Page 42 of Claimed By the Enemy

“What kind of business meeting requires a babysitter for me?”

“The kind where I don’t want to worry about you being here alone.”

Sophie closes her laptop and turns to face me fully. “Dom, what’s going on?”

“It’s probably nothing. Just being cautious. Raff will be here soon.”

“I don’t need a babysitter, Dom.”

“Humor me.”

She studies my face for a moment, and I can see her trying to read between the lines.

“Fine,” she says finally. “But when you get back, we’re having a real conversation. About whatever’s really going on.”

“Agreed.”

It’s a lie, but she doesn’t need to know that yet.

Raff arrives exactly twenty minutes later, still looking confused and slightly concerned. I let him in and immediately start moving toward the door.

“Whoa,” he says, catching my arm. “Where’s the fire?”

“I told you. Business meeting.”

“Right. The kind that requires me to babysit your wife.” Raff follows me toward the kitchen, where Sophie is making coffee. “Morning, Sophie.”

“Morning, Raff.” She glances between us. “Did Dom explain why he’s suddenly decided I need supervision?”

“He mentioned something about business complications.” Raff accepts the coffee she offers him. “Very mysterious business complications, apparently.”

“Everything’s mysterious with Dom,” Sophie replies, but I catch the worry in her voice.

“I should be back by noon,” I tell them both. “Raff, if anything happens-”

“What’s going to happen?” Sophie interrupts. “Dom, you’re scaring me.”

“Nothing’s going to happen,” I say, though I’m not sure I believe it myself. “I just prefer to be careful.”

I kiss her forehead—a gesture so natural I don’t realize I’ve done it until Raff raises his eyebrows. Sophie looks surprised too, but she doesn’t pull away.

“Be careful,” she says quietly.

***

Giuseppe Caruso lives in a brownstone on the Upper East Side. The area has the kind of old-money elegance that speaks to generations of investments and strategic alliances. I’ve been here before, years ago, when my father was still alive and business was conducted over cigars and aged whiskey.

Today feels different and dangerous.

Caruso opens the door himself, no butler or housekeeper in sight. He’s wearing a silk robe over expensive pajamas, and his silver hair is perfectly styled despite the early hour.

“Domenico.” He steps aside to let me in. “This is unexpected.”

“We need to talk.”

“Of course. Coffee?”

“No.”