Page 38 of Ruined By the Enemy
Amara picks up my phone and scrolls. “You already RSVP’d?”
I nod, defeated. “Yeah. I got the invite yesterday morning. But I forgot.”
I was too busy cleaning up after myself, so I wouldn’t leave any holes, and process it. I told myself I’d get back to it, but I must’ve accidentally scheduled the forward for the wrong time.
She whistles. “Well, damn. You’re not just missing any party. This is the party. The crème de la crème. One percent of the one percent. Morettis, Washingtons, maybe that guy who was just named the hottest criminal lawyer in New York—”
She tosses my phone on the bed and gives me a pointed look. “You can’t say no.”
“Even if I wanted to,” I mutter, sinking onto the edge of the bed, “I couldn’t. Either my boss sees it as a reason to fire me…”
Or I miss a chance to gain the upper hand. I leave the rest unsaid.
Amara crosses her arms. “All the more reason to go shopping.”
“Nope,” I shake my head. “I’ll show up, but I’m not putting on a show. I’m not dressing up to impress a self-absorbed narcissist who probably invited me to keep me in check.”
She raises a brow—the look that says, “You have no idea what you’re walking into. “That’s who your boss is? Why are you working for him then?” I don’t have an answer, and she doesn’t wait for one either.
“Maybe this will be an opportunity to find another job. You could impress one of the big names.” Then she rattles off the names again. “The Morettis, the Washingtons, that lawyer guy, the Bellinis, the—”
I stop breathing. I didn’t catch them the first time. Or rather, it.
Bellinis?
“Wait—” I grab her arm. “The Bellinis? As in Enzo Bellini?”
She shrugs. “I mean… It’s possible. I checked online. The event’s always buzzing. A lot of those families show up every year. It’s like their playground.”
Blood drains from my face. Because if my uncle shows up and I’m there—shit. I’m confident I can work the crowd, but Enzo’s not the kind of man you can sneak anything past.
He’ll see it—the pulse in my stomach, the flutter in my chest. And even if he doesn’t show up, I might run into someone who knows me—someone who knows my family history, and my disguise will go up in flames.
“No,” I step back, shaking my head firmly. My voice is hoarse as I back myself against the wall. I press myself into it, as if I can vanish into the paint. “I can’t. I can’t do this.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Amara coos, wrapping her arms around me before I can process what’s happening. “I know it’s short notice and you’re used to planning everything three steps ahead, but you’ve got me. There’s no way I’m letting you show up unprepared.”
I blink, trying to catch up. “W-what?”
She pulls back, smiling like she’s solved a crisis. “You’re worried you won’t blend in, aren’t you? That they’ll sniff you out as not one of them.” She squeezes my arms. “It’s just nerves. Totally normal when you’re about to be in the same room as people like that.”
People like that.
My stomach tightens.
“I mean, Domenico Moretti?” she goes on, oblivious. “The Bellini family? I know they keep a low profile, but I’ve read they still control a lot of business under the radar. Generational wealth. Legacy. That kind of pressure could rattle anyone.”
My mouth is dry.
I nod—barely. Because I can’t laugh, or cry, or correct her.
I am one of them. And if she knew? If anyone at that party knew? I’d stop being Sophie Greco the moment I stepped through the door.
No more second chances or slow plays. Everything I’ve spent years planning will be burned to ash over one stupid party.
I run a hand down my face, breathing hard through my nose. Then I turn to Amara, my voice tight and too calm for how loud my heart is beating.
“What’s the best way to turn down an invite,” I ask, “without getting fired?”
