Page 17 of Claimed By the Enemy

“About that long,” I admit.

“Jesus Christ, Sophie. I leave you alone for two weeks, and you get married to someone with a driver and expensive jewelry?”

“Again, not a driver,” Raff corrects.

Amara’s still holding my hand, staring at the ring. “Please tell me this isn’t some Vegas situation where you woke up with a hangover and a marriage certificate.”

“It’s not Vegas.”

“Okay, good. That’s something, I guess.” She finally releases my hand and sits back. “So who’s the lucky guy?”

I catch Raff’s eyes in the mirror again. He’s listening to every word.

“I married Domenico.”

“You married DOMENICO?” Amara’s voice is flat. “The boss you slept with? Sophie, you’ve known him for what, a month?”

“Something like that.”

“Also, you called me for emergency drinks instead of telling me you got married. So either this is the worst honeymoon in history, or something is very wrong.”

“Where to, ladies?” Raff asks from the front seat before I can reply to Amara.

“Somewhere with strong drinks and dim lighting,” Amara says. “I have a feeling we’re going to need both.”

“I know just the place,” he replies, pulling away from the curb.

“So,” Amara says, settling back into her seat, “married to your boss. Start from the beginning and don’t leave anything out.”

I look out the window at the city passing by, trying to figure out where to even begin.

“I need a drink first.”

***

Two bars and four drinks later, I’m finally starting to feel human again. Amara has been plying me with alcohol and carefully neutral conversation.

Raff sits at the other end of the bar, nursing a single beer and checking his phone.

“So,” Amara says, signaling the bartender for another round, “want to tell me about him?”

“Who?”

“Your husband. Sophie, this is crazy. This is completely insane. You don’t marry your boss after knowing him for a few weeks.”

“Don’t I?”

“No! You don’t!” She leans closer, lowering her voice. “Is he threatening you? Because if someone’s making you do this against your will-”

“Nobody’s making me do anything.” The lie comes easier now, with alcohol smoothing the edges. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”

“Bullshit.” Amara leans back, studying my face. “Sophie, I’ve known you since college. You don’t do impulsive. You don’t marry your boss after a month. And you definitely don’t ghost your best friend unless something is seriously wrong.”

I laugh, surprising myself. “You always could see right through me.”

“It’s a gift.” Amara’s expression remains serious. “So I’m going to ask you one more time, and I want the truth. Are you safe? Are you happy? Or do I need to help you get out of whatever this is?”

For a moment, I’m tempted to tell her everything about Uncle Enzo, the mission, and the years of training that led me to Dom’s office. About the threats and the marriage and the way my husband looks at me like he can’t decide whether to kiss me or kill me.