Page 42 of His Enemy's Daughter
“How long have you known?” I turn to face him fully, not caring about the cameras that might be recording this. “How long have you known Lorenzo Di Noto murders his wives, and Father’s giving me to him anyway?”
“Two days.” Guilt flashes across his features. “I’ve been investigating since your father announced the engagement. Both wives died within a year of marriage—one drove off a cliff,and the other into a tree. Officially ruled accidents, but the circumstances were suspicious enough that I kept digging.”
“And you were going to tell me when?” Anger spikes through the fear.
“Tonight, after dinner. I wanted to be certain first.” He glances toward the dining room, lowering his voice even further. “Regina, we need to get you out. Now. Not in three weeks—now.”
“How?” The question comes out desperate. “Father’s tripled my security. I can’t go anywhere without armed guards. He’s tracking my phone, my car, probably my goddamn shoes at this point.”
“Then we create a distraction—”
“Mr. Caselli.” Father’s voice cuts through our whispered conversation like a knife. “Is there a problem?”
We both turn to find Sabino standing in the hallway, expression pleasant but eyes cold with suspicion.
“Miss Picarelli felt unwell,” Giordano says smoothly, his mask sliding into place with practiced ease. “I was ensuring she had what she needed.”
“How thoughtful.” But Father’s gaze moves between us with calculating interest. “Regina, perhaps you should retire for theevening. We wouldn’t want you feeling poorly so close to the wedding.”
It’s not a suggestion.
“Of course, Father.” I force myself to kiss his cheek, skin crawling with revulsion. “Thank you for understanding.”
“Always,figlia mia.” His hand rests on my shoulder—heavy, possessive, threatening. “Sleep well. Tomorrow we have dress fittings, and I want you looking your best.”
I escape to my room before the tears can fall, before the panic clawing at my throat can break free. My security detail follows—two armed men who position themselves outside my door with the efficiency of prison guards.
Because that’s what this is. A prison. And in three weeks, I’ll be transferred to a different cell with a warden who enjoys watching his prisoners bleed.
My phone buzzes with a message on the encrypted app—the one Father doesn’t know exists because I’ve been so careful, so paranoid.
Status update? Haven’t heard from you in 48 hours. - M.B.
Mauricio. Just seeing his initials makes something in my chest unclench slightly. I lock my bathroom door—the one place I’mreasonably certain cameras don’t reach—and type with shaking fingers.
Situation deteriorating rapidly. Need to see you. Tonight if possible.
His response comes within seconds.
Too risky. Security’s been doubled around you.
I don’t care about risk anymore. Lorenzo Di Noto killed his previous wives. Father knows. He’s giving me to a murderer.
The typing indicator appears, disappears, appears again. Finally:
Meet me at the usual place. 2 AM. Can you get away?
I stare at the message, calculating impossibilities. Two guards outside my door. Tracking on my phone and car. Probably motion sensors on the windows. Father’s paranoia has turned my bedroom into Fort Knox.
But staying means dying.
I’ll find a way.
Be careful. If you’re caught…
I’m already dead if I stay. At least this way I’m choosing how I die.
I delete the conversation, clear the app’s cache, and stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. The woman looking back is pale, haunted, wearing a blue dress. She looks like someone who’s been performing her entire life and just realized the show’s about to kill her.
