Page 5 of Claimed by the Enemy (Moretti Bratva #2)

Chapter Five

Sophie

M arriage changes nothing.

But the ring on my finger says otherwise. Plain platinum band, elegant in its simplicity, and completely wrong on my hand.

I’ve tried taking it off twice already, but each time I remember Dom’s threat about my aunt and uncle, and it stays put.

Insurance policy. That’s all this marriage is.

Still, insurance policies can be cancelled.

I need to contact Uncle Enzo, warn him that Dom knows their location. But using my phone is out of the question. Dom probably has it monitored by now, if he didn’t before. The house phone is equally risky.

Which leaves me with limited options.

Patrice is in the kitchen when I wander downstairs, softly as she prepares an enormous spread of food.

She glances up when I enter, offering that same warm smile she’s given me since the day I arrived here.

“Good morning, Mrs. Moretti. Can I get you some breakfast?”

Mrs. Moretti. The name sits like acid on my tongue.

“Just coffee,” I say, settling onto one of the barstools.

“Of course.” She pours me a cup from the fresh pot, steam rising in lazy spirals. “Mr. Domenico left early this morning.”

Good. Fewer interruptions.

I sip my coffee and watch Patrice work, timing her movements. Her phone sits beside the sink, screen lighting up occasionally.

“Patrice,” I say when she moves to the pantry, “could you show me where you keep the good china?”

It gets her out of the kitchen long enough for me to grab her phone.

Uncle Enzo’s number is burned into my memory. I type quickly, keeping one eye on the pantry door.

They know where you live. It isn’t safe anymore. Move. Now. - S

I delete the message from the sent folder and place the phone back exactly where I found it, pulse hammering as Patrice returns.

“Beautiful pieces,” I say. “Dom’s mother’s?”

“His grandmother’s, actually.”

I finish my coffee, as my mind moves to the next phase.

***

Raffaele shows up three days later, appearing at the front door with that easy smile and casual confidence I remember from our first meeting. But there’s something different in his eyes today.

“Sophie,” he says when Patrice shows him to the living room. “Dom asked me to check if you needed to go anywhere today.”

“Did he?” I set down my book. “And what exactly did he tell you about why I might need a chaperone?”

Raff shifts slightly, and I can see him choosing his words carefully. “Just that you might want to get out for a while.”

I stand up, studying his face. This man has been Dom’s best friend for over a decade. He knows things. “How long have you known what kind of man Dom really is?”

“What do you mean?”

“His father was a killer, Raff. Has Dom ever mentioned that to you?”

Something flickers across his expression—genuine confusion mixed with discomfort. “Sophie, I think there might be some misunderstanding. Dom told me recently about some… complications with your situation, but-”

“Complications.” A laugh escapes me, too dry to mean anything. “That’s what you call it.”

“I don’t know the details,” he says quietly. “Dom doesn’t share everything, not even with me.”

I can see he’s telling the truth, which somehow makes it worse. Dom’s own best friend doesn’t know what he’s capable of.

“I need to get out of here,” I say, reaching for my phone. “And I need a drink.”

I dial Amara’s number. It rings twice before she picks up.

“Sophie? God! Girl, where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you for days, and your phone keeps going straight to voicemail.”

“I know, I’m sorry. It’s been… complicated. Are you free right now? I need to see you.”

“Complicated?” Amara’s voice sharpens. “Sophie, you disappeared after telling me you quit your job and slept with your new boss. Now you’ve been radio silent for days. What the hell is going on?”

“I can’t explain over the phone. I will be after several drinks. Can you be ready in half an hour? I’m coming to pick you up.”

“You’re scaring me, but yes, I’ll be ready.”

“Okay. I’ll see you soon,” I hang up and turn to Raff. “I’ll be ready in a minute.”

In my room, I change into a black cocktail dress that makes me feel like I can take on the world.

It’s fitted, elegant, and completely inappropriate for day drinking, which makes it perfect for my mood.

I check my reflection, noting how the platinum wedding band catches the light on my finger. I can’t take it off.

I grab a leather jacket and my purse, then head back downstairs where Raff is waiting by the door.

“Ready?” he asks, taking in my outfit with raised eyebrows.

“More than ready.”

In the car, I give him Amara’s address. “It’s downtown, near the art district. The building with the red awning.”

“Got it.”

The drive takes about twenty minutes through afternoon traffic. I spend most of it staring out the window, trying to figure out what I’m going to tell Amara. The truth? Some version of it? Another lie to add to the growing pile?

When we pull up outside Amara’s building, she’s already waiting on the front steps.

She looks exactly the same as always - wild curly hair barely contained in a messy bun, paint-stained jeans, and an oversized cardigan that’s seen better days.

She’s been my anchor since college, the one person who knew me before Uncle Enzo’s mission became my entire identity.

Seeing her now, after everything that’s happened, makes my chest tight with something that might be homesickness.

She slides into the backseat, and I immediately join her, leaving Raff alone in the front.

“Okay, first question,” she says before I can even buckle my seatbelt. “Since when do you have a personal driver? And second question, why do you look like you’re about to either seduce someone or commit murder?”

“The driver isn’t mine. He’s…” I glance at Raff in the rearview mirror. “Complicated.”

“I’m not a driver,” Raff says with amusement. “I’m a friend of Sophie’s husband.”

“Sophie’s WHAT?” Amara’s voice rises several octaves.

“Amara, meet Raff. Raff, this is my best friend, Amara.” I buckle my seat belt and try to pretend this is a normal introduction. “And yes, before you ask, husband is apparently the correct term now.”

Amara stares at me for a long moment, then grabs my left hand and examines it like she’s conducting a scientific investigation.

“Is that an actual wedding band?” she asks, running her thumb over the platinum. “Sophie, this is real. When did you get married? To who? And why wasn’t I invited?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Stop saying that! Everything can’t be complicated.” She looks between me and Raff like she’s trying to solve a puzzle. “How long have I been out of the loop? A week? Two weeks?”

“About that long,” I admit.

“Jesus Christ, Sophie. I leave you alone for two weeks, and you get married to someone with a driver and expensive jewelry?”

“Again, not a driver,” Raff corrects.

Amara’s still holding my hand, staring at the ring. “Please tell me this isn’t some Vegas situation where you woke up with a hangover and a marriage certificate.”

“It’s not Vegas.”

“Okay, good. That’s something, I guess.” She finally releases my hand and sits back. “So who’s the lucky guy?”

I catch Raff’s eyes in the mirror again. He’s listening to every word.

“I married Domenico.”

“You married DOMENICO?” Amara’s voice is flat. “The boss you slept with? Sophie, you’ve known him for what, a month?”

“Something like that.”

“Also, you called me for emergency drinks instead of telling me you got married. So either this is the worst honeymoon in history, or something is very wrong.”

“Where to, ladies?” Raff asks from the front seat before I can reply to Amara.

“Somewhere with strong drinks and dim lighting,” Amara says. “I have a feeling we’re going to need both.”

“I know just the place,” he replies, pulling away from the curb.

“So,” Amara says, settling back into her seat, “married to your boss. Start from the beginning and don’t leave anything out.”

I look out the window at the city passing by, trying to figure out where to even begin.

“I need a drink first.”

***

Two bars and four drinks later, I’m finally starting to feel human again. Amara has been plying me with alcohol and carefully neutral conversation.

Raff sits at the other end of the bar, nursing a single beer and checking his phone.

“So,” Amara says, signaling the bartender for another round, “want to tell me about him?”

“Who?”

“Your husband. Sophie, this is crazy. This is completely insane. You don’t marry your boss after knowing him for a few weeks.”

“Don’t I?”

“No! You don’t!” She leans closer, lowering her voice. “Is he threatening you? Because if someone’s making you do this against your will-”

“Nobody’s making me do anything.” The lie comes easier now, with alcohol smoothing the edges. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”

“Bullshit.” Amara leans back, studying my face. “Sophie, I’ve known you since college. You don’t do impulsive. You don’t marry your boss after a month. And you definitely don’t ghost your best friend unless something is seriously wrong.”

I laugh, surprising myself. “You always could see right through me.”

“It’s a gift.” Amara’s expression remains serious. “So I’m going to ask you one more time, and I want the truth. Are you safe? Are you happy? Or do I need to help you get out of whatever this is?”

For a moment, I’m tempted to tell her everything about Uncle Enzo, the mission, and the years of training that led me to Dom’s office. About the threats and the marriage and the way my husband looks at me like he can’t decide whether to kiss me or kill me.

But then I remember that knowledge is dangerous. That the less Amara knows, the safer she is.

“I made some choices,” I say finally. “Good choices, bad choices, I’m not sure yet. But they’re mine.”

***

Dom is waiting for me when I stumble through the front door at nearly midnight. He’s sitting in the living room like some dark prince holding court, still wearing his suit from whatever meetings kept him busy all day.

“Late night,” he observes.

“Freedom of movement.” I kick off my heels, enjoying the way they clatter against the marble floor. “Remember that concept?”

“I remember you being drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.” I am definitely drunk, but admitting it feels like giving him ammunition. “I’m relaxed.”

“Raff said you insisted on staying when he tried to bring you home hours ago,” Dom says sharply, standing to block my path to the stairs.

“So?” I laugh, the sound coming out looser than I intended. “What does it matter? I’m here now, aren’t I?”

The alcohol has loosened something in me, stripped away the careful walls I usually keep up around him. When I look at Dom now, I don’t just see the enemy. I see the sharp line of his jaw, the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders, the darkness in his eyes that makes my stomach flip.

“God, you’re handsome,” I say before I can stop myself, reaching up to touch his face. “Why do you have to be so handsome? It’s not fair.”

Dom goes very still under my touch. “Sophie…”

“I should hate you,” I whisper, my thumb tracing along his cheekbone. “I’m supposed to hate you. But I can’t, and I don’t know why.”

He catches my hand, holding it against his face. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m honest.” I step closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. “For once in my life, I’m being completely honest.”

“Sophie, we can’t—”

“Can’t what?” I’m looking at his mouth now, at the way his lips part slightly when he breathes. “Can’t admit that there’s something between us? Can’t stop pretending that we don’t want each other?”

Dom’s other hand comes up to frame my face, his thumb brushing across my bottom lip. “This is a mistake.”

“Probably.”

“You’ll regret it tomorrow.”

“Maybe.”

We’re so close now that I can count his eyelashes, can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. All I have to do is lean forward, just a little.

And then his mouth is on mine, and I’m lost.

My arms wind around his neck without my permission, my body melting against his like it recognizes something my mind refuses to accept.

This is what I’ve been fighting. Not just Dom, but this. This connection that has nothing to do with family histories or corporate vendettas or the ring on my finger.

It lasts only, maybe, thirty seconds.

Dom pulls back abruptly, dropping his hands and stepping away.

“Go to bed, Sophie,” he says quietly. “Sleep this off.”

The rejection stings more than it should. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly feeling cold and exposed.

“Right,” I say, trying to salvage what’s left of my dignity. “Of course.”

I turn and walk up the stairs without looking back, but I can feel his eyes on me the entire way.