Page 13 of Married to the Enemy

“And how the hell do you plan to pay for it?” Vito bellowed. “You don’t even have a job! You’ve spent the past several years prancing around Europe, posting pretty pictures on social media.”

Raffe grimaced, trying to keep himself from getting up and attacking the bastard. Was Mia a social media influencer? The courts wouldn’t consider that stable employment. Sure, some influencers made serious money, but most? It was just smoke and mirrors. A prosecutor—or a judge—could tear Mia apart with that detail.

But Mia didn’t back down. Her jaw tightened, her hand gripping her grandmother’s hand tighter.

And then she opened her mouth.

Her next words sent a shock through the courtroom.

Even Raffe sat up straighter, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. What the hell was she about to do?

“I’ve been earning an excellent income for the past several years,” Mia announced firmly, bending again to pat her nonna’s frail hands. She leaned close, whispering something softly, almost like a vow, before carefully disentangling their fingers. Her grandmother’s hands trembled as she released them, but Mia gave her one more squeeze, a reassuring stroke over paper-thin knuckles, before straightening and walking toward the opposite table.

Raffe watched, feeling oddly protective. Fierce. That tiny woman in the wheelchair was her anchor, and Mia’s gaze kept circling back, angling herself as if she could shield her grandmother from the whole damn courtroom.

At the table, she dug into her oversized tote bag, papers and folders rustling as she rifled through them. Then, abruptly, she stilled.

She looked up, finding him in the back row.

Raffe didn’t move. He didn’t smile, didn’t give her more than a raised brow, silently asking, What? His heart kicked once, hard.

After a beat, Mia returned her attention to the bag. A moment later, she pulled out a file folder.

“Here are my income tax filings for the past three years, Your Honor.” She passed the folder to the bailiff, who carried it forward. Her chin tilted, voice steady, but Raffe caught the edge of tension under it. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t show those to my father. He’s unaware of my profession and, due to my past…” She cut a sharp glance toward Vito, who sat glowering, his fists curled tight on the table. “…issues with my father, I am safer if he remains unaware.”

The judge peered at her over his glasses, pausing before shuffling the papers. His brow furrowed, then he nodded slowly. “Very good.”

“She’s just a child, Your Honor!” Vito’s lawyer snapped.

Mia didn’t flinch. She stepped back toward her grandmother, placing a steadying hand on the older woman’s shoulder as if to stake her claim. “I’m twenty-six, Your Honor. Not a child.” Her chin went up, a defiant, angry gesture. “I’m married. I have my own income and a private residence in Europe, but I’m ready and willing to relocate here to Minneapolis to care for my nonna.”

Raffe saw the older woman shift, sitting a little taller under Mia’s touch. Protective body language was contagious, he thought grimly. Mia gave her grandmother strength just by standing next to her.

A hiss of disapproval rippled through the courtroom, and Raffe fought down a smile when Vito exploded to his feet.

“You’re not married!” he snarled, spittle flying, his lawyer frantically tugging at his sleeve. “I never gave you permission to marry!”

Mia’s voice cut through the chaos. “I don’t need your permission.” She was already holding the next document. “Here is my marriage license.” She handed it to the bailiff with calm finality.

Raffe sat straighter as the judge examined it—or pretended to, anyway—before passing it back. Of course he knew; the man who had officiated them less than twenty minutes ago had clearly tipped this judge off. Still, the formality mattered.

“Your marriage gives you a support system,” the judge announced. “And you have more than adequate income to support your grandmother.” He sighed, folding his hands. “I guess the only real question is”—he turned his gaze toward the woman in the wheelchair—“Ms. Santini, who would you prefer to be your legal, financial, and health advocate?”

Raffe leaned forward, watching closely.

The frail woman turned her head, her eyes glowing with pride as she smiled up at her granddaughter. “Definitely my Mia.”

The entire courtroom shifted at her words.

Vito shot to his feet, his face dark red, anger raising from him like heat from asphalt. “Evangeline, are you seriously going to burden my daughter with all the care you’ll need? She’s in the prime of her life! And what if she gets pregnant? She won’t be able to care for you and a baby!”

Raffe clenched his teeth, his fingers digging into his thighs. He didn’t miss the way Mia immediately angled herself between her nonna and her father, a subtle half-step forward, shoulders squared as if daring him to come closer.

“My husband will help, Your Honor,” Mia said firmly, her voice echoing across the courtroom.

Raffe blinked once, his pulse jumping. Her husband. Right, that’s me.

“Is that right?” Vito snarled, twisting toward the judge. His lip curled. “If he’s so helpful, then where the hell is he?”