Page 63 of Claimed By the Enemy
Right. Because kidnappers are known for their honesty about their intentions.
They’re trying to break down the door now, the cheap wood splintering under repeated impacts. Each hit sends vibrations through the floor, through my bones, counting down the seconds until my makeshift shelter gives way.
Think. What would Dom do? What would Uncle Enzo do?
Dom would probably try to negotiate, use his business skills to find some kind of compromise. Uncle Enzo would fight until his last breath and take as many of them down as possible.
I’m not Dom. And I’m not Uncle Enzo either.
I’m Sophie Bellini, and I’ve been underestimated my entire life. These men think I’m just some pampered mafia princess who’s never been in real danger.
They’re about to learn otherwise.
The door gives way on the fourth hit, exploding inward in a shower of splinters and cheap paint. The first man through gets a face full of porcelain toilet tank lid, and I have the satisfaction of hearing him grunt in pain as he staggers backward.
But there are two more behind him, and they’re ready for me this time.
“Easy,” one of them says, grabbing my wrist and twisting until I drop the makeshift weapon. “We’re the good guys.”
“Good guys don’t break down bathroom doors!”
“Good guys don’t let innocent people get killed by bad guys either.”
I try to break free, putting every ounce of training Uncle Enzo gave me into the attempt. But there are two of them holding me now, and I’m not strong enough to fight them both. Not without weapons. Not without backup.
Not without Dom.
The thought of him hits like a physical blow. Dom, who thinks I’m safe at home. Dom, who has no idea I’m about to disappear into whatever nightmare these men have planned.
“Where’s my uncle?” I demand, still struggling against their grip.
“He’s fine. We’ll explain everything once we get you somewhere safe.”
“Safe from what?”
“From the man who’s been trying to kill you since the day you married Domenico Moretti.”
The words send ice through my veins. Not because they don’t make sense, but because they make too much sense. Someonehas been orchestrating this from the beginning. Someone who benefits from Dom and me destroying each other.
But that doesn’t mean I trust these men to be my saviors.
“Let me go! Dom will come looking for me!”
“We’re counting on it.”
They’re already moving me toward the door, professional and efficient despite my struggles. One of them pulls out what looks like a black cloth bag.
A hood.
“No.” The word comes out strangled, panic finally breaking through my determination to stay calm. “No, please, don’t—”
“It’s just until we get where we’re going,” one of them says, almost gently. “For your protection as much as ours.”
“I won’t run. I swear I won’t run.”
“We know you won’t.”
The bag comes down over my head, plunging me into darkness that smells like fear and fabric softener. I can’t see anything, can barely breathe, and can only focus on the sound of my own heartbeat hammering against my eardrums.
