Page 14 of His Enemy's Daughter
The meeting continues for another twenty minutes. Sabino signs documents, makes phone calls that Regina clearly isn’t supposedto hear—she turns away, giving him privacy like a well-trained assistant. When he finally dismisses her with a wave that barely qualifies as acknowledgment, she gathers her materials with the same efficient precision she brought them.
She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t protest. Just leaves with perfect obedience that somehow feels like an act of rebellion all on its own.
The surveillance feed tracks her exit from the building, and I find myself following her progress with more attention than tactical necessity requires. She pauses in the lobby, just for a moment, and I see her shoulders drop the same way they did in the gala footage—that brief moment of unguarded exhaustion before she rebuilds her armor.
Then she straightens, fixes that hollow smile back in place, and walks out into the afternoon sun like she’s heading to something pleasant instead of back to whatever gilded cage she calls home.
“Well?” Tiziano asks when the feed shows her car pulling away. “What did we learn?”
“That Sabino Picarelli treats his daughter like decorative property.” I pull away from the monitors, processing information that feels more personal than it should. “That she’s learned to survive by being perfect and invisible at the same time. And that whatever intelligence or fire she has, she’s learned to hide it so thoroughly that even her own father probably doesn’t see it.”
“All of which tells us what, exactly?”
“That she’s a vulnerability.” The words come reluctantly because they feel like a betrayal even though I don’t owe Regina Picarelli anything except strategic consideration. “But not the way I initially thought.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning she’s not participating in her father’s empire—she’s surviving it.” I turn to face Tiziano fully. “Which makes her potentially useful in ways that have nothing to do with leverage.”
“You’re thinking about recruiting her.” It’s not a question, and Tiziano’s tone carries warning. “Mauricio, that’s—”
“Complicated. Dangerous. Potentially stupid.” I tick off his unspoken objections. “But also potentially brilliant if we approach it right.”
“If she’s as trapped as you think, she’s also as controlled as you think.” Tiziano moves away from the window, his expression serious. “Sabino doesn’t strike me as the type who’d let his daughter have enough freedom to become a liability.”
“He doesn’t have to let her.” I’m already planning, mind working through possibilities with the kind of focus that fifteen years of forced patience has honed. “He just has to underestimate her. Most men who treat women like property make that mistake—they assume obedience equals compliance, that silence equals agreement.”
“And you think Regina Picarelli is secretly rebellious underneath all that perfection?”
“I think Regina Picarelli is a survivor playing a long game her father doesn’t even realize she’s playing.” The certainty of it settles in my chest. “I think she’s been waiting for an opportunity, an opening, something that might give her a chance at escape. And I think we might be able to offer that.”
“In exchange for what?”
“Information. Intelligence about her father’s operations, his security, his plans regarding Simeone’s family and operation.” I start pacing again, energy building as the plan takes shape. “But more than that—we offer her something her father never has. Choice. Agency. A way out of the cage.”
“That’s a hell of an assumption based on thirty minutes of surveillance footage and her looking tired at a gala.”
“It’s an educated guess based on patterns I recognize.” I stop, meeting Tiziano’s skeptical gaze. “I know what it looks like when someone’s learned to survive by disappearing. I spent fifteen years watching people do it. Regina Picarelli has all the markers.”
“And if you’re wrong? If she’s actually loyal to her father and reports everything back to him?”
“Then we adapt.” The answer comes easily. “But I don’t think I’m wrong. Call it instinct, call it experience, call it whateveryou want—that woman in those videos isn’t content. She’s enduring.”
Tiziano is quiet for a long moment, and I can see him weighing my words against his own observations. Finally, he nods.
“Simeone needs to know about this. About the Moretti job connection, about Picarelli’s patterns, about your interest in his daughter.”
“Agreed.” I check my watch—almost time for the regular check-in. “Set up a meeting. Tonight if possible. The longer we wait, the more opportunities Sabino has to escalate.”
“And the daughter?”
“One problem at a time.” But even as I say it, I know Regina Picarelli isn’t a problem—she’s a puzzle I’m uncomfortably interested in solving.
After Tiziano leaves to arrange the meeting with Simeone, I return to the window overlooking Picarelli’s building. The afternoon sun catches the glass and steel, making it look almost beautiful if I ignore what it represents.
Not long after, my phone buzzes with a message from Tiziano.
Meeting set. 11 PM at the estate. Simeone wants full briefing on everything we’ve learned.
