Page 24 of His Enemy's Daughter
“Good.” But the way he’s looking at me—like he wants to close the distance, like saying no is physically painful—suggests it’s anything but good.
He glances at the flash drive in his hand. “What’s on this one?”
“Financial records from Father’s eastern operations. Shipping manifests that don’t match the official logs. Evidence of bribes to port officials.” I recite the information in a clinical and professional manner. “Also included are details about his upcoming meeting with suppliers from Rotterdam. Location, time, security detail.”
“Damn.” Respect flashes across his features. “How are you accessing this without raising red flags?”
“Because everyone underestimates the decorative daughter.” The bitterness leaks through despite my best efforts. “Father gives me access to his legitimate business files. He doesn’t realize I taught myself to crack his encrypted systems years ago.”
“That’s—”
“Reckless? Stupid?” I finish for him. “Or maybe just desperate.”
“I was going to say impressive.” He pockets the drive. “Dangerously impressive.”
The compliment shouldn’t warm me as much as it does. “Will you use it? The meeting information?”
“We’ll discuss it with Simeone.” He checks his watch, and I realize we’ve been here longer than planned. “You need to go. The longer you’re gone, the more questions you’ll face.”
“Right.” I move toward my car, then pause. “Mauricio?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For not taking advantage of me.” The admission costs me, but it feels important. “Not many men would have done that.”
“Not many men have spent fifteen years learning the difference between wanting something and deserving it.” His smile is tinged with sadness. “Go home, Regina. Be safe. Don’t take unnecessary risks.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I’ve no doubt about that.” He’s still smiling as I slide into my car, and I carry that image with me as I drive away—Mauricio Barone, silver-haired and dangerous, watching me leave with a glint of mischief in his eyes.
The house is quiet when I slip in through the service entrance, using the route I’ve mapped out over years of sneaking in and out for various rebellions. The kitchen is dark, the staff long since retired for the evening.
I’m almost to the main staircase when the lights flick on.
Rosalia stands in the hallway, resplendent in a silk robe, her expression calculating and cold.
“Out late, aren’t we?” She moves closer, and I catch the scent of her perfume—expensive, cloying, making me want to gag. “Your father was asking after you at dinner. I told him you were feeling unwell, retreating to your room early.”
“Thank you.” I keep my voice neutral, assessing the threat. “I went for a drive. Needed to clear my head.”
“A drive.” She repeats the words like they taste suspicious. “In that part of town? The tracking app on your phone says you spent forty-five minutes in a parking garage near the warehouse district.”
Ice floods my veins. The tracking app. I’d forgotten Father insisted on installing it after the last “security incident.”
“I stopped for coffee.” The lie comes easily after years of practice. “Lost track of time.”
“In a parking garage?” Rosalia’s smile is sharp, predatory. “How fascinating. And here I thought coffee shops had seating.”
We stare at each other, two women who’ve spent years in this house navigating around each other like opposing forces. She’s never cared about my comings and goings before—this sudden interest means she wants something.
“What do you want, Rosalia?”
“Direct. I appreciate that.” She gestures toward Father’s study. “Walk with me. We need to discuss a few things.”
Every instinct screams not to follow her, but refusing would raise more suspicion. I trail her into the study, noting how she closes the door with deliberate care.
“I have a problem.” She settles into Father’s chair with the confidence of someone who’s been planning this moment. “Several problems, actually. And you’re going to help me solve them.”
