Page 6 of Claimed by the Enemy (Moretti Bratva #2)

Chapter Six

Sophie

S unlight slices through the curtains like a knife, and I groan, pressing my face deeper into the pillow. My head feels like someone took a sledgehammer to it, but that’s not the worst part.

No, the worst part is that I remember everything.

Every word I said to Dom last night. Every breath between us before that kiss. Every moment of weakness where I admitted that I want him despite everything logic and sixteen years of training tell me.

“I shouldn’t want this. Shouldn’t want you.”

Christ. I actually said that. Out loud. To his face.

I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling while shame burns through my chest. Years of careful planning, and I let a few drinks and some heated words unravel everything.

Uncle Enzo would be disappointed. All those years of training, of drilling into my head that emotions were weakness, that the mission came before everything else. And here I am, married to the enemy and confessing my attraction to him like some lovesick teenager.

“Fuck,” I mutter, throwing an arm over my eyes.

I can’t afford to forget who he is, what his family did to mine. The ring on my finger might be real, but everything else about this marriage is a lie designed to serve his purposes, not mine.

A soft knock interrupts my self-loathing session. “Come in.”

Patrice enters with her usual morning smile, though there’s something careful about her expression today. “Good morning, Mrs. Moretti. I have coffee and some messages from Mr. Domenico.”

I sit up, accepting the coffee gratefully. “Let me guess. More rules for his prisoner wife?”

“Actually…” Patrice reaches into her apron and produces a sleek black credit card. “He wanted you to have this. For shopping.”

I take the card, turning it over in my hands. No limit listed, which probably means it doesn’t have one. “Shopping for what?”

“Mr. Domenico is hosting an event here tonight”. A small gathering of his business associates and friends.” Patrice’s voice grows more cautious. “He thought you might need something appropriate to wear.”

An event. Tonight. In the house. With zero advance notice.

Of course. This is exactly what Dom does—pulls these impromptu moves designed to throw me off balance.

When I worked for him, it was business trips with impossible deadlines, surprise meetings with dangerous contacts.

Now it’s last-minute social events where I’ll be paraded around like a prize he’s won.

“He also said to remind you…” Patrice hesitates, clearly uncomfortable with whatever she’s about to relay.

“What?”

“That you should remember what will happen if you try to run away.”

Ice floods my veins.

“Of course he did.” I drain half the coffee in one burning gulp. “And the driver?”

“At your disposal all day.”

I study Patrice’s face, seeing genuine sympathy there. She knows this isn’t a normal marriage, even if she doesn’t understand the full scope of the dysfunction.

“Well then,” I say, setting down the empty cup with deliberate calm. “I suppose I should go shopping.”

If Dom thinks he can control me with credit cards and threats, he’s about to learn otherwise.

***

“He wants you to what?”

Amara’s voice carries across the boutique, causing several other customers to turn and stare. I grab her arm, pulling her toward a rack of evening gowns in the back corner.

“Keep your voice down,” I hiss. “And yes, he wants me to attend some business function tonight. With his friends.”

“Business function.” Amara picks up a price tag and nearly chokes. “Sophie, this dress costs more than my rent.”

“Good. I hope it bankrupts him.”

“It won’t. You know it won’t.” She gives me a searching look. “This isn’t about the money, is it? You’re angry.”

“I’m always angry.”

“This is different. What happened between you two?”

I turn away, focusing on the clothes instead of her too-perceptive questions. “Nothing happened. He’s just being his usual controlling self.”

“Uh-huh.” Amara doesn’t sound convinced. “Sophie, you’ve been weird since you got married. First, you disappear for days, then you call me for emergency drinks, and now your husband is making you play dress-up for his business friends? What the hell is really going on? Is he trafficking you?”

A burst of laughter escapes my lips. “Trafficking? Like, he’s some kind of mafia lord or something?”

“Well, he does look intimidating,” she shrugs.

“I’m not being trafficked—or treated badly for that matter.”

“Fine,” she pulls a stunning midnight blue dress from the rack. “If you insist.”

“Gosh, that’s a beautiful dress. You’ve always had the eyes for fashion, Amara.”

Two hours later, we’ve assembled what Amara calls “an arsenal of feminine warfare.” Dress that hugs every curve, shoes that add four inches to my height, jewelry that catches light like captured stars. Even new lingerie, because the confidence of knowing you look perfect starts from the skin up.

Standing in the dressing room, pulling on the midnight blue silk, I catch myself remembering another shopping trip from another lifetime.

I was seven, maybe eight, clinging to my mother’s hand as she led me through the boutiques in Milan. “Una principessa,” she’d called me, smoothing down my dark hair. “My little princess deserves beautiful things.”

My father had protested the expense. “Aurora,” he’d said, his voice warm with affection, “she’ll think money grows on trees.”

“Let her think it,” my mother had replied, spinning me around in a pale pink dress that made me feel like a fairy tale. “There’s time enough for her to learn about the real world later.”

But later came too soon. The real world crashed down when I was ten, taking my parents and my innocence with it.

“You look…” Amara trails off as I step out of the dressing room.

“Dangerous.” She grins. “I like it.”

So do I. For the first time since this whole nightmare began, I feel like myself again. Not Sophie Greco, the corporate lawyer with a secret agenda. Not Sophie Moretti, the reluctant wife with no options.

Just Sophie. Sharp-edged and beautiful and ready for war.

***

Dom’s house is already filled with the low murmur of conversation when I make my entrance.

I’ve timed it perfectly—late enough that everyone’s already arrived, early enough that the evening is just getting started.

I pause at the top of the stairs, letting the moment stretch. Below me, I can see Dom near the bar, deep in conversation with a group of men in expensive suits. He looks up as if he can sense my presence, and I watch his face change.

Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t this.

I descend slowly, letting my hand trail along the banister, aware that every eye in the room has turned to me. Conversations pause mid-sentence. Someone’s whiskey glass stops halfway to their lips.

Perfect.

Dom excuses himself from his group and crosses the room to meet me at the bottom of the stairs. His eyes never leave mine, but I can see the way his gaze wants to drift lower, to take in the full effect of what his money bought.

“Sophie.” His voice is carefully neutral. “You look…”

“Like your wife?” I smile, all teeth and sharp edges. “That was the goal, wasn’t it?”

Something flickers across his expression - too quick to read, but it might have been heat. “There are some people I’d like you to meet.”

“I’m sure there are.”

He places his hand on the small of my back, guiding me toward the center of the room where the largest group has gathered. I can feel the warmth of his palm through the silk of my dress, and I hate that my body responds to even that simple touch.

“Everyone,” Dom says, his voice carrying easily across the space. “I’d like you to meet my wife.”

Here it comes. I brace myself for the introduction, for the careful way he’ll present me as Sophie Greco, successful lawyer, normal woman with a normal background.

“Sophie Bellini,” he continues, and my blood turns to ice. “Now Sophie Moretti.”

Silence falls like a curtain. I can feel the shock ripple through the room, see recognition dawn on several faces. These people know that name. Know what it means.

“Bellini,” someone whispers, and the sound carries in the sudden quiet.

I lift my chin higher, meeting each stare with defiant grace. If Dom wants to play this game, fine. But I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.

“Lovely to meet you all,” I say, my voice steady and warm. “I’ve heard so much about Dom’s friends.”

Conversations restart slowly, people processing this bombshell while trying to maintain social niceties. I can see the speculation in their eyes, the questions they’re dying to ask.

Dom leans close, his breath warm against my ear. “Smile, sweetheart. You’re representing the family now.”

“Your family,” I correct quietly. “I’m just visiting.”

He laughs, the sound low and intimate despite the audience around us. “We’ll see.”

Then he’s moving away, pulled into another conversation, leaving me alone in a room full of people who now know exactly who I am.

I could panic. Could excuse myself and hide until this nightmare ends.

I head for the bar setup in the corner, where one of the hired servers is managing drinks.

“Whiskey,” I tell the server. “A double, please.”

“Rough night?”

I turn to find a man watching me with obvious interest. He’s beautiful in that almost-too-perfect way - sculpted cheekbones, dark hair, and eyes the color of espresso.

And when he speaks, his accent makes my knees weak.

Italian. Rich and warm like honey over gravel.

“You could say that,” I reply, accepting my drink. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

“Marco Santini.” He extends his hand, and when I shake it, he holds on just a moment longer than necessary. “And you’re the famous Sophie Bellini.”

“Infamous, more like.”

“I prefer famous.” His smile is pure sin. “That was quite an entrance Dom orchestrated for you.”

“Dom has a flair for the dramatic.”

“Among other things.” Marco moves closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne - something expensive and distinctly masculine. “Tell me, how does someone like you end up married to someone like him?”

“Someone like me?”

“Beautiful. Intelligent. Far too good for a man who introduces his wife like she’s a business acquisition.”

I laugh, surprised by his directness. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough.” His hand touches my arm, fingers trailing along the silk of my sleeve. “I know you’re not happy. I know you’re here because you have to be, not because you want to be.”

“And what makes you think that?”

“The way you’re gripping that glass like it’s a weapon. The way you keep scanning the room like you’re looking for exits.” His thumb brushes against my wrist. “The way you haven’t once looked in your husband’s direction since he walked away.”

He’s observant. Dangerous in his own way.

But right now, with Dom’s revelation still burning in my chest and the weight of hostile stares pressing down on me, dangerous feels exactly like what I need.