Page 27 of Claimed by the Enemy (Moretti Bratva #2)

One Year Later

“She’s got your eyes.”

I look up from where I’m sitting in the shade of the old olive tree, our three-month-old daughter Isabella sleeping peacefully in my arms.

Dom is walking toward us through the vineyard rows, carrying a picnic basket and wearing the kind of relaxed smile I never thought I’d see on his face.

“She’s got your stubborn streak,” I counter, adjusting the soft pink blanket around our baby. “She refused to nap for two hours yesterday.”

“Why sleep when there’s a whole world to explore?”

Dom settles beside me on the blanket we’ve spread beneath the tree, the same tree where I used to play as a child when this vineyard belonged to my parents. Now it belongs to us - a wedding gift from Uncle Enzo, who said it was time for the property to come home to the Bellini family.

Even if that family now includes a Moretti.

“How did the meeting go?” I ask as Dom unpacks sandwiches and fruit.

“Better than expected. The Rossi family is interested in the shipping partnership, and they’re willing to work with both our organizations.”

“Both our organizations.” I shake my head, still amazed by how much has changed. “A year ago, that would have been impossible.”

“A year ago, a lot of things would have been impossible.”

Dom’s hand finds mine, his thumb tracing over my wedding ring. We had a real ceremony six months ago, here in the vineyard, surrounded by friends and family from both sides. Uncle Enzo walked me down the aisle, Raff served as Dom’s best man, and even Amara cried during the vows.

It was everything our first wedding wasn’t—joyful, voluntary, and born out of love instead of necessity.

“Do you ever miss it?” Dom asks quietly.

“Miss what?”

“The excitement. The danger. The adrenaline rush of thinking we were enemies.”

I consider this, watching Isabella’s tiny chest rise and fall in the dappled sunlight. “Sometimes. But then I remember what we were both like when we thought we had to hate each other.”

“Miserable.”

“Completely miserable. Now I wake up every morning next to the man I love, with our daughter sleeping in the next room, and I can’t imagine ever wanting to go back to the way things were.”

“Even when I steal the covers?”

“Especially when you steal the covers. It gives me an excuse to move closer.”

Dom laughs, the sound carrying across the vineyard where Uncle Enzo is inspecting the grape vines.

It’s strange seeing him like this: peaceful, productive, focused on growing things instead of destroying them.

The transition from vengeful patriarch to doting great-uncle hasn’t been seamless, but watching him with Isabella has shown me a side of him I never knew existed.

“He’s happy,” Dom observes, following my gaze.

“He is. I think this is what he was meant to do all along, before…” I trail off, not wanting to invoke the shadow of Riccardo even on such a perfect day.

“Before he was poisoned by lies.”

“We all were.”

“Not anymore.”

Dom is right. Riccardo died in prison eight months ago—a heart attack, the warden said, though none of us mourned his passing. With him gone, the last traces of the manufactured hatred between our families died too.

“Sophie?”

“Hmm?”

“There’s something I want to ask you.”

I look at him suspiciously. “If this is about having another baby, we’ve discussed this. Isabella is three months old. Ask me again in a year.”

“It’s not about another baby. Although…” Dom grins. “We should definitely revisit that conversation.”

“Dom.”

“It’s not about a baby. It’s about this.”

He reaches into the picnic basket and pulls out a small velvet box. It looks like a ring box - something different. Flatter.

“What is it?”

“Open it.”

Inside the box are two rings. Simple gold bands, engraved with words I have to squint to read in the afternoon light.

Ti amo per sempre

I love you forever.

“Dom…”

“Sophie Moretti, will you renew your vows with me? Here, where your story began, where our story is continuing?”

“We just got married six months ago.”

“I know. But that was for everyone else. This would be just for us.”

“What do you mean?”

Dom takes the rings from the box, holding them up so they catch the sunlight. “I mean that I want to promise you forever in the place where you first learned about love. Where your parents loved each other before the world got complicated.”

“Dom-”

“I want to promise our daughter that her parents chose each other every single day, not just once in a courthouse or once in front of guests, but constantly, deliberately, without reservation.”

“We already do that.”

“I know. But I want to make it official.”

I look around the vineyard, at the place where I played as a child. At Uncle Enzo, who’s stopped his inspection to watch us with obvious curiosity. At Dom, whose eyes are full of the kind of love I spent sixteen years believing I’d never find.

At Isabella, who’s stirring in my arms, her tiny fist reaching toward the light filtering through the olive leaves.

“Okay,” I say.

“Okay?”

“Yes, Domenico Moretti. I’ll renew my vows with you.”

Dom’s smile is brighter than the afternoon sun. “When?”

“Right now.”

“Right now?”

“Right now. Uncle Enzo can officiate. He has that online minister certification he received for our wedding. Isabella can be our witness. This tree can be our chapel.”

“Sounds perfect to me.”

Dom doesn’t need any more convincing. He calls to Uncle Enzo, who comes walking over with dirt on his hands and a curious expression on his face.

“What’s all this about?” Uncle Enzo asks.

“We want to renew our vows,” I tell him. “Right here, right now. Will you officiate?”

Uncle Enzo’s face breaks into the kind of smile I remember from my childhood.

“It would be my honor.”

And so, under the olive tree where my mother used to read to me, with the vineyard stretching out around us like a promise of abundance, I marry Dom for the third time.

Uncle Enzo speaks about love conquering hatred, about the future being more important than the past, about the beautiful child sleeping in my arms who represents everything good that can come from choosing forgiveness over revenge.

Dom promises to love me through sleepless nights and dirty diapers, through business crises and family drama, through whatever challenges the future might bring.

I promise to choose him every day, not because I have to, not because it’s safe or practical or expected, but because loving him is the best decision I’ve ever made.

We exchange the new rings, adding them to the ones we already wear.

“You may kiss your wife,” Uncle Enzo says, his voice thick with emotion. “Again.”

Dom’s kiss is soft and sweet and full of promises for the next fifty years. When we break apart, Isabella opens her eyes and stares at us with the serious expression she’s inherited from her father.

“What do you think, little one?” I ask her. “Ready for a lifetime of putting up with both of us?”

Isabella makes a slight sound that could be agreement or protest—with a three-month-old, it’s hard to tell.

“I think that’s a yes,” Dom says.

“Definitely a yes,” Uncle Enzo agrees.

THE END

Thank you so much for reading Claimed by the Enemy, Book 2 in the Moretti Bratva Duet!