Page 29 of His Enemy's Daughter
“Is that what you did? In prison?” She studies my face like she’s trying to read secrets written in scar tissue. “Just performed the role until you forgot who you really were?”
“Some days. Other days I held onto who I was so tightly it hurt. The trick is knowing which approach keeps you alive.”
“And which approach keeps you alive with Regina Picarelli?”
“I don’t know yet. Ask me again when this is over.”
“If we’re both still alive.”
“If we’re both still alive,” I agree.
She leaves without another word, and I watch from the window as her car disappears into city traffic. My phone buzzes—Tiziano, confirming the intelligence upload and requesting a debrief at the estate.
By the time I arrive at Simeone’s fortress, the sun is setting behind walls and security systems, painting everything in shades of amber and shadow. Simeone meets me in his office—power and responsibility written across every expensive surface.
“How did the surveillance go?” He pours two glasses of whiskey without asking if I want one. “Tiziano said you confirmed the Rotterdam connection.”
“We did.” I take the offered glass, needing the burn. “Regina’s intelligence was accurate. The manifest matches what she said, security rotations are exactly as she described, timing for potential intervention is viable.”
“That’s good news.” But Simeone’s studying me with eyes that have known me too long to miss the tension. “So why do you look like someone kicked your dog?”
“Because the situation with Regina Picarelli is becoming complicated.”
“Complicated how?”
I drain half the whiskey in one swallow, buying time to arrange thoughts that refuse to organize themselves logically.
“She’s smart, Simeone. Not just educated or well-trained—actually intelligent in ways that make her dangerous. She thinks strategically, sees patterns I miss, suggests alternatives I haven’t considered. Working with her is like—”
“Like working with an equal?” He finishes my sentence with unsettling accuracy. “Like finding someone who matches you intellectually?”
“Yes,” I admit reluctantly. “And that makes everything more complicated.”
“Because you’re attracted to her.”
It’s not a question. Simeone knows me too well to mistake my tone for anything except exactly what it is—a man wrestling with desire that threatens to compromise everything.
“I’m attracted to the enemy’s daughter.” I force myself to say it plainly. “To a woman I’m supposed to be using as an intelligence asset. To someone whose life is already complicated enough without me adding my fucked-up baggage to it.”
“Does she feel the same way?”
“I think so. Maybe. Probably.” I run a hand through my hair, frustration mounting. “She kissed me—almost kissed me—and I stopped it. Told her we couldn’t cross that line. That getting involved would compromise the mission and put her in more danger.”
“All of which is true.”
“I know it’s true.” I drain the rest of the whiskey. “But knowing something and feeling it are two different things. Every time I’mwith her, every time she challenges me or looks at me with those green eyes that see too much—I want to say fuck the mission and find out what we could be.”
“But you don’t.”
“But I don’t.” I set the empty glass down harder than necessary. “Because I spent fifteen years learning discipline. Because getting distracted by attraction is how people die. Because she deserves better than me.”
Simeone is quiet for a long moment, and I can see him processing everything I’ve said—and more importantly, everything I haven’t said.
“You care about her,” he finally observes. “You actually care what happens to Regina Picarelli.”
“I care about not getting people killed.” But the deflection sounds weak even to my ears. “I care about maintaining operational security. I care about—”
“Mauricio.” He cuts through my bullshit with gentle firmness. “I know what you sound like when you’re lying. This is what you sound like when you’re lying to yourself.”
