Page 25 of Married to the Enemy

“Freddy and I…” He hesitated, rubbing a hand over his jaw, the rasp of his beard loud in the stillness. “We’ll only be here until I can formally adopt him. I promise, we won’t be a burden.”

The words echoed through the quiet kitchen. Mia realized she didn’t want him to sound so temporary.

Not when the silence around them had never felt so alive.

Chapter 14

Raffe watched Mia’s eyes. They widened when he said the word burden, then softened. Hell, her lips—those soft, full lips he couldn’t help remembering kissing this morning—curved into a smile.

“Freddy could never be a burden,” she replied softly.

That smile was going to haunt him all night.

He stayed rooted where he was, every muscle tight, anger simmering under his skin, waiting for her to say something foolish. To give him a reason to unleash the pent-up tension created by the stressful day. But she didn’t. She just… walked out of the kitchen.

No, walked was too tame a word. She taunted him. Sashayed down the hall like she knew exactly how round and tempting her ass looked beneath that oversized sweatshirt. Torture, plain and simple.

The shadows swallowed her, but his imagination didn’t need light. It betrayed him at once, filling in the gaps—Mia nude, walking not away from him but toward him. Smiling invitingly. Climbing into bed with him, those curves shifting, those breasts—

“Damn it,” Raffe muttered, shoving the thoughts away so hard his temples ached.

They were married on paper, sure. But that was as far as it went. Letting himself touch her, enjoy her, would be catastrophic. Not just because Freddy needed every ounce of his attention, not just because his career demanded focus and discipline, but also because Mia was Vito Calvino’s daughter.

The daughter of the very bastard he was hunting.

And yet, she’d walked into his life and torn down his walls in less than a day.

Raffe dragged a hand down his face. He was exhausted, and not just physically. The eighteen-hour surveillance shifts, the endless reports, the double life of his cover—those he could handle. He’d trained himself to survive on scraps of sleep and gallons of coffee. But this? This bone-deep fatigue came from something different. From fighting to keep himself from wanting a woman he could never have. From the weight of carrying Freddy’s fragile hope in his hands. From knowing his career, his reputation, his mission might already be compromised because of one impulsive, desperate woman.

The FBI didn’t have a massive field office here. At least, not compared to New York or Los Angeles. When Enrico Bianchi took over the mob operations here, violence had spiked alarmingly—shootings, arsons, innocents caught in the crossfire. After his conviction, the power vacuum had only made things worse. Vito Calvino had clawed his way to the top, and he was even more cruel and corrupt than Bianchi – but with a touch more intelligence.

Raffe knew what kind of man Calvino was. Which made Mia—his daughter—an impossible distraction.

Chicago had been his home base before this mess, but now? Salvatore Romano ran things there. That man kept the streets quieter and the bloodshed contained, because violence was bad for business. The FBI wasn’t blind; they knew. They didn’t call him a “good guy,” but compared to men like Bianchi or Calvino? Romano was essentially an extremely wealthy businessman. Which was why Raffe and his task force had shifted north. Minneapolis was the new battleground. And Raffe was one of the hunters.

He rubbed his jaw again, feeling the scratch of his beard, looking blankly around Mia’s kitchen as if the space might offer him clarity.

It was bigger than any kitchen he’d ever seen, but not flashy. Not magazine-glossy. The farmhouse sink was the real kind—deep, heavy porcelain, maybe original, maybe restored, but definitely not a showroom replica. The massive wooden island was broad, the counters long, practical, meant for use. Cabinets lined the walls, filled with—hell, he had no idea what. Dishes? Flour? Silverware? He’d glimpsed the butler’s pantry earlier, with its stacks of porcelain plates, bowls, and trays of silver, though he couldn’t tell if it was the “good” kind or the cheap stuff. All he knew about silver was that it tarnished easily and had to be polished regularly. He didn’t have the time or patience for that. His flatware at home came from one of those big-box stores, was dishwasher safe, and that was good enough for him.

He leaned against the counter, feeling the weight of the day crash over him all at once. Married. Guardianship battles. Freddy’s future. Mia’s stubborn fire. Her father’s shadow looming over everything.

This house was full now, full of secrets and landmines. And he was too damn tired to figure out if he was already standing on one.

Mia had arranged for a grocery delivery, so there were fruit and vegetables scattered across the wide wooden island. He had noticed her fussing over the apples and spinach earlier, tucking them neatly into bowls like it mattered that things looked homey. There was more in the fridge and pantry too, but that had been her project. His had been upstairs.

It had taken him almost a half hour to make sense of it. Four bedrooms, stripped down to bare mattresses, dust covering the old furniture like time itself had been squatting there. He had found sheets, blankets, pillows, packed away in cedar chests and linen closets that smelled faintly of lavender. He’d made the beds like he was setting up a camp, quickly, efficiently, because people needed to rest. Freddy and Evangeline couldn’t exactly be dragged up the grand staircase, but of course this house had an elevator tucked away in the back. An elevator in a private home. The absurdity of it had struck him in a wave of weary amusement as he folded and tucked blankets onto mattresses.

Now, hours later, he was well beyond tired. His body was heavy, dragging him down. The kind of exhaustion that made every step feel like a fight. And yet, his mind kept racing, restless, gnawing. He couldn’t sleep. Not yet. Not until he checked in. Not until he faced the storm he had created.

Diane was going to lose it when she heard.

What this would mean for his career, for the case, for everything he’d built over the past decade, he wasn’t sure. He suspected it wouldn’t be good.

Instead of heading upstairs to the rooms that actually looked livable, he wandered deeper into the house. The place was ridiculous in its size. A formal dining room large enough to host twenty people comfortably, a breakfast room bigger than his apartment, a kitchen that could feed an army. Then the extras: a parlor, a conservatory with plants either shriveled or choking the glass in wild overgrowth, a ballroom for dances no one threw anymore, an office, a library, hallways that went nowhere.

Who needed a ballroom in Minneapolis, anyway?

He shook his head, his boots echoing faintly as he explored the furthest, dustiest corners of the house. He found a small storage room, stacked with boxes of things that clearly hadn’t been touched in years. He pushed them aside, creating space, needing the walls around him. Needing something blank, something that didn’t scream of family or memories or responsibility.