Page 3 of His Enemy's Daughter
The estate appears on the horizon like something from another world—sprawling grounds, security that would make government facilities jealous, the kind of wealth that whispers rather than shouts. This is what Simeone built while I was locked away, and despite my best efforts at cynicism, I’m impressed.
“Home sweet fortress,” I observe as we pass through expensive looking gates.
“Security became non-negotiable after Flavio’s stunt.” Simeone parks in a circular drive that could host a small battalion. “Loriana and Alessandro’s safety isn’t something I compromise on.”
“Spoken like a man who’s discovered what actually matters.” I open the door, stepping onto marble that probably cost more per square foot than I made in my entire criminal career before prison. “Lead the way to domestic bliss.”
The front door opens before we reach it, and suddenly I’m face to face with the woman who tamed the Silver Devil. Loriana Codella is smaller and younger than I expected—petite, dark-haired, with eyes that assess me with the kind of intelligence that immediately earns respect. She’s holding an infant who has Simeone’s dark eyes and her delicate features.
“So you’re the legendary Mauricio Barone.” Her voice carries notes of suspicion and curiosity in equal measure. “Simeone told me all about you.”
“All lies, I’m sure.” I offer my most charming smile, the one that used to work on marks and women before prison taught me better uses for charm. “Though hopefully the flattering kind of lies.”
“He said you’d either make me love you immediately or want to throw something at your head within five minutes.” She studies me with unsettling intensity. “I’m not sure which one is happening yet.”
“Give it time. I’m an acquired taste.” I shift my attention to the baby, who’s studying me with the kind of focused intensity that babies deploy when deciding whether someone is safe. “This must be Alessandro. He has your face, Loriana, and his father’s suspicious nature.”
“Smart boy.” Simeone moves to his wife’s side, and the way he positions himself—protective but not possessive, close but not smothering—tells me everything about how their relationship works.
“Come inside,” Loriana says, stepping back to allow entry. “I’ll make coffee while you two catch up, though I suspect you’ve already covered the important topics during the drive.”
“We’ve barely scratched the surface,” I tell her, following them into a foyer that screams old money and new power. “Simeone was always terrible at small talk.”
“He’s terrible at most forms of communication that don’t involve intimidation or commanding loyalty.” But there’s affection in her voice, the kind that comes from seeing someone’s flaws and loving them anyway. “Though he’s getting better. Slowly.”
“Marriage is supposed to be about compromise,” Simeone says dryly. “Apparently, that includes learning to express emotions instead of just threatening people who upset me.”
“How’s that working out for you?” I can’t help but grin at the image of the Silver Devil attending couples therapy or whatever domestic arrangement he’s made.
“Better than expected, though I still threaten people occasionally.” He catches Loriana’s expression. “Much less frequently than before. I’m a work in progress.”
“A work in progress with excellent security protocols and marginally improved communication skills.” Loriana shifts Alessandro to her other hip. “Now, coffee. And then Mauricio can tell us what his plans are, because I doubt he spent fifteen years in prison without making some very specific plans for when he got out.”
The casual way she acknowledges my imprisonment and expected vengeance tells me she’s been fully briefed on my history—and that she’s comfortable enough with it to joke. Thiswoman is either incredibly naive or dangerously perceptive, and I’m betting on the latter.
“Your wife is terrifying,” I tell Simeone as we follow her toward what I assume is a kitchen. “I approve.”
“She’s magnificent,” he corrects, but there’s pride in his voice. “And yes, she is terrifying. It’s one of her many charms.”
The kitchen is warm, modern, the kind of space designed for actual living rather than just cooking. Loriana sets Alessandro in a bassinet that probably has more features than my prison cell and starts making coffee with practiced efficiency.
“So,” she says without turning around. “Fifteen years is a long time to be angry. What are you going to do about the people who put you away?”
“Direct.” I settle into a chair at the massive table. “I like that. No dancing around the uncomfortable questions.”
“Life’s too short for dancing.” She glances over her shoulder, and there’s steel beneath her casual demeanor. “Besides, if you’re working with my husband, I need to know whether you’re going to bring more trouble to our doorstep.”
“Fair question.” I accept the coffee she slides across the table, noting how she’s positioned herself between me and her son. “The answer is yes, I’m going to burn down whoever set me up. But I’m also smart enough to keep that fire away from people who matter.”
“People who matter being us?”
“Being Simeone and whatever he’s built while I was gone.” I take a sip of coffee that’s better than anything I’ve tasted in fifteen years. “I’m not stupid enough to jeopardize his empire or endanger his family. That’s not how this works.”
“How does it work?” She’s relentless, and I find myself respecting her more with each question.
“I hunt. I gather intelligence. I make the kind of moves that happen in shadows, far from anything that could splash back on legitimate operations.” I meet her gaze directly. “And when I’m ready, I eliminate threats with the kind of precision that leaves no traces.”
“You’re talking about murder.”
