Page 10 of His Enemy's Daughter
“He’s watching you tonight.” Giordano doesn’t move closer, maintaining the professional distance he’s always careful to observe. “Watching how you interact with his chosen candidates. This isn’t just another gala, Regina. This is an audition. Your audition”
“I know.” The admission comes out bitter, and I force myself to soften. Giordano doesn’t deserve my anger—he’s just the messenger. “I’ve always known this was coming. I just hoped...”
“That you’d have more time?” His voice drops low enough that no one else can hear. “Or that something would change?”
“That I’d wake up and discover this was all a nightmare.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Silly, right? Twenty-eight years old and still believing in fairy tales.”
“Regina—”
“Giordano.” My father’s voice cuts through the conversation like a blade. “I believe you have other duties to attend to.”
Giordano’s expression shutters immediately, becoming the blank mask of the perfect subordinate. “Of course, Mr. Picarelli.” He nods to me, respectful and distant. “Miss Picarelli.”
I watch him disappear into the crowd, taking with him the last remnants of human connection in this sea of sharks and parasites.
“Regina.” My father appears at my side, his presence commanding attention even in a room full of powerful men. Sabino Picarelli at fifty-five is still imposing—dark hair graying at the temples, cold brown eyes that see everything, expensive suit that speaks of wealth and taste. “Walk with me.”
It’s not a request.
I fall into step beside him, nodding and smiling at people we pass while my heart hammers against my ribs. When he guides me toward a quieter corner of the ballroom, away from the main crush of bodies, I know this conversation won’t be pleasant.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he says, and it sounds like an assessment rather than a compliment. “The red suits you.”
“Thank you, Father.” I keep my hands loose at my sides, resisting the urge to fidget with my clutch. “I’m glad it meets your approval.”
“Everything you do meets my approval,figlia mia.” The Italian endearment—my daughter—should warm me. Instead, it feels like ownership. “You’ve always been such an obedient child.”
The wordchildgrates, but I don’t react. “I only want to honor our family.”
“Good.” He surveys the room with the air of a general reviewing troops. “Because tonight is important. I’ve been patient with your education, allowed you to pursue your MBA, given you responsibilities in my legitimate businesses. But it’s time for you to fulfill your primary purpose.”
“Marriage,” I say, because there’s no point pretending I don’t know where this is leading.
“Strategic alliance.” His correction is sharp. “I’ve built an empire, Regina. But empires need heirs to continue, alliances to strengthen them. You are my most valuable asset in creating those bonds.”
“I understand.” And I do, with the kind of clarity that comes from years of knowing you’re not really human to the man who raised you. “What would you like me to do?”
“Circulate. Speak with the candidates I’ve selected. Show them the woman they’d be getting—intelligent, well-mannered,beautiful.” His hand rests on my shoulder, heavy with expectation. “I’m narrowing my choices. When I’ve made my final decision, I’ll inform you.”
The casualness of his statement—when I’ve made my final decision—drives home exactly how little say I have in my own future. Not if. Not a discussion. Just a decision he’ll make and expect me to accept.
“How much time do I have?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
His eyes narrow slightly. “Time for what?”
“To prepare myself. Mentally.” I scramble to make it sound like compliance rather than desperation. “I want to be the perfect wife when the time comes. I just need to know when to be ready.”
“Soon.” The single word carries finality. “I’ll decide soon. Days, perhaps a week. Maybe two. No longer.”
Days.Maybe a week or two. After twenty-eight years of knowing this was inevitable, I’m down to counting in single digits.
“Thank you for the warning, Father.” The words taste like betrayal of everything I am. “I won’t disappoint you.”
“You never have.” He squeezes my shoulder once before releasing me. “Now go. Be charming. Remember that every word, every gesture represents the Picarelli name.”
He walks away, leaving me standing alone. A room full of people surrounds me, but I’m drowning anyway—in silk that costs more than cars, in champagne I don’t want, in expectations that have been crushing me since before I understood what they meant.
I do what he asked. I circulate. I speak with Senator Vena’s son and pretend not to notice when he leers at my chest. I laugh at the Di Noto heir’s jokes and ignore the way he dismisses servers like they’re less than human. I make polite conversation with the Alba cousin and catalog every red flag his body language reveals.
