Page 34 of Ruined By the Enemy
“You’re right,” I say solemnly. “I made a mistake. But it won’t happen again.”
He sighs, and I feel his hand on my shoulder for a brief moment. It’s not comfort so much as it is a reminder of what I have to do. “Now go,” he says. “Your aunt made more than enough. You can spend the night and leave in the morning.”
With one last glance into the dim room, I leave him standing by his bookshelf. The first time I left my uncle’s house, it was with determination. I was going to bring down the Moretti family, no matter what it took.
Now, I’m not sure where the determination has gone.
Chapter Nine
Dom
My gaze swivels to the door as I bring my glass to my lips and take a sip. The liquid touches my tongue cold and warms as it flows down my throat.
She’s late. I check my watch absentmindedly. Ten minutes late.
Then again, I wouldn’t expect her to be on time… or even show up at all. I’ve thrown two curveballs at her in less than forty-eight hours—the offer for One Construction and now, asking to meet at a seemingly normal restaurant outside work hours.
Except that the restaurant is half-owned by Enzo Bellini, her uncle, who also has long-standing dealings with One Construction.
“Huh,” I murmur. “Maybe she’s not so stubborn after all.” Or determined, either. “Too bad.” In some way, I was really looking forward to seeing how she would handle the project.
The door swings open as I raise a finger to signal for the check. As she walks in, my hand drops like a dead weight, and everything else fades.
She’s in a dress—something simple.
Her hair’s loose tonight, falling over her shoulders like easy waves touching the shore. The lighting near the bar where she stands talking to a uniformed employee catches her earrings—gold, delicate—and for a second, they flash like warning lights.
My eyes drift lower, past the lashes that frame the crinkles around her eyes, to the deep red that makes it impossible to look anywhere but her lips.
And I don’t. Not until she spots me from across the room. Her mouth curves into a half-smile, her gaze straight on me as she mutters something to the server. Then she takes off, walking towards my table with her hips swinging with every step.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she murmurs. I’m unsure if it’s the lighting or the soft jazz in the air, but her voice slides through the air like honey over smoke, smooth, sultry, and seamless. “I had something to attend to, and it ran longer than expected.”
“It’s outside work hours.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. It’s rougher, scraping the corners of my throat. “I didn’t expect you to be on time.” I didn’t expect her to still have an effect on me, either, but my mind is painted red, and it’s taking all of my willpower not to focus on the way she lowers herself into the chair, one ankle crossed high over the other.
“Still,” she says, lifting one shoulder in that elegant little shrug that makes restraint feel like punishment, “you gave me a deadline, and I failed to report to you yesterday.”
She sighs—loud enough to be dramatic, soft enough to feel like silk over skin—and leans forward.
The neckline of her dress dips low. Not scandalous or desperate. Just enough to remind me of what’s underneath. And worse yet, what it feels like.
Who would’ve thought knowledge could be this close to torture?
I reach subtly for my shirt collar, tugging on it to breathe better. Sophie’s not flirting with me. She’s playing mind games, one syllable, one glance, one slow, impossible inhale at a time.
And the sick part?
A small part of me wonders what it’d feel like to let her. To do the one thing nobody else has ever done—take control from my hands.
But that part gets buried faster than it can take root. “So?” I ask, stifling the urge. “What is your report?”
The imperceptible smugness falls off, replaced by a look of regret. “Making a play for One Construction at this time is a wrong move. The company is falling apart, literally, from the inside. The contracts that put them on the map were completed by outside agencies, real construction firms who signed under the table to make it look like One Construction was capable.”
She tuts, resting her arm on the table. Her eyes gleam with something too vague to pin. “They just took a cut and slapped their name on it.”
Her voice is steady, and her tone is serious, like she did thorough research. Only I know it’s a lie. It’s not like Blackwater, where I was convinced of what the public knew.
I knew she would pull something like this, so I had Rodrigo dig into it. I wasn’t surprised when he said that One Construction and Enzo Bellini signed a five-year contract just yesterday.
