Page 13 of His Enemy's Daughter
“Bastard.”
“Smart bastard,” I correct. “Which makes him dangerous. Men who rely on brute force are predictable. Men who use psychology as a weapon are the ones you need to worry about.”
My phone buzzes with an alert from the surveillance cameras we’ve positioned around the building’s perimeter. I pull up the feed, watching as a sleek BMW pulls into the private parking area reserved for executives and people important enough to bypass normal channels.
“Movement,” I tell Tiziano, who immediately moves to the window with binoculars.
The car door opens, and a woman emerges—dark hair pulled into some elaborate style, designer suit, movements precise and controlled like someone who’s learned to take up exactly the right amount of space.
Even from this distance, even through surveillance equipment, I recognize her immediately.
Regina Picarelli.
“That’s her,” Tiziano observes unnecessarily. “The daughter.”
I don’t respond, too busy watching how she moves across the parking area—confident but careful, aware of her surroundings without being obvious about it. She’s carrying a leather portfolio that suggests business rather than a social visit, and she’s alone except for the security detail that shadows her at a respectful distance.
“She comes here every Tuesday and Thursday,” Tiziano continues, consulting notes he’s been keeping. “Usually stays between thirty and forty-five minutes. Always carryingdocuments. My contact inside says she works as her father’s business consultant for his legitimate operations.”
“Consultant.” The word tastes like a lie. “Or prisoner with a fancy job title?”
“Does it matter?”
It shouldn’t. She’s Sabino Picarelli’s daughter, part of the machine that’s threatening Simeone’s family. Whether she’s willing or unwilling is irrelevant to the bigger picture.
But I can’t stop watching her as she disappears into the building, briefcase in hand and shoulders straight with the kind of posture that speaks to years of training.
“Pull up the interior cameras,” I tell Tiziano. “I want to see how this meeting goes.”
He hesitates for just a moment—long enough to communicate disapproval without actually voicing it—before pulling up feeds from the security cameras his contact inside has given us access to. The quality isn’t perfect, but it’s good enough to track Regina’s progress through the building.
She navigates the hallways like someone who’s memorized every step, every turn. Staff members flatten themselves against walls as she passes, their deference so automatic it’s barely conscious. That smile—I’ve seen it before in the gala footage. It’s architectural. Carefully constructed, structurally sound, and about as warm as marble.
The feed switches to what appears to be an executive office. Sabino Picarelli sits behind a desk that screams power and intimidation, reviewing something on his computer without looking up when his daughter enters.
No audio on these feeds, but I don’t need sound to read the dynamic. Regina stands in front of her father’s desk like a subordinate awaiting acknowledgment. She doesn’t sit. Doesn’t speak. Just waits with the patient resignation of someone who’s learned that asserting herself only makes things worse.
“Look at that,” Tiziano murmurs. “She’s been standing there for almost three minutes, and he hasn’t acknowledged her existence.”
It’s a power play. Classic dominance behavior—making someone wait to establish who controls the interaction. I’ve seen it a thousand times in prison, on the streets, in every hierarchy where men use psychological warfare instead of physical violence.
Finally, Sabino looks up. His expression doesn’t soften when he sees his daughter. If anything, it becomes more calculating, assessing her like merchandise rather than family.
Regina steps forward, opening her portfolio to present whatever documents she’s brought. Her body language is textbook professional—efficient, deferential, designed to take up minimal space and demand minimal attention.
Sabino flips through the papers with casual disinterest, barely glancing at what she’s presenting. When he speaks—and I wish desperately that we had audio—his expression carries dismissal and something that looks uncomfortably like contempt.
Regina’s posture doesn’t change. She maintains that perfect professional veneer, but I catch it—just for a second, so brief I almost miss it. Her hand tightens on the portfolio case. Her jaw clenches. Something flickers in her eyes that might be anger or pain or both before she smooths it away with practiced efficiency.
“She’s good at hiding it,” I observe. “But not perfect.”
“Hiding what?”
“How much she hates this.” I lean closer to the monitor, studying every micro-expression I can catch. “How much she hates him.”
Tiziano makes a noncommittal sound. “Or you’re seeing what you want to see.”
“Maybe.” But I don’t think so. I’ve spent fifteen years learning to read people in an environment where missing a signal could mean death. Regina Picarelli is performing—giving her father exactly what he expects while keeping something vital locked away where he can’t touch it.
