Page 44 of Claimed By the Enemy

“My uncle told me everything.”

“Hmm…” Caruso turns back to me. “Then you know more than I thought.”

“Stop talking in riddles.”

“I’m not talking in riddles. I’m trying to keep you alive long enough to figure out the truth on your own.” He moves closer, his voice dropping. “But if you keep pushing, keep asking questions, you’re going to end up like your father. And that beautiful wife of yours will end up like your mother.”

The threat is clear, even though it sounds like concern.

“Are you threatening me?”

“I’m advising you. The same way I advised your father. Some fights aren’t worth fighting. Some truths aren’t worth learning.”

“And if I disagree?”

“Then you’ll learn why your father died. And why you will too, if you’re not careful.”

I’m already moving toward the door. This conversation is over, and I haven’t gotten the answers I came for. Just more questions, more shadows, more warnings wrapped in riddles.

“Dom.” Caruso’s voice stops me at the threshold. “Be smart. Walk away from this. Send the girl somewhere safe and walk away.”

“She’s my wife.”

“She’s a weapon pointed at your heart. The only question is whether you’ll see that before it’s too late.”

I’m halfway down the front steps when my phone rings. Unknown number.

“Dom Moretti.”

“Your wife is in danger.” The voice is mechanically altered, unrecognizable. “They’re coming for her now.”

“Who is this?”

“A friend. Get home. Now.”

The line goes dead.

I’m running toward my car when they hit me.

Two men, emerging from behind parked cars like they’ve been waiting. Professional, efficient, dressed in black with their faces covered.

The first one swings something heavy - a baseball bat, maybe - at my head. I duck, feeling the air displacement as it passes inches from my skull.

Training kicks in. Muscle memory from years of self-defense lessons, from growing up in a world where violence was always a possibility.

I grab the bat on its return swing, using the attacker’s momentum to pull him off balance. My knee drives up into his ribs, and I hear the satisfying crack of bone.

The second attacker is already moving, knife glinting in the morning light. I release the bat and spin away, but not fast enough. The blade catches my forehead, opening a gash that immediately starts bleeding into my eyes.

“Fuck.”

I can’t see clearly, but I can hear them regrouping. Can sense them moving to flank me.

The keys to my car are in my hand. I press the panic button, and the alarm starts shrieking, echoing off the quiet street.

It’s enough of a distraction for me to grab the injured one’s bat. I swing blind, connecting with something solid. Someone screams.

Then I’m running, stumbling toward my car with blood streaming down my face. The engine starts on the first try, and I’m pulling away from the curb before the attackers can recover.