Page 1 of His Enemy's Daughter
1
Mauricio
“Fifteen years, three months, and fourteen days.”
The words taste like rust and freedom as I step through the final gate, leaving behind walls that have contained me since I was thirty-one years old. The afternoon sun hits my face with an intensity that makes my eyes water—or maybe that’s just the shock of seeing a world that’s moved on without me.
A sleek black Mercedes idles at the curb, so out of place in this depressed neighborhood that it might as well be a spaceship. The driver’s door opens, and my chest tightens with something that might be emotion if I still remembered how to feel those.
Simeone Codella steps out looking like time decided to be kind to at least one of us. Some silver hair where there used to be dark, lines around his eyes that speak of responsibility and power, but that same iron posture that commanded respect when we were young and stupid enough to think we were invincible.
“You counted the days?” His voice carries across the distance between us, rough with something I won’t name because naming it makes it real.
“Every single one.” I move toward him with the careful gait of someone who’s spent too long learning to measure space in six-by-eight increments. “Though I lost track somewhere around year twelve. Had to do the math backward.”
“Mauricio.” He doesn’t move, just stands there like he’s afraid I might disappear if he blinks. “Fratello mio.”
The Italian endearment—my brother—nearly breaks something in me that fifteen years of surviving prison couldn’t crack. But I’ve learned to swallow emotion like poison, to let it burn going down and settle cold in my gut.
“Still dramatic as ever,” I say, closing the distance between us. “Some things never change.”
We embrace with the kind of desperation that men like us only show each other—hard, brief, loaded with everything we won’t say. When we pull apart, I notice the wetness in his dark eyes that he’s too proud to acknowledge.
“You look like hell,” he observes.
“You look like you’ve been playing house instead of running an empire.” I gesture at his expensive suit, the wedding ring that catches the light. “Domestication suits you.”
“Get in the car before I remember why I used to want to strangle you.” But there’s warmth in his voice, the kind that comes from shared history and blood that might not be literal but runs deeper than genetics.
The Mercedes’s interior smells like leather and money, a sharp contrast to the industrial cleaning solution and desperation that’s been my constant companion. I sink into the passenger seat with a sigh that comes from somewhere deep in my bones.
“So,” Simeone says as he pulls away from the prison that’s been my home for longer than I care to calculate. “Where do we start?”
“How about with why you’re picking me up personally instead of sending Tiziano?” I study his profile, noting the tension in his jaw. “Not that I’m complaining about the VIP treatment, but the Silver Devil doesn’t usually play chauffeur.”
“Maybe I wanted to see with my own eyes that you survived.” His hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Maybe I needed to know that fifteen years didn’t break what made you dangerous.”
“Worried I went soft inside?” I laugh, the sound sharp enough to cut. “Trust me,fratello, prison doesn’t soften you. It just teaches you new ways to be hard.”
“That’s what concerns me.”
I turn to look at him fully, taking in the way his shoulders carry weight that wasn’t there before. “What happened while I was gone, Simeone? Besides the obvious aging and apparent marriage?”
“Where do I start?” He merges onto the highway with the same calculated precision he applies to everything. “The empire’s tripled in size. We control shipping routes from here to Sicily. Legitimate businesses now generate more revenue than the old operations.”
“Impressive. And boring.” I wave away the business talk. “Tell me about the things that actually matter. The wife you married. The life you built while I was counting ceiling tiles.”
His expression shifts into something softer, more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen on his face. “Her name is Loriana. We have a son, Alessandro, and he isseven months old.”
“A son.” The information settles in my chest like lead. “The Silver Devil reproduced. I’m not sure whether to congratulate you or warn the world.”
“She changed everything.” His voice carries a note of wonder that would be nauseating if it weren’t so genuine. “Made me want things I never thought I could have.”
“Such as?”
“Peace. Purpose beyond power. A reason to come home at night that doesn’t involve counting money or planning territorial expansions.” He glances at me. “You’ll meet her soon. She’s... formidable.”
“She’d have to be to handle you.” I settle deeper into the leather seat, watching the world blur past at speeds that feel impossible after years of moving at prison pace. “What else did I miss?”
