Page 7 of Married to the Enemy

Now her mother, Evangeline, lingered far too long for his liking. The old bat was seventy-five and frail, locked away where she couldn’t meddle. He had been patient—oh, so patient—waiting for her fortune to be unlocked. But patience had its limits. And today, finally, the courts would recognize what was true: that he, Vito Calvino, should control her estate.

Full guardianship. Legal and financial. All of Evangeline’s delicious inheritance from her delightfully wealthy husband would soon be funneled neatly into his pocket.

He took another bite, though his thoughts distracted him from properly enjoying the flavors.

Mia and her grandmother had always been close. Too close. Somehow, the two had managed to keep in touch despite his best efforts. He had confiscated phones, intercepted letters, bribed staff, and still—still—he hadn’t uncovered their method of communicating regularly. It infuriated him, the thought that two mere women could outwit him in his own house.

But Mia was still a child, he reminded himself with a grim smile. Twenty-five or twenty-six, perhaps, but still that same little girl who had run from him, thinking she could live her life away from his control. However, Mia’s efforts to save her previous grandmother were pointless now. Even if she suspected something, even if she’d returned, she would be powerless to stop what was coming.

Today’s hearing was a foregone conclusion. He hadn’t even needed to bribe the judge—why waste money when the outcome was guaranteed? The ruling would be in his favor, as it should have been years ago. Over the past few months, Vito had ensured the nursing home had done its best, now it was just up to the judge to look at the old biddy and give him control of Evangaline’s estate.

He lifted his glass of orange juice, holding it aloft in a toast. “To the Calvino legacy,” he murmured. He’d already amassed a healthy fortune, but it was nothing compared to Evangeline’s trust fund.

Staring at the sunshine filtering through the glass, he smiled, proud of his machinations that had gotten him to this point. Then he drank deeply, his thoughts already racing ahead to the fortune that would soon, finally, be his.

Mia might try to interfere. She might even scream and claw at the edges of his empire. But she was too late. The game was already won.

Vito Calvino always won.

Chapter 4

Raffe woke up with a start, his chest heaving as though he’d been running in his sleep. Marriage! The thought slammed into him with the force of a gunshot.

He sat upright, scrubbing his face with both hands, and then glanced at the alarm clock. Relief surged through him. He had time. Not much time, but just enough, if he didn’t screw around. He could make it to the courthouse with zero minutes to spare.

He pushed out of bed, snagged his toothbrush, and brushed his teeth with brutal efficiency while rifling through the closet. The “cleanest” pair of jeans he owned surfaced from a crumpled heap, along with a dress shirt that wasn’t too wrinkled if he kept the jacket on. He owned a suit, but no way in hell was he putting it on. Not for a fake marriage. Not for this insanity.

Still, the insane part was exactly what had woken him. Somewhere between exhaustion and unconsciousness, he’d realized the truth: if he were married, then the family courts might grant him emergency custody. And if he had emergency custody, he could file to adopt Freddy.

With Freddy’s mother dead, his father long gone, and his foster system “support” a joke, the boy was drowning in paperwork and neglect. Add in the life-long, expensive medical care he’d need without surgery? Freddy was practically a case study for a judge who wanted to look like a hero by approving adoption and shifting the medical expenses to a parent versus the state.

The vision had rooted itself in Raffe’s brain: a courthouse wedding, a marriage license in hand, and then a walk across the street to the social worker’s office to petition for foster care. Freddy would struggle in Raffe’s current apartment, sure—the stairs alone were a nightmare—but Raffe could move. He’d make it work. He always made it work.

What was it about Freddy that called to him like this? The kid wasn’t even his, but damn it, Raffe couldn’t let him go. Maybe it was the look of longing in Freddy’s eyes when he’d watched the other boys play football. Or maybe it was the fact that, unlike so many people Raffe encountered, Freddy wasn’t defeated. He was still fighting. The kid was a straight A student, still in love with school and learning, still hopeful despite the wheelchair that confined him.

Or maybe—maybe it was because Raffe could help. For once, he had the power to fix one thing, in a world where so much else kept breaking no matter how hard he tried to fix the problem.

He grabbed his car keys and both phones—personal and agency-issued—and then paused. His hand hovered over the weapon in its safe. No. Not today. Taking the gun through courthouse security would chew up precious minutes. And he didn’t have time to waste.

His jaw set as determination kicked in. He was getting married. And then he was rescuing a kid who needed his help.

Before bolting, he pulled out his agency phone and called Diane. She picked up on the second ring, voice brisk. “What’s up?”

“I’m going dark for a few hours,” he told her, keeping his tone casual. Too casual. “If anyone unusual shows up around our sites, call me immediately.”

Silence, then: “A few hours? Raffe, what’s going on?”

“Nothing important.” He hated lying to her, but what else could he say? I’m marrying a stranger to get a shot at adopting a crippled kid. Yeah, that would go over real smooth. “Just keep me posted.”

Another pause, but finally she sighed. “Fine. Don’t get yourself killed.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He disconnected before she could press for more details.

Then he hit the road.

Rush-hour traffic clogged the streets like arteries ready to burst. Brake lights flared in endless red rows. He cursed under his breath and swerved into the next lane, only to slam the brakes as another driver cut him off. Horns blared, the symphony of Minneapolis at five o’clock.

He tapped the steering wheel impatiently, sweat prickling beneath his shirt. Every traffic light felt longer than the last. Every minute ticked away like a countdown. A bus lumbered in front of him, blocking two lanes, and he shot past it on the shoulder, earning a shouted curse from a pedestrian. He ignored it.