Page 21 of Claimed By the Enemy
Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t this.
I descend slowly, letting my hand trail along the banister, aware that every eye in the room has turned to me. Conversations pause mid-sentence. Someone’s whiskey glass stops halfway to their lips.
Perfect.
Dom excuses himself from his group and crosses the room to meet me at the bottom of the stairs. His eyes never leave mine, but I can see the way his gaze wants to drift lower, to take in the full effect of what his money bought.
“Sophie.” His voice is carefully neutral. “You look…”
“Like your wife?” I smile, all teeth and sharp edges. “That was the goal, wasn’t it?”
Something flickers across his expression - too quick to read, but it might have been heat. “There are some people I’d like you to meet.”
“I’m sure there are.”
He places his hand on the small of my back, guiding me toward the center of the room where the largest group has gathered. I can feel the warmth of his palm through the silk of my dress, and I hate that my body responds to even that simple touch.
“Everyone,” Dom says, his voice carrying easily across the space. “I’d like you to meet my wife.”
Here it comes. I brace myself for the introduction, for the careful way he’ll present me as Sophie Greco, successful lawyer, normal woman with a normal background.
“Sophie Bellini,” he continues, and my blood turns to ice. “Now Sophie Moretti.”
Silence falls like a curtain. I can feel the shock ripple through the room, see recognition dawn on several faces. These people know that name. Know what it means.
“Bellini,” someone whispers, and the sound carries in the sudden quiet.
I lift my chin higher, meeting each stare with defiant grace. If Dom wants to play this game, fine. But I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.
“Lovely to meet you all,” I say, my voice steady and warm. “I’ve heard so much about Dom’s friends.”
Conversations restart slowly, people processing this bombshell while trying to maintain social niceties. I can see the speculation in their eyes, the questions they’re dying to ask.
Dom leans close, his breath warm against my ear. “Smile, sweetheart. You’re representing the family now.”
“Your family,” I correct quietly. “I’m just visiting.”
He laughs, the sound low and intimate despite the audience around us. “We’ll see.”
Then he’s moving away, pulled into another conversation, leaving me alone in a room full of people who now know exactly who I am.
I could panic. Could excuse myself and hide until this nightmare ends.
I head for the bar setup in the corner, where one of the hired servers is managing drinks.
“Whiskey,” I tell the server. “A double, please.”
“Rough night?”
I turn to find a man watching me with obvious interest. He’s beautiful in that almost-too-perfect way - sculpted cheekbones, dark hair, and eyes the color of espresso.
And when he speaks, his accent makes my knees weak.
Italian. Rich and warm like honey over gravel.
“You could say that,” I reply, accepting my drink. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”
“Marco Santini.” He extends his hand, and when I shake it, he holds on just a moment longer than necessary. “And you’re the famous Sophie Bellini.”
