Page 5 of Claimed By the Enemy
“Dom, wait—”
“You’re not leaving this house, Sophie. Don’t test me on this.”
I’m almost to the door when she calls out again.
“What if I did have proof? What if there were things you didn’t know about your father?”
I pause, my hand on the doorknob. “Then I’d say you’re even more naive than I thought.”
***
My secretary has already arranged the morning correspondence on my desk by the time I arrive. The usual stack of business letters, invoices, and industry publications. I’m reaching for my coffee when something catches my eye.
A plain white envelope sits among the pile. It’s different from the rest, with no company letterhead and no return address. Just my name typed across the front in block letters.
I pick it up, turning it over in my hands. The paper feels cheap, nothing like the expensive stationery that usually crosses my desk.
I should call security. Protocol dictates that any suspicious mail gets handled by professionals before it reaches me. But something about the careful anonymity makes me slice it open myself.
The paper inside is just as plain. A single paragraph, typed in the same block letters.
I’m coming to finish what happened between the Bellinis and Morettis. Both families will pay for what they’ve done.
My blood goes cold. I read it again, then a third time, but the words don’t change.
Someone knows about Sophie. Someone knows she’s in my house, under my protection.
Or someone wants me to think they know.
I’m still staring at the letter, mind racing through possibilities, when Raff appears in my doorway.
“Morning, sunshine,” he says, dropping into the chair across from my desk. “You look like someone who’s been having very interesting conversations with house guests.”
I slide the letter into my desk drawer with what I hope appears to be casual indifference. “Just reviewing some correspondence.”
Raff’s eyes narrow. “Correspondence that requires hiding the moment I walk in?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Dom.” He leans forward, suddenly serious. “We’ve been friends for over a decade. I know when you’re keeping something from me, and right now you’re practically vibrating with secrets.”
Before I can respond, my secretary’s voice comes through the intercom. “Mr. Moretti? Mr. Caruso is here to see you.”
Giuseppe Caruso. My father’s old associate, though calling him a friend would be generous. He’s the kind of man who trades in favors and information, who builds his power through carefully cultivated debts and strategic alliances.
“Send him in,” I say, already regretting the decision.
Raff glances between me and the door. “Should I go?”
“No. Stay.”
Caruso enters like he owns the place, all expensive suits and practiced charm. He’s aged since I last saw him, silver threading through his dark hair, but his eyes are as sharp as ever.
“Domenico,” he says, extending a hand. “You look well.”
“Giuseppe.” I shake his hand briefly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Can’t an old friend visit without ulterior motives?” He settles into the chair beside Raff without being invited. “Although, now that you mention it, there have been some concerning rumors circulating.”
