Page 4 of His Enemy's Daughter
“I’m talking about justice.” The correction is important. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” But she’s not judging, just clarifying. “Because from where I’m sitting, revenge and justice look awfully similar.”
“Revenge is emotional. Justice is calculated.” I lean back in my chair. “I’ve had fifteen years to move past emotion and into calculation.”
Simeone has been quiet during this exchange, watching his wife assess me with the kind of pride that comes from seeingsomeone you love hold their own. When Loriana finally nods, accepting my explanation if not entirely approving of it, he speaks.
“Mauricio will be staying in the outer guest house,” he tells her. “Close enough for security but separate enough for privacy.”
“And planning revenge,” Loriana adds dryly.
“And planning justice,” I correct with a smile. “Let’s use the right words.”
Alessandro chooses that moment to make his presence known with a cry that pierces through our conversation. Loriana immediately moves to him, and I watch as Simeone’s entire posture shifts; it becomes softer, more vulnerable, and wholly focused on his family.
This is what he built while I was locked away. Not just an empire or wealth or power, but something real and worth protecting. The kind of life I never thought possible for men like us.
“You’re staring,” Simeone observes, catching me watching them.
“I’m processing.” I drain my coffee. “Fifteen years ago, if someone had told me you’d be a family man, I would have laughed them out of the room.”
“Fifteen years ago, I would have agreed with you.” He takes Alessandro from Loriana’s arms with practiced ease. “People change.”
“Some people change,” I correct. “Others just become more of what they always were.”
“Which one are you?”
It’s the question I’ve been asking myself since the day I walked into prison. The answer feels important, like it might define everything that comes next.
“I guess we’ll find out.”
2
Mauricio
“You’re going to wear a hole in that floor.”
I stop pacing the guest house’s hardwood and turn to find Tiziano Monacelli leaning against the doorframe, winter-pale eyes assessing me with the kind of careful neutrality that comes from years of reading dangerous men.
“Didn’t hear you knock.” I settle into the leather chair by the window, forcing myself to appear relaxed even though every muscle in my body is coiled tight with restless energy. “Simeone sent you to check if I’ve stolen the silverware yet?”
“He sent me to bring you these.” Tiziano crosses the room and drops a stack of files on the coffee table between us. “Securityprotocols, territorial maps, and everything we have on current threats to the family.”
“Thoughtful.” I eye the files without touching them. “Or is this a test to see if fifteen years inside made me forget how to read intelligence reports?”
“It’s Simeone trusting you with information that could destroy him.” Tiziano’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s steel beneath his words. “Don’t make him regret it.”
“Protective.” I lean forward, genuinely curious now. “How long have you been his right hand?”
“Twelve years.” He doesn’t elaborate, but I can read the subtext—he’s been here for most of my absence, earned his position through loyalty and competence while I was counting ceiling tiles.
“Then you know better than most what I sacrificed to keep him safe.” I let edge creep into my voice. “So spare me the territorial pissing match and tell me what I actually need to know.”
For a moment, we stare at each other, two predators trying to establish hierarchy. Then Tiziano’s mouth quirks in something that might be respect.
“We’ve been receiving threats. Anonymous at first, but they’ve escalated over the past three months.” He gestures to the files. “All trace back to the same general area—eastern territories.”
“Sabino Picarelli’s domain.” The name tastes familiar, like something I should remember but can’t quite place. “What’s his problem with Simeone?”
