Page 13 of Claimed by the Enemy (Moretti Bratva #2)

Chapter Eleven

Dom

R aff picks up on the second ring, his voice thick with sleep. “This better be important, Dom. It’s barely eight in the morning.”

“I need a favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

I pace my study, the threatening letter still clutched in my free hand. “I need you to come to the house and stay with Sophie for a few hours.”

There’s a pause. “Stay with Sophie? Why?”

“I have to go somewhere. Handle some business. I don’t want her alone.”

“Okay…” Raff draws the word out, clearly confused. “Can’t she just come with you?”

“No.”

“Dom, what’s going on? You sound—”

“Can you do it or not?”

Another pause, longer this time. “Of course I can do it. But you’re being weird about this. Weirder than usual, I mean.”

“Just get here as soon as you can.”

“Give me thirty minutes.”

“Twenty.”

“Dom—”

I hang up before he can ask more questions that I don’t have the answers to.

All I know is that someone wants to hurt Sophie, and Giuseppe Caruso is the only person who might have insight into who’s behind these threats. The same Caruso who warned me about bringing a Bellini into my company— the one who suggested I make Sophie disappear.

I fold the letter and slip it into my jacket pocket, then head upstairs to check on Sophie. She’s in her room, sitting at the small desk by the window with her laptop open.

“Raff’s coming by. He’ll be here while I’m out.”

That gets her attention. “Out where?”

“Business meeting.”

“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.”

He leads me to his study, a room lined with leather-bound books and expensive art. I remain standing while he settles behind his desk.

“Someone’s been sending me threatening letters,” I say without preamble.

“How unfortunate.”

“Anonymous letters. Promising to finish what happened between the Bellinis and Morettis.”

Caruso’s expression doesn’t change. “And you think I’m responsible?”

“You’re the one who told me to make Sophie disappear and the one who seems to think my marriage is a threat to the established order.”

“Your marriage is a threat to the established order.” Caruso pours himself an espresso from a silver service set. “That doesn’t mean I’m trying to kill you over it.”

“Then who is?”

“I have no idea.”

“Bullshit.”

Caruso’s cup pauses halfway to his lips. “Careful, figlio. You’re in my home.”

“And you’re lying to me.”

“Really?” He takes a sip, studying me over the rim. “Or am I simply choosing not to involve myself in matters that should have been resolved years ago?”

“What matters?”

“The same matters your father was investigating before he died. The same questions he was asking about loyalty and betrayal and who really controlled what.”

My blood chills. “What are you talking about?”

“Your father was a smart man, Domenico. But sometimes being smart isn’t enough. Sometimes the people you trust most are the ones who destroy you.”

“Are you talking about Marco Bellini?”

“I’m talking about truth. About the difference between what you’ve been told and what actually happened.” Caruso sets down his cup. “Your wife isn’t the only one who’s been living with lies.”

“Explain.”

“Some things are better left buried.”

“Not when those things are trying to kill me and my wife.”

“Your wife.” Caruso laughs, but his eyes stay blank. “Do you even know why you really married her, Dom? Or do you just tell yourself it was for protection?”

“I married her because-”

“Because you’re your father’s son. And your father could never resist trying to save people who were beyond saving.”

The words hit like physical blows. “Sophie isn’t beyond saving.”

“Don’t be silly, Dominic. She came into your life with one purpose: to destroy you.

To finish what her family started sixteen years ago.

And instead of eliminating the threat, you married it.

” Caruso stands, moving to the window. “Your father made the same mistake. Trusted the wrong person. Believed he could change what couldn’t be changed. ”

“What person? What are you talking about?”

“Ask your uncle, Dom. Ask Riccardo what really happened the night your parents died.”

Uncle Riccardo. The man who raised me after my parents’ death.

“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.

In my rearview mirror, I see them climbing into a dark sedan. They’re following me.

I drive like a madman, taking turns at dangerous speeds, running red lights, doing everything I can to lose the tail. Blood keeps dripping into my eyes, and I have to keep wiping it away with my sleeve.

Sophie. I have to get to Sophie.

The sedan stays with me for six blocks before giving up, probably deciding that a high-speed chase through Manhattan isn’t worth the risk of police attention.

They just proved they’re willing to kill for whatever truth they’re trying to protect.

***

I screech into my driveway and abandon the car, not bothering to close the door. Blood is still flowing from the cut on my forehead, and my shirt is soaked through.

“Sophie!” I yell as I burst through the front door. “Sophie!”

“Dom?” Her voice comes from the living room, confused and alarmed. “What-”

She appears in the doorway and freezes when she sees me. Blood on my face, my clothes, my hands. I probably look like I’ve been through hell.

Which, in a way, I have.

“Jesus Christ,” Raff breathes behind her. “Dom, what happened?”

But I’m not looking at Raff. I’m looking at Sophie, who’s staring at me with wide, terrified eyes.