Page 62 of Claimed By the Enemy
I wait until he disappears around the corner, then make my way toward the back of the building. Vincent is still parked by the front entrance, probably wondering what’s taking me so long. If he knew I was chasing shadows based on a stranger’s sideways glance, he’d think I’d lost my mind.
Maybe I have.
Room 237 is at the end of a long corridor, isolated from the other units.
I stand in front of the door for a full minute, my hand raised to knock, second-guessing myself. What if this is just some innocent family on vacation? What if I’m about to terrify some poor tourists because a maintenance worker happened to look in this direction?
What if Uncle Enzo isn’t here at all, and I’m chasing phantoms because I can’t accept that the man who raised me might actually be unreachable?
But what if he is here?
The thought decides it for me. I need answers, and this is the closest thing to a lead I’ve had in days.
I try the door handle first, expecting it to be locked. It turns easily.
Unlocked. In a cheap motel where people lock their doors against everything from bedbugs to burglars. That should be my first warning.
The room is dim, curtains drawn against the afternoon light. It smells like stale cigarettes and industrial carpet cleaner. Standard motel décor - two double beds, a scratched dresser, a television that probably hasn’t worked since the nineties.
And it’s empty.
I step inside, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. Maybe this was stupid after all. Maybe I’m losing my grip on reality, seeing conspiracies in random strangers’ glances and finding meaning in—
The door slams shut behind me.
I spin around to find three men in dark clothing stepping out from behind the door, moving with the kind of coordinated precision that screams professional training. They’re not motel staff. They’re not random criminals looking for an easy target.
They’re here for me.
“Sophie Moretti.” The one in the center speaks with calm authority, like he’s been expecting me. “We need you to come with us.”
Every survival instinct Uncle Enzo drilled into me kicks in at once. Don’t freeze. Don’t negotiate. Move.
I dive toward the bathroom, but I’m not fast enough. Strong hands grab my arms, pulling me back, and suddenly I’m fighting for my life in a dingy motel room that smells like broken dreams and desperation.
“Let me go!” I struggle against their grip, but there are three of them, and they’re all bigger than me. “Help! Someone help me!”
“No one’s going to hear you,” another voice says. “These walls are thicker than they look.”
Of course they are. Because why would anything about this situation be easy?
I manage to break free for a split second, long enough to grab a lamp from the nightstand and swing it at the nearest attacker’s head. He ducks, but it gives me enough time to dive for the bathroom.
“Stop fighting, and this will be easier,” one of them calls as I slam the door and fumble for the lock.
Easier for who?
I’m trapped in a bathroom the size of a closet, with no windows and one door that won’t hold for long. But it’s better than being in grabbing distance of three men who seem to know exactly who I am.
Think, Sophie. Uncle Enzo trained you for situations like this. What did he always say?
When you’re cornered, make yourself dangerous. Even the strongest predator thinks twice about prey that bites back.
I grab the toilet tank lid, hefting its porcelain weight in both hands. It’s heavy enough to do real damage if I can land a clean hit.
“Sophie Moretti,” another voice says from the other side of the door. “We’re not here to hurt you. We just need you to come with us.”
“Go to hell!”
