Massimo’s gaze shadowing me, memory flickering through every heated argument, every lingering touch that now felt tainted.
My pulse thundered in my ears as I replayed each moment, each sideways glance that took on new, sinister meaning.
If Massimo thought I was just going to let what happened slide, he was dead wrong.
I was done playing the docile wife in his twisted game.
I’d swallowed my anger for too long—let myself be maneuvered like a pawn on his chessboard.
But no more. My skin felt electric, every nerve ending raw, as I promised myself: I would demand answers, and I wouldn’t stop until I tore the mask from every lie.
At the top of the grand staircase, I paused—one hand gripping the banister so tightly my knuckles blanched.
I let my eyes drift closed for a moment, forcing myself to breathe slowly, deeply, and steadily, gathering the scattered edges of my courage.
The house was silent enough that I could hear my own heart, a frantic drumming in my ears.
Downstairs, voices drifted up, indistinct but familiar, and I realized I needed to face whatever waited below with my guard up. The mask I wore had to be seamless.
I descended, each step deliberate, and found Cesar Vitale deep in conversation with Dominic—the house butler—and Rose, the formidable head housekeeper.
During my days of forced isolation in this gilded cage, I’d gravitated toward them, drawn to their warmth.
Dominic, with his impeccable posture and quick, quiet humor, always seemed to know when to offer a cup of tea or a word of reassurance.
I remembered, though, that offhand remark he’d made two nights ago as he polished the silver: “In some places, loyalty is a shield. Here, it’s a weapon.
” His words had stuck with me, cryptic and unsettling.
And Rose—she ran the house with a quiet authority, every movement purposeful, every glance sharp.
I’d caught her once, pausing in the hallway, gaze lingering for a heartbeat too long on a locked door before her expression smoothed into polite indifference.
There was something about her—an undercurrent of vigilance, maybe a hint of something she was guarding, or watching for.
I wondered, not for the first time, what had brought them to serve the Vitale family, and what secrets they kept beneath their calm exteriors.
“Cesar, we need to talk.” I cut through their conversation, my words slicing the air sharper than I intended.
The head of the Vitale family turned toward me, his movements slow and deliberate. His posture radiated authority—a silent warning—as he flicked his hand, dismissing Dominic and Rose. They slipped away, leaving behind a thick, uneasy quiet.
Refusing to be ignored anymore, my heart pounded with frustration and uncertainty, fueling my determination as I faced him. I closed the distance between us, voice steady as I demanded, “I want to see the marriage certificate.”
A faint, knowing grin unfurled on his lips. “You would need to ask your husband for that, Signora Vitale.”
My patience cracked. “Oh, stop with the signora crap. I’m done being civil. Something is going on, and I want to know what it is.”
He watched me, unreadable. “And what do you think is going on?”
My hands curled into fists at my sides, anger and fear twisting together. “That I’m being lied to, and I want to know why.”
His gaze never wavered. “Once again, I must refer you to your husband.”
If he said that shit one more time, I was going to lose my shit.
I took a steadying breath and tried to keep my voice calm. “I want to call my brother.”
Cesar shook his head, his tone clipped but not entirely dismissive. “The phones aren’t working right now. I think you should—”
I cut him off, my patience snapping. Holding up my hand, I snarled, “Gonna stop you right there, Cesar. Because I’m really close to kicking your ass.” His eyes widened as I glared at him, arms crossed tight across his chest. “Just give me your cellphone.”
Cesar hesitated, then gave me a sly smile—one that only made my anger burn hotter. “And what makes you think I’d do that?” he asked, voice dripping with amusement.
I leaned in, letting every word hit with purpose. “Because my brother is Ravage, the enforcer for the Golden Skulls, and when I tell him that your asshat of a fucking brother kidnapped me and held me against my will, Jackson is going to kick his motherfucking ass.”
My threat was clear, but instead of provoking the reaction I wanted, it seemed to amuse Cesar as he threw his head back and erupted into loud, raucous laughter, the sound echoing through the room.
Without another word, he walked right past me, his amusement lingering in the air as he made his way to his office, leaving me standing there, seething with frustration and fury.
“Big mistake, Pisano.”
Spinning around, I saw a young, gaunt man leaning against the wall. With hair disheveled and wearing gray sweats, he straightened, his eyes void of life, as he slowly approached. “Make no mistake. Your threats are pointless here.”
The man’s eyes burned with something darker than anger—betrayal, maybe, or fear.
He didn’t hesitate as he advanced on me, each step deliberate, his presence swallowing all the space between us.
I could see now that his hostility wasn’t just bravado.
It was personal, carved into him by what, I didn’t know.
And what he said next had the hairs on the back of my neck standing straight.
“You are nothing more than a means to an end, and if you ever threaten my brother again, I will kill you myself.”
His words sliced through me like a cold draft creeping under the door.
I felt the tension coil tighter as my fists clenched so hard my knuckles ached.
In that suspended moment, I weighed his threat—and wondered not just if anyone would come looking for me, but whether the secrets I carried had finally caught up to me.
The room felt charged, every breath heavy with threat. My heart hammered so loudly I wondered if he could hear it. I refused to look away, even as the muffled hum of voices from the front of the house drifted through the walls—a grim reminder of how close danger had become.
“My name is—”
He took a step closer, his voice a low snarl, thick with accusation. “Your name is Pisano, which means you are a traitor.”
Slowly shaking my head, I whispered, “Miranda Williams. My name is Miranda Williams.”
Before I could even blink, his hand reached out and grabbed my neck, squeezing tightly as he hurled me up against the nearest wall.
Clawing at his hand, gasping for air, he leaned in so close I could smell stale coffee on his breath, his whisper icy against my cheek. “Don’t fucking lie to me, traitor.”
“TOMASSO!”
The young man smirked and, as quickly as he grabbed me, he let go, turning away, his sneakers squeaking against the marble floor.
The hallway stretched ahead, dimly lit by a flickering sconce that cast long, restless shadows along the decorated plaster walls.
His footsteps echoed, fading with each step, until only a heavy silence and the faint scent of dust and old cologne lingered in his wake.
Massimo, Guilio, and Luca approached, their faces tense, as the weight of what had just transpired settled within me.
“Are you alright?” Massimo asked, his voice soft and laced with concern.
He hesitated for a moment, as if unsure whether to reach for my arm, before gently placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder.
Aurelio darted after the young man, his boots thudding down the hall, but paused halfway to glance back at me, torn between pursuit and staying to help.
Luca’s brow furrowed with worry, and Guilio exchanged a silent, uneasy look with him, both men shifting their weight uncertainly as they tried to decide whether to offer comfort or give me space.
Turning toward Massimo, I couldn’t hold them back.
I was at my limit as tears streamed hot down my cheeks, blurring the harsh lines of the hallway.
“I want my brother. I want Jackson,” I cried, my voice breaking.
Massimo squeezed my shoulder, his expression softening with helpless empathy as he pulled me closer, wrapping his arms around me.
Luca and Guilio stepped closer, the tension in their postures giving way to open concern, while Aurelio, conflicted, lingered at the end of the hall, watching over me with troubled eyes.