Page 7 of Claimed by the Enemy (Moretti Bratva #2)

Chapter Seven

Dom

“ S o the Shanghai deal is moving forward then?” Giuseppe Torrino leans in closer, lowering his voice despite the ambient noise of conversation around us. “Huang’s people are satisfied with the terms?”

I take a sip of my whiskey, keeping my expression neutral. “Huang’s satisfied with the profit projections. His concerns about market volatility have been addressed through the structured timeline we proposed.”

“Smart approach.” Torrino nods approvingly. “Gradual market entry reduces risk exposure while maintaining growth potential.”

“Exactly. By the time we’re at full operational capacity, we’ll have established supply chain relationships and consumer confidence.

” I pause, glancing around the room. Sophie is somewhere behind me, probably still at the bar where I left her.

“Huang appreciates long-term thinking over quick returns.”

“Unlike some of our American partners,” adds Marco Velasquez, joining our circle with a fresh drink. “They want everything yesterday.”

“Americans think quarterly,” I reply. “We think in decades.”

“Speaking of thinking long-term,” Torrino’s voice takes on a different quality, more careful, “your announcement tonight was quite… unexpected.”

Here it comes. I’ve been waiting for this conversation since I introduced Sophie. “Unexpected how?”

“Bellini,” Velasquez says the name like he’s tasting something bitter. “Dom, we’ve known each other for fifteen years. Our families have done business together longer than that. So when you marry into a family that…”

“That what?” I keep my tone conversational, but there’s steel underneath.

“That tried to destroy your father’s legacy,” Torrino finishes quietly. “People are going to have questions.”

“People always have questions.” I drain my whiskey, signaling a waiter for another. “Doesn’t mean I’m obligated to answer them.”

“But you understand why we’re concerned,” Velasquez presses. “The Bellini name carries weight. History. Not all of it is pleasant.”

“History,” I repeat. “Something that happened when we were children.”

“Something that got your parents killed,” Torrino corrects sharply.

A muscle in my jaw ticks. “My parents died in Italy. The circumstances were… complicated.”

“Complicated.” Velasquez laughs, stiff and mechanical. “Dom, your father came to me three weeks before he died. He was convinced someone in his inner circle was feeding information to competitors. Someone he trusted completely.”

This is news to me. “And?”

“He suspected Marco Bellini had been compromised. Maybe not willingly, but compromised nonetheless.” Torrino leans closer. “The fire that killed your mother, the attack on your father afterward… these weren’t random acts of violence.”

“You think I don’t know that?” My voice drops lower, more dangerous. “You think I’ve spent the last sixteen years oblivious to who was responsible?”

“Then why marry her?” Velasquez gestures toward where Sophie was standing. “Unless…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but I can see the calculation in his eyes, unless it’s revenge. Unless I’m playing a longer game than anyone realizes.

“My marriage is my business,” I say firmly. “Just as your marriages are yours.”

Another waiter appears with my whiskey. I accept it gratefully, needing the burn to focus my thoughts.

“Gentlemen,” I say carefully, “I appreciate your concern. But Sophie is my wife now. She’s under my protection, which means she’s under the protection of everyone in this room. I trust that’s understood.”

“Of course,” Torrino says quickly. “We’re not questioning your judgment, Dom. We’re just…”

“Worried,” Velasquez finishes. “About what this means for business. For relationships we’ve built over decades.”

“Nothing changes,” I assure them. “Sophie’s past is irrelevant to our future dealings.”

“Is it?” Torrino asks. “Because there are people in this room who remember what the Bellini family was accused of. Who remembers the bodies that turned up after your father’s funeral?”

“Ancient history.”

“Not to everyone.”

A burst of laughter draws my attention, and I turn instinctively toward the sound. Sophie’s laugh, bright and genuine, cut through the serious atmosphere of our conversation.

But she’s not at the bar anymore.

I scan the room, finding her near the piano. She’s talking to someone, her head tilted back slightly as she laughs again. A man, tall and dark-haired, standing closer to her than necessary.

“Who’s that?” I ask, nodding toward them.

Torrino follows my gaze. “No idea. Someone’s guest, probably.”

The man says something that makes Sophie smile, and she touches his arm. Casual, friendly. Nothing inappropriate.

So why does it feel like someone just punched me in the gut?

“Dom?” Velasquez is saying. “You were telling us about the Huang timeline.”

“Right.” I force myself to look away from Sophie, to focus on the conversation. “Huang wants to see preliminary results by Q3 next year. If the numbers meet projections, we move to phase two immediately.”

“And if they don’t?”

“They will.” I glance back toward the piano. Sophie and her companion have moved closer to the window.

“You seem distracted,” Torrino observes.

“Just keeping an eye on things.”

“On your wife, you mean.”

I don’t respond to that. Instead, I ask, “What’s the latest on the Rotterdam shipping situation?”

Velasquez looks relieved to change subjects. “Better than expected. The dock workers’ union reached an agreement last week. No more delays.”

“Good. That was costing us two percent profit margin.”

“About time someone stood up to them,” Torrino adds. “These unions think they can hold entire industries hostage.”

“Sometimes pressure is necessary to reach reasonable terms,” I reply absently. Sophie has disappeared from view now, blocked by other guests. “Negotiation requires leverage.”

“Speaking of leverage,” Velasquez says, “have you given any thought to the Marseille opportunity?”

“What about it?”

“The port authority is looking for new partners. With your connections in Asia and our Mediterranean network…”

“We could corner the luxury goods market between Shanghai and southern Europe,” I finish. “Interesting.”

“Very profitable, if we move quickly. But it would require significant upfront investment.”

“How significant?”

“Fifty million euros, minimum.”

I whistle low. “That’s not pocket change.”

“No, but the return potential is enormous. We’re talking about a twenty-year exclusive contract.”

“Twenty years is a long time to commit to anything.”

“It’s also long enough to build something that lasts,” Torrino points out. “Your father understood the value of long-term commitments.”

“My father also understood the danger of putting all your eggs in one basket.”

“This isn’t one basket, Dom. This is an entire market sector. We need an answer soon. The port authority won’t wait forever.”

“Give me the detailed projections. I’ll review them next week.”

“Next week might be too late.”

“Then get me the numbers tomorrow.”

My tone is sharper than intended, and both men notice. Velasquez exchanges a look with Torrino.

“Everything alright?” Velasquez asks.

“Fine. Just tired.”

“Maybe you should find your wife,” Torrino suggests. “Make sure she’s… settling in well.”

The suggestion irritates me more than it should. “Sophie can take care of herself.”

“I’m sure she can. But you know how people talk.”

“Dom.” Velasquez’s voice carries a warning. “You’ve made a bold statement tonight. Everyone in this room is watching to see how you handle it.”

“Handle what?”

“Being married to a Bellini.”

The conversation is interrupted by movement near the terrace doors. Couples are moving toward what looks like an impromptu dance floor that’s been cleared in the adjoining room. The pianist has switched from background music to something more rhythmic.

And there she is.

Sophie, dancing with the tall stranger. His hand rests on the small of her back, guiding her through a slow turn. She’s smiling up at him, saying something that makes him laugh.

My hands clench into fists at my sides.

“Ah,” Torrino says, following my gaze. “There she is.”

“Beautiful woman,” Velasquez adds. “You’re a lucky man.”

Lucky. Right.

I watch as the stranger leans down to whisper something in Sophie’s ear. She tilts her head to hear him better, bringing them closer together. Too close.

“Dom?” Velasquez is discussing shipping schedules, but I’m no longer listening.

Sophie’s dress moves like liquid as she follows her partner’s lead. The midnight blue silk catches the light, making her skin glow. She looks radiant. Happy.

Happy dancing with another man.

“Excuse me,” I say abruptly, starting toward the dance floor.

“Dom, wait,” Torrino calls. “We’re not finished discussing Marseille.”

I stop, forcing myself to turn back. “Later.”

“But-”

“I said later.”

Both men fall silent, and I realize my voice carried more edge than I intended. Around us, other conversations have paused. People are staring.

Perfect. Nothing like making a scene at my own party.

I take a deep breath, forcing my expression back to neutral. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me. I should check on my guests.”

“Of course,” Velasquez says carefully. “We’ll continue this conversation tomorrow.”

I nod and walk away, but not toward the dance floor. Instead, I head for the bar, needing distance and alcohol in equal measure.

“Whiskey,” I tell the bartender. “Double.”

From this angle, I have a clear view of the dancing. Sophie and her partner have moved into a more complex pattern, something that requires coordination and trust. She follows his lead perfectly, like they’ve done this before.

I set down the empty glass and finally, finally allow myself to walk toward the dance floor.

But I don’t interrupt. I don’t cut in or make a scene or do any of the possessive, territorial things my instincts are screaming at me to do.

Instead, I stand at the edge of the dancing area and watch my wife smile at another man.

And I don’t say anything to her at all.