Page 32 of Ruined By the Enemy
“I’ve told her you won’t be able to join us for Sunday brunch for a while because you have other things to focus on.”
That was the last thing my uncle said to me. His way of saying that I shouldn’t contact him unless it were something serious.
If this isn’t a reason for dropping by unannounced, then I don’t know what is.
***
“Sophie!”
I shift the fragile box of ice cream cake just in time before my aunt pulls me into a warm, crushing hug. Her perfume—something floral and soft—wraps around me like nostalgia. Her hands frame my face when she pulls back, and she grins widely.
“I didn’t think we were going to see you for a while! Your uncle said you were swamped with work. That you wouldn’t be free for brunch anytime soon.”
My smile flickers. He said that?
Interesting.
Because I remember it differently. He was the one who kept me away—said I needed to stay focused, stay sharp, stay out of distractions.
I didn’t mind, not really. But I also didn’t think he’d spin it like I was the one avoiding them.
“Well,” I say with a practiced smile, brushing the unease off, “I’m here now. And I brought your favorite—ice cream cake.”
She gasps, delighted, and kisses my cheek again before taking the box from me. “You’re a darling. Come in. Enzo’s holed up in his office, but I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you.”
“I doubt it,” I mutter, more to myself than to her.
As I walk down the short hallway toward his office, old memories creep through the walls like shadows, faint but permanent. I spent hours in that room, hunched under his gaze, reciting lessons until I bled perfection. I knew his expectations better than I knew myself.
I raise my hand to knock.
“Come in.”
I freeze.
Of course, he knows I’m here. He probably knew the second I left my apartment. I learned—after that trip with Dom—that Enzo Bellini had never stopped keeping tabs on me. Not for a second.
The room is darker than I remember. Dim, like it used to be when I was a child, drowning in grief and commands. He’s by the bookshelf, flipping through spines, his back a wall I’m not allowed to breach.
“I’m assuming you’re here because this couldn’t be handled in an email?”
His tone is mild. Dismissive. Cutting.
“Yes,” I reply, tightly.
“Okay?”
I grit my teeth. Of course, he won’t make this easy.
“One Construction. Mark Ross.” I say. “Domenico Moretti wants to purchase it. I know you’ve had history with them, so I didn’t want to move forward without your sign-off.”
Silence.
Only the thud of books fills the space. Leather spines meeting wood. Over and over.
My lips part—then close again. I wait. He taught me that. Patience and control.
Eventually, he turns to face me. “I had intentions to make an offer, too.”
