Page 15 of Claimed By the Enemy

But the ring on my finger says otherwise. Plain platinum band, elegant in its simplicity, and completely wrong on my hand.

I’ve tried taking it off twice already, but each time I remember Dom’s threat about my aunt and uncle, and it stays put.

Insurance policy. That’s all this marriage is.

Still, insurance policies can be cancelled.

I need to contact Uncle Enzo, warn him that Dom knows their location. But using my phone is out of the question. Domprobably has it monitored by now, if he didn’t before. The house phone is equally risky.

Which leaves me with limited options.

Patrice is in the kitchen when I wander downstairs, softly as she prepares an enormous spread of food.

She glances up when I enter, offering that same warm smile she’s given me since the day I arrived here.

“Good morning, Mrs. Moretti. Can I get you some breakfast?”

Mrs. Moretti. The name sits like acid on my tongue.

“Just coffee,” I say, settling onto one of the barstools.

“Of course.” She pours me a cup from the fresh pot, steam rising in lazy spirals. “Mr. Domenico left early this morning.”

Good. Fewer interruptions.

I sip my coffee and watch Patrice work, timing her movements. Her phone sits beside the sink, screen lighting up occasionally.

“Patrice,” I say when she moves to the pantry, “could you show me where you keep the good china?”

It gets her out of the kitchen long enough for me to grab her phone.

Uncle Enzo’s number is burned into my memory. I type quickly, keeping one eye on the pantry door.

They know where you live. It isn’t safe anymore. Move. Now. - S

I delete the message from the sent folder and place the phone back exactly where I found it, pulse hammering as Patrice returns.

“Beautiful pieces,” I say. “Dom’s mother’s?”

“His grandmother’s, actually.”

I finish my coffee, as my mind moves to the next phase.

***

Raffaele shows up three days later, appearing at the front door with that easy smile and casual confidence I remember from our first meeting. But there’s something different in his eyes today.

“Sophie,” he says when Patrice shows him to the living room. “Dom asked me to check if you needed to go anywhere today.”

“Did he?” I set down my book. “And what exactly did he tell you about why I might need a chaperone?”

Raff shifts slightly, and I can see him choosing his words carefully. “Just that you might want to get out for a while.”

I stand up, studying his face. This man has been Dom’s best friend for over a decade. He knows things. “How long have you known what kind of man Dom really is?”

“What do you mean?”

“His father was a killer, Raff. Has Dom ever mentioned that to you?”