Page 12 of Claimed by the Enemy (Moretti Bratva #2)

Chapter Ten

Dom

S ophie walks back up the driveway carefully, her blue dress catching the porch light as she approaches. I watch from the doorway as she stops at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at me with an unreadable expression.

“Enjoy your evening?” I ask.

“Thoroughly.” She climbs the steps, brushing past me into the house. “Amara thinks you’re charming.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think you’re very good at playing a part.”

She’s right, but during dinner, I wasn’t entirely acting. Watching Sophie with her friend showed me something I’d never expected.

“You were different tonight,” I say, following her into the living room.

“Different how?”

“Lighter. When you were talking about your friendship with Amara… you seemed like yourself.”

Sophie pauses in the act of removing her earrings. “That was myself.”

“Was it? Because I’ve never seen that version of you before.”

“Maybe because you’ve never given me a reason to show it.”

Fair point. Since the day she walked into my office, our interactions have been built on lies, manipulation, and hostility. Not exactly the foundation for genuine moments.

“You majored in literature before switching to law,” I continue, remembering one of the stories she’d told. “You wanted to be a writer.”

“What’s your point, Dom?”

“My point is that maybe we’ve both been operating under false assumptions. About each other. About what really happened between our families.”

“I know what happened.”

“Do you? Because I’m starting to think neither of us knows the whole truth.”

She turns to face me fully, and I can see the walls going back up in real time. “I’m not interested in your revisionist history.”

“Sophie-”

“No.” Her voice is sharp, final. “I’m not doing this with you.”

“Sophie-”

“I’m going to bed.” She’s already moving toward the stairs. “Good night, Dom.”

I don’t go after her. Instead, I pour myself a glass of whiskey and try to reconcile the woman I saw tonight with the one I’m married to.

Both versions are real. Both are Sophie.

I’m three drinks in when I call Raff.

“Dom? What’s up?”

“Where are you?”

“Home. Why?”

“Feel like going out? It’s Friday night.”

There’s a pause. “Going out? Dom, it’s almost ten o’clock.”

“So?”

“So you haven’t voluntarily gone out on a Friday night in… well, ever.”

“Maybe it’s time I started.”

“What’s going on? You sound weird.”

“I sound like a man who needs a drink and some distraction. You in or not?”

Another pause. “Yeah, alright. Where do you want to go?”

“Somewhere with pool tables. And loud music.”

“Pool tables? Who are you and what have you done with Domenico Moretti?”

“Just meet me at Murphy’s in twenty minutes.”

***

Murphy’s is exactly what I need—dark, noisy, and filled with people who don’t know or care who I am. Raff finds me at a corner table, already nursing my fourth whiskey of the night.

“Jesus, Dom. How much have you had?”

“Not enough.”

Raff signals the waitress for a beer and settles across from me. “Want to tell me what’s really going on?”

“Nothing’s going on. Can’t a man drink with his best friend without it being a federal case?”

“Not when that man is you. And not when he looks like he’s trying to drown something.”

I down the rest of my whiskey and stand up. “Come on. Let’s play some pool.”

The table in the back corner is free, and I start racking the balls with more focus than the task requires. Raff watches me with growing concern.

“Dom—”

“Eight ball. You break.”

Raff sighs but takes his shot, scattering the balls across green felt. I line up my shot, trying to focus on angles and physics instead of green eyes and complicated truths.

“It’s Sophie, isn’t it?” Raff says as I sink two stripes in a row.

“Everything’s Sophie.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened. That’s the problem.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I.”

I’m lining up another shot when two blondes in tight dresses and predatory smiles appear.

The taller one slides up to the table, her hip brushing against my arm.

“Mind if we watch?” she purrs. “We love a man who knows how to handle his stick.”

Six months ago, I would have taken that as an invitation. Bought them drinks, made small talk, probably taken one or both of them home. It was simple, uncomplicated, exactly the kind of distraction I used to crave.

Now the thought makes my stomach turn.

“Actually, we’re in the middle of something,” I say, not looking up from the table.

“Come on,” the shorter blonde says, moving closer to Raff. “It’s Friday night. Live a little.”

“My friend here is married,” Raff says, grinning at both women. “But I’m very much available.”

“Married?” The tall blonde looks at me with renewed interest. “That’s too bad. The good ones always are.”

She trails her fingers along my arm, and I have to physically stop myself from recoiling. Not because her touch is unpleasant, but because it’s wrong. Because she’s not Sophie.

“Ladies,” I say, straightening up and fixing them with my most polite smile. “I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful evening. Somewhere else.”

The tall blonde’s smile falters, but Raff is already stepping in, his arms going around both women’s waists.

“Don’t mind him,” he says. “He’s going through a rough patch. But I, on the other hand, am having a fantastic night. Can I buy you both a drink?”

They giggle and let him lead them toward the bar, leaving me alone with the pool table and the uncomfortable realization that I’ve become someone I don’t recognize.

Six months ago, turning down two beautiful women would have been unthinkable. Now I can’t imagine being with anyone who isn’t my complicated, lying, infuriating wife.

When did that happen? When did Sophie Bellini become the only woman I want?

I sink the eight ball and start racking for another game, playing against myself while Raff entertains his new friends at the bar. The whiskey has made everything slightly fuzzy around the edges, but it hasn’t done anything to quiet the thoughts spinning through my head.

I’m so screwed.

By the time I get home, it’s past two in the morning, and I’m definitely drunk. The house is dark and quiet. Patrice and the other staff have long since retired to her quarters.

I find myself climbing the stairs to Sophie’s room.

The door is slightly ajar, and I can see her through the gap. She’s curled on her side, dark hair spread across white pillowcases, one hand tucked under her cheek like a child. The moonlight streaming through her windows makes her skin look luminous.

She looks peaceful. Younger somehow, without the armor she wears during the day.

I lean against the doorframe, watching her sleep and trying to figure out when exactly my enemy became the most important person in my world. When protecting her became more important than protecting myself.

Sophie shifts in her sleep, murmuring something I can’t make out. For a moment, I think she’s going to wake up, and I’m not sure what I’d say if she found me here, drunk and staring at her like some kind of stalker.

But she settles back into sleep, and I force myself to step away from her door.

***

I’m hunched over work documents when Patrice appears in the doorway with the mail, rain streaking the windows behind her. The sky outside is the color of old steel.

“Anything important?” I ask without looking up.

“The usual business correspondence. And this.” She holds out a plain white envelope, identical to the ones I’ve been receiving.

I take the envelope, noting the lack of a return address and the careful block lettering of my name.

“Thank you, Patrice. That will be all.”

She nods and withdraws, closing the door behind her. I wait until I hear her footsteps fade before opening the envelope.

The message is brief. Typed on the same plain paper as before.

I’ll take Sophie first. Then I’ll come for you. Both Moretti and Bellini blood will pay for what was done.

My hands clench around the paper, crumpling the edges.

I’m out of my chair and moving up the stairs, down the hall, to Sophie’s room. I don’t knock.

The room is empty.

“Sophie?” I call out, checking the walk-in closet.

Nothing.

“Sophie!”

“What?” Her voice comes from behind me, and I spin around to find her standing in the doorway with a towel wrapped around her hair and confusion written across her face. “What’s wrong with you?”

Relief hits me so hard I almost stagger. She’s here.

“Where were you?”

“Shower. In the guest bathroom down the hall because the hot water in here is being temperamental.” She steps into the room, frowning. “Dom, what’s going on? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I consider telling her, but looking at her now—hair damp from the shower, wearing nothing but a robe that shows too much skin—I can’t form the words.

“Nothing,” I say finally. “I just… needed to ask you something.”

“What?”

“It can wait,” I say, backing toward the door. “I should let you get dressed.”

“Dom.” Sophie catches my arm as I try to leave. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Everything. I’m not telling her that someone wants to kill her. That I’ve been receiving death threats for weeks.

“Nothing important,” I lie.

“Don’t.” Her grip tightens on my arm. “Don’t shut me out. If something’s wrong-”

“Everything’s wrong, Sophie.” The admission slips out before I can stop it. “Everything about this situation is wrong, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

“What situation?”

“This. Us. The fact that I can’t tell anymore if I’m protecting you or imprisoning you.”

Sophie’s eyes search my face, looking for something I’m not sure I can give her.

“Maybe they’re the same thing,” she says quietly.

“Maybe they are.”

We stand there for a moment, connected by her hand on my arm and the weight of everything we’re not saying. I could tell her about the letter. It could explain why I’m really here, why I needed to see that she was safe.

Instead, I pull away.

“Stay in the house today,” I tell her. “Please.”

“Dom-”

“Just… trust me on this.”

Something in my tone must convince her, because she nods. “Fine. But you owe me an explanation.”

“I know.”

I leave her standing there and make my way back to my study.

I need help. Someone I trust to stay with Sophie while I figure out who’s behind these threats.