Page 61 of Claimed By the Enemy
My stomach churns, and I have to grip the edge of the bed—again—to keep from being sick. It’s been happening more frequently. Waves of nausea that hit without warning and leave me dizzy and shaken.
Stress, probably. Everything that’s happened in the past few weeks would be enough to make anyone sick.
I force myself to shower and dress, trying to push away the guilt that’s eating me alive. I need answers. Real answers, not the stories I’ve been fed since childhood.
Which means I need to find Uncle Enzo.
Dom thinks I’m protecting a killer, but I know my uncle. He raised me, taught me right from wrong, and held me when I cried for parents I barely remembered. He wouldn’t murder innocent people.
Would he?
I grab my purse and head downstairs.
Uncle Enzo is smart and careful. He wouldn’t stay in one place long, but he’d want to remain close enough to monitor the situation.
“Going out, Mrs. Moretti?” Vincent asks as I reach the front door.
“Just for a drive. I need some air.”
“Mr. Moretti asked me to accompany you if you left the house.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“I’m afraid I have to insist.”
I study Vincent’s polite but implacable expression. Dom’s protecting me, even when he’s furious with me.
“Fine. But I’m driving myself.”
Vincent nods and follows me to the garage, where I choose the least conspicuous car in Dom’s collection—a black sedan that won’t attract attention.
I spend the morning driving through neighborhoods where Uncle Enzo might feel safe. Areas with cash-only motels and small restaurants.
Vincent follows at a discrete distance.
By noon, I’ve checked six motels and spoken to a dozen desk clerks who all claim they’ve never seen Uncle Enzo’s photo. But at the seventh place, a run-down motor lodge near the highway, the manager glances at the photo a second too long before shaking his head.
“Never seen him,” he says, but his voice is too quick.
I’m walking back to my car when the nausea hits again, harder this time. I barely make it to the bushes beside the parking lot before I’m violently ill.
“You okay, lady?”
I look up to find a young man in maintenance coveralls watching me with concern. He’s got kind eyes and work-roughened hands.
“I’m fine,” I manage, wiping my mouth with a tissue. “Just something I ate.”
“You sure? You look pretty pale.”
“Really, I’m okay.” I straighten up, trying to regain some dignity. “Thank you for asking.”
He nods and heads back toward the motel, but not before glancing meaningfully at room 237.
The look lasts maybe two seconds. It could mean anything or mean nothing. But something about the way his eyes linger on that particular door makes my pulse quicken.
Am I really going to follow a random maintenance worker’s glance? Am I that desperate for answers that I’m reading significance into every casual look?
Probably. But I’ve come this far.
