Page 4 of Claimed By the Enemy
“Especially not where my uncle and aunt are,” she continues, green eyes blazing with the kind of fire that should warn me off but only draws me closer. “You can keep me here, play your sick little games, but I won’t give you what you want.”
I pour myself a cup of coffee, taking my time with the cream and sugar.
“I already know where they are,” I say finally, not bothering to look up from my cup.
The sharp intake of breath tells me she didn’t expect that.
“Enzo Bellini operates several business ventures from his estate in Westchester. Your aunt Martha manages the family’s affairs from their home.
I take a sip of coffee, savoring both the bitter warmth and the way Sophie’s face has gone pale.
“Should I continue? Or would you prefer I skip to the part about the construction partnerships, the overseas accounts, and the monthly meetings your uncle has been having with associates who value discretion above all else?”
Sophie’s mouth opens, then closes. For a moment, she looks exactly like what she is: a young woman who’s been playing a game she never really understood.
“You know nothing,” she whispers.
“I’m thorough.” I set the cup down and finally meet her eyes. “Something you might have learned about me if you’d done your research properly before walking into my office with that ridiculous story about Blackwater Talent.”
“It wasn’t ridiculous. It worked.”
“It worked because I let it work.” Her jaw tightens as the words leave my mouth, but I don’t regret it. She needs to understand exactly how outmatched she’s been from the beginning. “I’ve known every move you’ve made, every lie you’ve told, every desperate attempt to stay one step ahead of me.”
Sophie flinches like I’ve struck her. “Then why didn’t you expose me immediately?”
I move closer, drawn by something I don’t want to name. “Maybe I was curious to see how far you’d go. Maybe I wanted to understand what drives a woman to dedicate her life to destroying someone she’s never met.”
“You know why,” she breathes.
We stare at each other across the space between us, and I can see the exact moment she realizes I’m not going to make this easy for her.
That whatever story she’s been told, whatever version of the truth she’s been carrying, I’m going to make her say it out loud.
“Your father killed my parents,” she says finally. “Took everything from my family and left us with nothing.”
Neither of us speaks. The words are still bleeding out.
I’ve been expecting it, preparing for it, but hearing the words still sends a familiar rage coursing through my veins.
“My father,” I repeat slowly, “was a businessman. He built an empire through hard work and strategic partnerships. He didn’t need to steal from anyone, least of all the Bellinis.”
“That’s not what I was told.”
“And what exactly were you told, Sophie?”
She hesitates, and I can see the conflict playing out across her features.
“That the Morettis betrayed a friendship. That they used inside information to destroy my father’s business and then…” She swallows hard. “Then they killed him to cover their tracks.”
“Interesting story.” I finish my coffee and set the cup aside. “Complete fiction, but interesting nonetheless.”
“It’s not fiction!”
I study her face, looking for cracks in the certainty. “Tell me, Sophie, have you ever seen proof of these allegations? Documents? Witnesses? Or have you simply taken your uncle’s word as gospel?”
The flush that creeps up her neck tells me everything I need to know.
“I have to go to work,” I say, reaching for my jacket. “We’ll continue this conversation tonight.”
