Page 4 of Claimed by the Enemy (Moretti Bratva #2)

Chapter Four

Dom

T he courthouse is as sterile as I expected it to be. Fluorescent lights, beige walls, and the faint smell of disinfectant that seems to permeate every government building in the city.

Sophie stands beside me in front of the judge, wearing that black little dress. She hasn’t looked at me once since we arrived, keeping her eyes fixed straight ahead while the officiant drones through the standard ceremony.

“Do you, Domenico Moretti, take Sophie Greco to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

The irony of using her fake name for the legal documents is laughable. Sophie Greco is marrying me. Sophie Bellini is my prisoner.

“I do.”

“Do you, Sophie Greco, take Domenico Moretti to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

There’s a pause. Long enough for me to wonder if she’s going to refuse at the last second, blow up this entire arrangement out of spite.

“I do.” The words come out flat and emotionless.

“By the power vested in me by the state of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

The judge closes his book with a definitive snap. “You may kiss the bride.”

I turn to face Sophie, and for the first time today, she meets my eyes. The hatred burning there is so pure, so concentrated, that it’s almost beautiful.

“Don’t even think about it,” she whispers.

I lean in anyway, close enough that my lips brush her ear. “Smile, Mrs. Moretti. We have witnesses.”

Her jaw clenches, but she manages a brittle smile as I press a brief, chaste kiss to her cheek.

“There,” I murmur against her skin. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“Go to hell.”

“After you, sweetheart.”

The paperwork takes another twenty minutes. Sophie signs her fake name with sharp, angry strokes while I handle the legal requirements that will make this permanent.

By the time we walk out of the courthouse, she’s officially mine. Legally, socially, completely.

***

“You got married.”

Raff’s voice is completely flat, like his brain is still processing the information I just dropped on him.

“This morning,” I confirm, settling behind my desk. “Simple ceremony. Just the legal requirements.”

“You got married,” he repeats. “To Sophie. The woman who lied about her identity”

“That’s correct.”

Raff stares at me for a long moment, then gets up and walks to the bar cart in the corner of my office. He pours himself three fingers of whiskey and downs it in one go.

“Okay,” he says, turning back to face me. “I’m going to need you to explain this from the beginning. Because right now, it sounds like you’ve completely lost your fucking mind.”

“Sophie used a false identity to infiltrate my company. Corporate espionage. Identity fraud.”

“Right, you mentioned that yesterday.” Raff pours himself another drink, this one smaller. “What you didn’t mention was your brilliant plan to marry the corporate spy.”

I lean back in my chair, considering how much to tell him. “Someone’s targeting her. And possibly me.”

I reach into my desk drawer and pull out the letter I received yesterday. Raff’s eyebrows rise as I slide it across to him.

“Someone’s targeting her. And possibly me.”

Raff reads the letter twice, his expression growing darker. “How long have you been getting these?”

“This is the first one. But there have been other incidents. When she was attacked leaving that party, it wasn’t random.”

“So you married her to protect her?”

“I married her to protect my interests.”

It’s a partial truth. The real answer is more complicated. The real answer involves the way Sophie looked that night after she was attacked—vulnerable and scared, asking me to stay. The way something in my chest tightened when I thought about someone hurting her.

“Something happened at the office yesterday.” He leans forward, suddenly serious.

“Which is?”

“Rumors. Caruso wasn’t kidding about them. I overheard three of my staff members discussing at lunch yesterday how a woman with a fake identity had been working in the company. They were speculating about security protocols, whether other employees might be plants.”

My jaw tightens. “What exactly did they say?”

“That someone infiltrated the Moretti Group using false credentials. They know it happened under your watch.” Raff shakes his head. “If my media team is gossiping about it, you can bet other departments are too. Your leadership is being questioned.”

The words hit their mark because they’re true. I’ve noticed the way conversations stop when I walk into rooms lately.

“Actually…” Raff tilts his head, considering.

“Marriage might work for the narrative. Instead of ‘CEO fooled by corporate spy,’ it becomes ‘CEO marries brilliant woman who impressed him so much he pursued her.’ I could spin that. Want me to put something out through More Media? Official statement about your whirlwind romance?”

“No press, Raff. The last thing I want right now is to be in the media.”

“But Dom, if this was really just about corporate damage control through marriage, would you have married a man if it had been a male spy who infiltrated the company?”

I suck my teeth. “Come on, you know I’m straight.”

“Bingo.” Raff grins like he’s just solved a puzzle. “You married her because you actually like her. Which means this isn’t about business strategy at all.”

The accusation hangs in the air, too close to the truth for comfort.

“Sophie Bellini is a means to an end,” I say firmly.

“Is she? Because I’ve known you for over a decade, Dom. I’ve seen you handle corporate threats, hostile takeovers, and actual business crises. You’ve never once considered marriage as a solution.”

Raff sets his glass down, studying my face. “You could have had her arrested. Publicly exposed. Made an example that would have restored your reputation completely. Hell, you could have just kicked her out and hired better security. But instead, you married her.”

He’s right, and I hate that he’s right.

“This could be a ploy,” he continues. “Maybe she sent that letter herself to throw you off guard, make you paranoid enough to make mistakes.”

“It’s possible,” I admit.

“But you don’t think so.” Raff finishes his drink. “You know what I think? I think somewhere between discovering her lies and taking a bullet for her, you started caring about her.”

I don’t reply, because the honest response would reveal more than I’m ready to admit.

That he’s absolutely right.

After Raff leaves, I sit alone in my office, staring at the threatening letter.

Marriage was the most efficient solution. That’s what I told Raff. That’s what I keep telling myself.

But then why can’t I stop thinking about all the times she’s been in my arms? The hotel room where she challenged me, drunk and defiant, stripping away every wall I’d built.

The wine cellar in Italy, where she called me ruthless before I silenced her with my mouth, our anger turning into something desperate and raw.

And that night after the attack, the way she looked so small in my guest room, her usual fire completely extinguished, asking me to stay like she was afraid I’d say no.

I should have left. Should have posted security outside her door and walked away. Instead, I stayed because seeing her hurt did something to my chest I didn’t want to examine.

Christ. Am I really doing this to protect my reputation? Or because the thought of someone hurting her again makes me want to burn the whole fucking city down to find them?

Either answer is dangerous. But only one of them explains why my hands shake when I think about that text message.

The house is dark when I pull into the driveway, most of the windows showing no signs of life.

***

The house is dark when I pull into the driveway, most of the windows showing no signs of life. It’s nearly midnight—later than I intended to stay at the office, but the office of a CEO is unpredictable on most days. Also, I needed to think, to process the reality of what I’ve done.

Sophie Bellini is my wife.

The thought still feels surreal, like something that happened to someone else. This morning, I was a single man with a house guest problem.

Tonight, I’m legally bound to a woman who would probably slit my throat in my sleep if she thought she could get away with it.

The kitchen light is on when I let myself in through the back door. I expect to find Patrice cleaning up from dinner, but instead I find Sophie.

She’s standing at the counter with her back to me, reaching for something in one of the upper cabinets. The position stretches her arms above her head, pulling her crop top tight across her chest and exposing a strip of smooth skin at her waist.

She’s wearing sleep shorts that barely qualify as clothing and a top that covers even less. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, and her feet are bare against the marble floor.

The sight of her hits me like a freight train.

I should leave. Should turn around and go upstairs before she notices I’m here. But I can’t seem to make my feet move.

“I can feel you staring.”

Her voice cuts through the kitchen like a blade. She doesn’t turn around or stop reaching for whatever she’s trying to grab.

“Just admiring my wife,” I say, surprised by how rough my voice sounds.

“Don’t call me that.”

“It’s what you are now.”

Sophie finally turns to face me, and the impact of seeing her from the front is even worse. The crop top is thin enough to show the outline of her nipples, and the shorts sit low on her hips, revealing the gentle curve of her stomach.

My mouth goes dry.

“I’m your prisoner,” she says. “The ring doesn’t change that.”

I move closer, drawn by something I don’t want to name. Sophie doesn’t back away, but her chin lifts in that familiar gesture of defiance.

“You can put whatever label on this you want,” she continues. “Wife, prisoner, asset. It doesn’t matter because I’ll never be yours.”

She’s right, but not in the way she thinks. The problem isn’t what to do with her. The problem is that I’m standing three feet away from a woman who should be my enemy, and all I can think about is how much I want to press her against the counter and taste the pulse point at her throat.

“You should go to bed,” I say.

“Is that an order from my husband?”

The way she says the word—like it tastes bitter on her tongue—sends heat shooting through my veins.

“It’s a suggestion.”

“I don’t take suggestions from you.”

Sophie moves to walk past me, but the kitchen island forces her to come close. Too close. I catch the scent of her shampoo, which makes me think of the morning after we first slept together.

When she draws level with me, she pauses.

“By the way,” she says without looking at me, “congratulations on your wedding day. I hope you got everything you wanted.”

Then she’s gone, leaving me alone in the kitchen with the echo of her words and the lingering warmth of her presence.

I stand there for a long moment, hands clenched at my sides, fighting the urge to follow her upstairs and finish what we started in that hotel room weeks ago.

Instead, I head for the door.

The bar I choose is deliberately far from my usual haunts.

It’s dark, anonymous, and the kind of place where nobody cares who you are as long as your money is good.

I order whiskey and try not to think about green eyes and defiant smiles.

It doesn’t work.

Every sip brings back the image of Sophie in that kitchen. The way her shorts hugged her hips. The way she said “husband” like it was a curse word.

The way she looked at me was like she wanted to hate me, but couldn’t quite manage it.

I’m on my third drink when the question finally surfaces, the one I’ve been avoiding since I slipped that ring on her finger.

Why am I trying to protect a woman who wants to destroy me?

The logical answer is strategy. Keep your enemies close. Control the variables. But logic doesn’t explain the tightness in my chest when I think about someone hurting her. Logic doesn’t explain why I married her instead of simply eliminating the threat she poses.

Logic doesn’t explain why I’m sitting in a dive bar at one in the morning, drinking away the memory of my wife in pajamas.

Wife.

The word still sounds foreign, even in my own head.

I finish my drink and signal for another, but the bartender is busy with other customers. In the mirror behind the bar, I catch sight of my reflection—rumpled suit, loosened tie, the unmistakable look of a man who’s made a decision he can’t take back.

Twenty-four hours ago, I thought I had Sophie Bellini exactly where I wanted her. Now I’m beginning to wonder who’s really been playing whom.