Page 6 of Married to the Enemy

Tonight, though, he was too damn tired to care. He needed a shower and a beer. Or maybe just the shower. And then oblivion.

Inside his apartment—a sparse box that still didn’t feel like home—Raffe peeled his clothes off, letting them drop where they fell. His only pause was to lock his weapon into the hidden safe in his bedside table, the ritual so ingrained he could do it in his sleep. Then he stepped into the shower, twisting the knob until steam rose around him.

The first blast of heat made him groan, muscles loosening under the pounding spray. He stayed until the twenty-gallon tank had nothing left to give, the water shifting from blissfully hot to biting cold. He still didn’t move, forcing himself to endure the discomfort as penance for something he couldn’t name.

Finally, he shut it off, dragging the lone towel across his skin. His reflection in the mirror caught his eye, and he froze.

The beard stared back—thick, scruffy, unruly. Years ago, it had felt like freedom, a break from Bureau formality. Now, it was a cage. His skin itched beneath it, his jawline lost. He didn’t recognize the man looking back. Not anymore.

Or maybe that was the problem. He didn’t know who he was.

FBI Agent. Undercover ghost. Janitor, delivery guy, muscle for hire, drunk sprawled on a park bench. He’d worn all those faces. The homeless disguise worked best—people didn’t look at you, didn’t see you. A man without a face, without a name. Just a void they skirted around for fear of being asked for change. Or worse, their pity.

And in that void, he heard things. The deals, the whispers, the confessions people made when they thought no one was listening. Ugly truths spilled out as if the invisible man nearby couldn’t hear them.

He rubbed the towel over his face, scrubbing until his skin burned, but the itch wasn’t just from the beard. It was from the life. From being no one. From losing pieces of himself, one alias at a time.

He folded the towel, making sure it was spread out on the towel bar to dry, and trudged naked to the bed. Collapsing flat on his back, he didn’t bother with sheets. Exhaustion claimed him too fast.

But just before it did, a face surfaced through the fog. The woman in the too-baggy jeans, her dark eyes full of desperation and secrets. Why the hell did she need to get married?

And why did he care?

Chapter 3

Vito Calvino dabbed his mouth delicately with a linen napkin, savoring the buttery flakiness of the croissant on his plate. The eggs were perfect and the prosciutto exquisitely crisped. A man should always start his morning with refinement, he thought with satisfaction. A man in control of everything and everyone around him.

The illusion lasted exactly three more bites.

The door to the dining room opened slowly, and one of his guards shuffled in, clearly nervous in a way that immediately soured Vito’s appetite.

“What is it?” Vito demanded, setting down his fork with a sharp clink.

The guard swallowed. “Sir, we’ve had word. Your daughter…she was spotted at the Philadelphia airport.” He bowed his head, inhaled slightly, then added, “Several days ago.”

Silence fell across the room, heavy and suffocating.

Vito’s jaw tightened, and for one icy moment, he simply stared. Then, with deliberate slowness, he rose from his chair. The guard’s eyes widened, his weight shifting back, but his efforts to avoid what he knew was coming came too late.

Vito’s fist shot forward, catching the man squarely across the jaw. The satisfying crunch of knuckles against bone echoed off the high ceilings. The guard staggered, crashing into a side table, before scrambling upright, blood trickling from his split lip.

Vito tugged at his pristine cuffs, adjusting them after that nasty, but necessary, bout of violence. “You knew this and didn’t tell me immediately?” Vito’s voice was a whisper of barely controlled fury, each word sharp enough to cut. He looked up from his cuffs, his dark eyes blazing with fury. “Do you think I pay you to let my daughter simply waltz back into this country, like some tourist?”

The messenger dropped his hand from his mouth, trying to ignore the pain. “N-no, sir—”

Vito turned his back on the man, disgusted. “Get out.”

Relieved, the man stumbled from the room, and Vito glanced down at the sunshine filled breakfast table, exhaling a slow breath as though the violence had merely been a necessary chore, an irritation before returning to his usual morning routine. He sat back down, reclaiming his fork and carefully arranging the napkin across his lap once more.

“Now,” he murmured to himself, spearing another bite of egg. “Where were we?”

For a few moments, he continued to pretend—lord of the manor, master of all he surveyed. A civilized man, eating a civilized breakfast.

But the calm didn’t last. The import of the news that his daughter was back soured his perfectly regimented breakfast.

Mia. His disobedient, ungrateful child. If she had returned to the States, what did she know? Did she suspect?

Vito’s gaze moved to the large portrait of his late wife hanging on the wall. A woman he had loved once, perhaps, before practicality had stepped in. She’d been useful, then an obstacle. He’d handled it. He always handled obstacles. In the end, her inheritance had been worth it.