Page 10 of Claimed By the Enemy
The fight goes out of me all at once, leaving me hollow and shaking with fury. He has me. Completely, utterly, has me.
I wrench my wrist from his grip, stepping back to look him in the eye. “I am going to make your life hell.”
Dom’s smile widens. “I’m counting on it.”
“Fine.” The word tastes like poison, but I force it out anyway. “I’ll marry you. But I want it done fast. Tomorrow, if possible. I want to get this horror show over with as quickly as possible.”
“Eager to start our honeymoon?”
“Eager to start planning your funeral.”
Dom laughs like I’ve said something genuinely amusing. “There’s my fierce Sophie. I was starting to worry you’d gone soft on me.”
“Never.”
“Good. Soft wouldn’t suit you.” He moves to retrieve his jacket, slipping it back on like we’ve just concluded a successful business negotiation. “I’ll make the arrangements. We can have a simple ceremony, just the legal requirements.”
“And after?” I ask, hating that I need to know. “After we’re married, what then?”
“Then we figure out who wants us dead and make sure they don’t succeed.” Dom pauses at the doorway, looking back over his shoulder. “Oh, and Sophie? Wear whatever you want to the ceremony. But I’d suggest something in black. It seems appropriate for a funeral.”
He’s gone before I can think of a response, leaving me alone with the wreckage of my life and the crushing realization that I’ve just agreed to marry the enemy.
I sink back onto the couch, and I let myself cry.
Not for my parents, or for my mission, or even for my own trapped situation.
I cry for the girl I used to be, before Uncle Enzo filled my head with stories of revenge and family honor. Before I learned to see the world in terms of allies and enemies, debts and retribution.
That girl would have been horrified by what I’ve become. What I’m about to become.
But that girl is gone, has been gone for sixteen years. And tomorrow, whatever’s left of her will die completely when I take Domenico Moretti’s name and bind myself to him forever.
The thought should terrify me.
Instead, it just makes me angry.
Because if Dom thinks marriage is going to make me docile, if he thinks a ring and a piece of paper will turn me into some grateful little wife, he’s about to learn just how wrong he can be.
I’ll marry him. I’ll take his name and sleep in his bed and play whatever role he needs me to play.
But I’ll never stop hating him. And I’ll never stop looking for a way to make him pay for everything he’s taken from me.
***
Morning comes gray and overcast, as if the weather itself is protesting this unholy union.
I stare out the window of the guest room, watching rain streak down the glass like tears.
Appropriate.
Dom left early - “handling arrangements.”
I’ve been awake since five, unable to sleep, unable to eat, unable to do anything but pace the confines of my beautiful prison and think about all the ways this could go wrong.
Actually, ‘wrong’ implies that there was a right way for this to go. There isn’t. This entire situation is a disaster from start to finish.
But I’ve made my choice. For Aunt Martha and Uncle Enzo, I’ve made my choice.
