Page 38 of Claimed By the Enemy
“Home. Why?”
“Feel like going out? It’s Friday night.”
There’s a pause. “Going out? Dom, it’s almost ten o’clock.”
“So?”
“So you haven’t voluntarily gone out on a Friday night in… well, ever.”
“Maybe it’s time I started.”
“What’s going on? You sound weird.”
“I sound like a man who needs a drink and some distraction. You in or not?”
Another pause. “Yeah, alright. Where do you want to go?”
“Somewhere with pool tables. And loud music.”
“Pool tables? Who are you and what have you done with Domenico Moretti?”
“Just meet me at Murphy’s in twenty minutes.”
***
Murphy’s is exactly what I need—dark, noisy, and filled with people who don’t know or care who I am. Raff finds me at a corner table, already nursing my fourth whiskey of the night.
“Jesus, Dom. How much have you had?”
“Not enough.”
Raff signals the waitress for a beer and settles across from me. “Want to tell me what’s really going on?”
“Nothing’s going on. Can’t a man drink with his best friend without it being a federal case?”
“Not when that man is you. And not when he looks like he’s trying to drown something.”
I down the rest of my whiskey and stand up. “Come on. Let’s play some pool.”
The table in the back corner is free, and I start racking the balls with more focus than the task requires. Raff watches me with growing concern.
“Dom—”
“Eight ball. You break.”
Raff sighs but takes his shot, scattering the balls across green felt. I line up my shot, trying to focus on angles and physics instead of green eyes and complicated truths.
“It’s Sophie, isn’t it?” Raff says as I sink two stripes in a row.
“Everything’s Sophie.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened. That’s the problem.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I.”
