Page 14 of Married to the Enemy

Raffe exhaled slowly. So much for staying invisible.

There was a long moment of silence, so thick Raffe could almost hear Vito’s teeth grinding. He cursed under his breath. He didn’t want to be dragged into this circus, but the truth gnawed at him—he was already planning to drag Mia into his mess. If that was the case, he damn well had to step up for hers.

“I’m right here, Your Honor,” he announced, his voice carrying easily across the hushed courtroom. He rose to his full height, letting the men in suits sitting in the front row see exactly how much space he took up.

The judge’s lips twitched with something suspiciously close to amusement. When his gaze returned to Vito, he smoothed it into stern professionalism, but Raffe caught the glimmer anyway. “Done,” the judge said crisply, slamming his gavel with finality. “Ms. Mia Calvino is hereby declared to be the guardian and conservator for Ms. Evangeline Santini.” Papers were handed to the clerk’s desk. Then he barked, “Next!”

Chaos stirred at the front. Mia darted to her grandmother’s side, crouching low, her hands tender on the frail woman’s arms. She hugged her gently, whispering something Raffe couldn’t hear, but the warmth in her posture spoke louder than words. Her body curved protectively around her grandmother, her shoulder angling as though she could shield the older woman from the rest of the courtroom.

For a moment, Raffe wondered if his brand-new “wife” had just stepped straight into the lion’s den. Because across the room, Vito Calvino looked like he thirsted for blood. His face was mottled red, lips peeled back as he hissed instructions to his lawyer. The suit frantically gestured with both hands, trying to shush his client before contempt charges landed on them.

Raffe’s cop instincts sharpened as he watched. Vito might have lost this round, but men like him didn’t give up. They regrouped, they schemed, and then they struck again, harder.

Good. Let him seethe. Let him rage. Courtrooms were the one place Vito couldn’t cheat, at least not as openly as he did out on the streets. Here, his hands were tied—and today, Mia had beaten him soundly.

But Raffe silently groaned anyway. Because this whole marriage charade had just tangled itself into his investigation in ways he hadn’t expected. He wasn’t supposed to be standing here, wasn’t supposed to be a husband, wasn’t supposed to give a damn about a dark-eyed woman who was too thin for her own good and the frail grandmother she guarded with the ferocity of a lioness.

And yet.

There was only one thing to do.

He stepped into the aisle, moving closer. He bent just enough to meet the older woman’s eyes, his voice lowering into a warm, almost gentle tone. “Ms. Santini, I’m Raffe Moretti. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The woman blinked at him, then pressed a trembling hand to her double strand of pearls. A spark of humor lit her eyes as she turned to her granddaughter. “Good job, Mia!” the elderly woman whispered, grinning slyly up at her.

Mia chuckled, though her laugh carried a tremor of relief. She leaned over her grandmother’s shoulder. “Behave! Or I’ll make you eat oatmeal for breakfast tomorrow.”

The old woman laughed, delighted. “Oatmeal would be a blessing compared to what they’ve been feeding me.”

Raffe’s chest loosened, just a little, watching the exchange. Still, his instincts tugged hard—get them out, get them safe, before Vito regrouped. “How about if I help you two get home?” he offered, his voice steadier than he felt. He looked directly at Mia. “Where did you park?”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, a blush rising to her cheeks.

Raffe almost smiled. That color transformed her, softening the edges of her exhaustion, reminding him again of how lovely she was—too lovely, too vulnerable to be mixed up in any of this. Her beauty wasn’t the bold kind that slapped a man in the face. It was gentler, more subtle. The kind that drew you in and made you want to look twice, and then keep looking.

And up close, her eyes—dark, defiant, alive—sparkled in a way that made him want things he shouldn’t. Things he couldn’t afford to even fantasize about.

He cleared his throat, forcing himself to look away. Too dangerous. Too soon.

Stepping back, he allowed Mia and her grandmother to take the lead, his long stride falling in behind them. He was supposed to be undercover, detached. But right now, all he could think about was the target on their backs—and how far he’d be willing to go to keep them safe.

Chapter 7

Vito Calvino’s glare could have shattered marble as he watched his daughter cross the courthouse lobby, pushing the old biddy’s wheelchair. Mia leaned down, whispering to the frail, old woman, her hand protectively on Evangeline’s shoulder, as if the old bitch were some sort of rare treasure to be guarded instead of the stubborn thorn in his side she’d always been.

Evangeline was going to pay for this betrayal.

He stopped short, jaw grinding so hard his molars ached. No. Not yet. He couldn’t kill her, even though the thought made his fingers twitch with longing. Unfortunately, Evangeline’s will was ironclad. If Evangeline dropped dead, every cent, every property, every scrap of her empire would pass directly into Mia’s hands. His idiot daughter would be rich beyond measure while he—her father—would be left with nothing but his fury.

If he’d gained control of her health decisions, he would have put her back into that damn nursing home and kept her so drugged up that he could have drafted a new will, one that left everything to him. The stupid old lady wouldn’t even have noticed.

This defeat burned like acid in his gut. He’d just lost the case. Lost her millions. Lost face.

He needed a new plan.

And how the hell had his daughter gotten back into the country? Yeah, he’d been aware of her slipping in, but that shouldn’t have happened. He’d paid several people a lot of money to give a head’s up if her passport was ever scanned. She’d vanished for years, hiding in Europe like some spoiled princess. Ever since she’d slipped out of his control years ago, when she’d claimed to be heading off to college. His lip curled. Mia had convinced him to send her, saying it would make her a better wife, someone who wouldn’t embarrass her future husband or the organization’s future. He’d been stupid enough to agree.

At the time, he’d been just a capo under Enrico Bianchi’s control. Not just any capo—he’d been the consigliere, the only one trusted with strategy. Or so he’d thought. But Enrico had been too paranoid, too cagey, to let anyone stay that close. Matteo Caruso had seen to that, blocking everyone else, whispering in Enrico’s ear like the ambitious son of a bitch he was.