Page 23 of Claimed By the Enemy

“Complicated.” Velasquez laughs, stiff and mechanical. “Dom, your father came to me three weeks before he died. He was convinced someone in his inner circle was feeding information to competitors. Someone he trusted completely.”

This is news to me. “And?”

“He suspected Marco Bellini had been compromised. Maybe not willingly, but compromised nonetheless.” Torrino leans closer. “The fire that killed your mother, the attack on your father afterward… these weren’t random acts of violence.”

“You think I don’t know that?” My voice drops lower, more dangerous. “You think I’ve spent the last sixteen years oblivious to who was responsible?”

“Then why marry her?” Velasquez gestures toward where Sophie was standing. “Unless…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but I can see the calculation in his eyes, unless it’s revenge. Unless I’m playing a longer game than anyone realizes.

“My marriage is my business,” I say firmly. “Just as your marriages are yours.”

Another waiter appears with my whiskey. I accept it gratefully, needing the burn to focus my thoughts.

“Gentlemen,” I say carefully, “I appreciate your concern. But Sophie is my wife now. She’s under my protection, which means she’s under the protection of everyone in this room. I trust that’s understood.”

“Of course,” Torrino says quickly. “We’re not questioning your judgment, Dom. We’re just…”

“Worried,” Velasquez finishes. “About what this means for business. For relationships we’ve built over decades.”

“Nothing changes,” I assure them. “Sophie’s past is irrelevant to our future dealings.”

“Is it?” Torrino asks. “Because there are people in this room who remember what the Bellini family was accused of. Who remembers the bodies that turned up after your father’s funeral?”

“Ancient history.”

“Not to everyone.”

A burst of laughter draws my attention, and I turn instinctively toward the sound. Sophie’s laugh, bright and genuine, cut through the serious atmosphere of our conversation.

But she’s not at the bar anymore.

I scan the room, finding her near the piano. She’s talking to someone, her head tilted back slightly as she laughs again. A man, tall and dark-haired, standing closer to her than necessary.

“Who’s that?” I ask, nodding toward them.

Torrino follows my gaze. “No idea. Someone’s guest, probably.”

The man says something that makes Sophie smile, and she touches his arm. Casual, friendly. Nothing inappropriate.

So why does it feel like someone just punched me in the gut?

“Dom?” Velasquez is saying. “You were telling us about the Huang timeline.”

“Right.” I force myself to look away from Sophie, to focus on the conversation. “Huang wants to see preliminary results by Q3 next year. If the numbers meet projections, we move to phase two immediately.”

“And if they don’t?”

“They will.” I glance back toward the piano. Sophie and her companion have moved closer to the window.

“You seem distracted,” Torrino observes.

“Just keeping an eye on things.”

“On your wife, you mean.”

I don’t respond to that. Instead, I ask, “What’s the latest on the Rotterdam shipping situation?”