Page 11 of Claimed By the Enemy

The closet Dom had Patrice stock for me contains enough clothes to outfit a small army, but I ignore all of it in favor of the single black dress I brought from my apartment. It’s simple, elegant, and completely inappropriate for a wedding.

Perfect.

Chapter Four

Dom

The courthouse is as sterile as I expected it to be. Fluorescent lights, beige walls, and the faint smell of disinfectant that seems to permeate every government building in the city.

Sophie stands beside me in front of the judge, wearing that black little dress. She hasn’t looked at me once since we arrived, keeping her eyes fixed straight ahead while the officiant drones through the standard ceremony.

“Do you, Domenico Moretti, take Sophie Greco to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

The irony of using her fake name for the legal documents is laughable. Sophie Greco is marrying me. Sophie Bellini is my prisoner.

“I do.”

“Do you, Sophie Greco, take Domenico Moretti to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

There’s a pause. Long enough for me to wonder if she’s going to refuse at the last second, blow up this entire arrangement out of spite.

“I do.” The words come out flat and emotionless.

“By the power vested in me by the state of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

The judge closes his book with a definitive snap. “You may kiss the bride.”

I turn to face Sophie, and for the first time today, she meets my eyes. The hatred burning there is so pure, so concentrated, that it’s almost beautiful.

“Don’t even think about it,” she whispers.

I lean in anyway, close enough that my lips brush her ear. “Smile, Mrs. Moretti. We have witnesses.”

Her jaw clenches, but she manages a brittle smile as I press a brief, chaste kiss to her cheek.

“There,” I murmur against her skin. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“Go to hell.”

“After you, sweetheart.”

The paperwork takes another twenty minutes. Sophie signs her fake name with sharp, angry strokes while I handle the legal requirements that will make this permanent.

By the time we walk out of the courthouse, she’s officially mine. Legally, socially, completely.

***

“You got married.”

Raff’s voice is completely flat, like his brain is still processing the information I just dropped on him.

“This morning,” I confirm, settling behind my desk. “Simple ceremony. Just the legal requirements.”

“You got married,” he repeats. “To Sophie. The woman who lied about her identity”

“That’s correct.”

Raff stares at me for a long moment, then gets up and walks to the bar cart in the corner of my office. He pours himself three fingers of whiskey and downs it in one go.