Page 68 of Claimed By the Enemy
“Like the place where this all started.”
I drive home with my hands shaking and my mind racing. Sophie’s alive, but she’s with Uncle Enzo. The man who might have killed my parents. The man who’s been training her to destroy me for sixteen years.
The man who might still be using her, even now.
By the time I pull into my driveway, Vincent is waiting with three other security guards. Their faces are grim, apologetic.
“Sir,” Vincent begins, “we’ve located Mrs. Moretti.”
“I know. Where is she?”
“On her way home. She should be here within the hour.”
“And Uncle Enzo?”
“He’s with her.”
Of course he is.
I pace the living room like a caged animal, checking my watch every thirty seconds. When I finally hear the car in the driveway, I have to stop myself from running outside.
Sophie walks through the front door looking tired but unharmed. Her clothes are wrinkled, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, but she’s whole. She’s here.
“Dom.” Her voice is soft, uncertain.
I cross the room in three strides and pull her against me, breathing in the scent of her shampoo, feeling the solid reality of her in my arms. She’s warm and alive and here, and for a moment, nothing else matters.
“I couldn’t find you,” I say against her hair. “You were gone, and I couldn’t find you.”
“I’m okay. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
I hold her tighter, feeling her heart beating against my chest. But even as relief floods through me, Caruso’s words echo in my head.
Someone close to both families. Someone playing a long game.
I pull back just enough to look at her face. “Sophie, I need to ask you something.”
“Okay.”
“Yesterday, when you went looking for your uncle… what did you find?”
Something flickers across her expression. Just for a second, but long enough for me to see it.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what did Uncle Enzo tell you? What did you learn?”
“Dom-”
“Because I’ve been having some very interesting conversations today. About our parents. About what really happened sixteen years ago.”
Sophie goes very still in my arms. “What kind of conversations?”
“The kind that suggests neither of our fathers were killers. The kind that suggests someone’s been lying to both of us for a very long time.”
“Dom, please-”
“Tell me the truth, Sophie. All of it. Do you know more than you’ve let on?”
