Page 17 of His Enemy's Daughter
His voice is exactly what I imagined from the surveillance footage—rough edges smoothed by intelligence, dangerous in its casual confidence. Up close, he’s more striking than photographs suggested—all sharp angles and contained violence, wrapped in expensive clothes that can’t quite hide what he is underneath.
“It’s a free country.” I gesture to the chair across from me with false casualness. “Though given how many empty tables there are, I’m curious why you’re choosing this one specifically.”
“Maybe I like the view.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes as he settles into the chair with the kind of careful grace that speaks to years of measuring distance and space. “Or maybe I recognize someone else who’s pretending to work while actually watching the door.”
Caught. Completely, thoroughly caught.
But I’ve spent twenty-eight years learning to lie with my face, so I arrange my expression into polite confusion. “I’m sorry?”
“Don’t be.” He takes a sip of his coffee, studying me over the rim with those storm-gray eyes that seem to see too much. “Regina Picarelli, right? I’ve seen you in the society pages. Sabino’s daughter, the one with all the degrees and perfect manners.”
“And you’re Mauricio Barone.” No point denying it when we both know the game we’re playing. “Fresh out of prison and apparently frequenting coffee shops in my father’s territory.”
“Interesting way to phrase it.” Something shifts in his expression—amusement or respect or both. “Most people would say ‘the neighborhood.’ You say ‘territory.’ Like you’re already thinking strategically about spaces and boundaries.”
“I’m my father’s daughter.” The words taste like ash, but I deliver them with the perfect blend of pride and deference I’ve practiced for years. “Strategic thinking comes with the name.”
“Does it?” He leans back in his chair, and I’m suddenly aware of how he’s positioned himself—casual but controlled, relaxed but ready. “Or is it something you learned to survive having that name?”
The observation lands too close to the truth I’m not ready to acknowledge. I close my laptop with deliberate precision, meeting his gaze directly.
“Why are you really sitting here, Mr. Barone?”
“Call me Mauricio.” His smile sharpens. “And maybe I’m sitting here because I’m curious about the woman who’s been researching me for the past few days.”
Ice floods my veins. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t.” He pulls out his phone, scrolls for a moment, then turns the screen toward me. “Your father’s security isn’t as tight as he thinks. When someone accesses specific files repeatedly—especially someone who shouldn’t have access to those particular files—it leaves traces.”
The screen shows activity logs from Father’s system. My activity logs. Every file I opened, every photo I studied, every piece of intelligence I reviewed about Mauricio Barone and his connection to Simeone Codella.
“How did you—” I start, then stop, because the answer is obvious. Someone in Father’s organization is feeding information to the Codellas. Someone close enough to access security logs and confident enough to share them.
“Relax.” Mauricio pockets his phone. “Your father doesn’t know. Yet. Consider this a courtesy warning—if I found out, others might too.”
“Why tell me?” Suspicion wars with something that feels dangerously like hope. “What do you want?”
“Same thing you want.” He takes another sip of coffee, casual as discussing the weather. “Information. Understanding. Maybe a conversation between two people who recognize that sometimes the roles we’re forced to play don’t match who we actually are.”
The accuracy of his read makes my skin prickle. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Don’t I?” He tilts his head, studying me with unsettling focus. “Twenty-eight years old, MBA from an excellent university, works as your father’s business consultant for his legitimate operations. Never married despite coming from a family where that would be expected. Speaks four languages, plays violin, volunteers at a charity that helps trafficking victims.”
The last detail makes me flinch. “You’ve been researching me too.”
“I’ve been doing my homework.” His correction is gentle but firm. “There’s a difference. Researching is clinical, detached. Homework means you’re trying to understand not just what someone does, but why they do it.”
“And what does your homework tell you about my why?”
“That you’re suffocating.” The words land with devastating accuracy. “That you’ve spent your entire life being the perfect daughter, the perfect asset, the perfect ornament for your father’s empire. That you volunteer at a trafficking charity because you recognize captivity when you see it, even if it looks different from the outside.”
I should leave. Should gather my laptop and walk away from this conversation before it becomes something I can’t take back.
Instead, I lean forward slightly, drawn by the same gravitational pull that’s been haunting me since I first saw his photograph.
“That’s quite a theory based on public information and surveillance.”
“It’s an educated guess based on patterns I recognize.” His expression softens almost imperceptibly. “I know what it looks like when someone’s learned to survive by becoming invisible. I spent fifteen years watching people perfect that particular skill.”
