Page 5 of His Enemy's Daughter
“Old grudge, new opportunities.” Tiziano settles into the chair across from me. “Picarelli’s been making moves, testing boundaries, seeing how much he can push before Simeone pushes back. Loriana and Alessandro are pressure points.”
“Coward’s tactics.” I flip open the first file, scanning details that paint a picture of systematic intimidation. “Going after family instead of confronting the man directly.”
“Smart tactics, if you’re trying to destabilize without starting an all-out war.” Tiziano’s correction carries the weight of experience. “Picarelli’s calculating. He won’t move unless he’s certain he can win.”
“Then we make sure he never feels that certain.” I close the file, my mind already working through possibilities. “What else do we know about him?”
“Ruthless. Paranoid. Controls shipping routes that compete with ours.” Tiziano ticks off points on his fingers. “Has a reputation for eliminating partners who become inconvenient. No known weaknesses except—”
“Except?”
“He has a daughter. Regina. Twenty-eight, educated, works as his business consultant.” Something shifts in Tiziano’sexpression. “By all accounts, she’s the only thing he gives a damn about.”
“Family man, then.” The irony isn’t lost on me. “Threatens Simeone’s family while protecting his own.”
“More like property man.” Tiziano’s disgust is subtle but present. “Word is he keeps her on a short leash. She’s a trophy, a bargaining chip for alliances.”
“Charming.” I file that information away for later, already seeing how it might be useful. “Where does he keep this treasured daughter?”
“Mostly at his estate in the eastern district. Sometimes she attends charity events, business functions—always heavily guarded.” Tiziano pulls out his phone, scrolls for a moment, then turns the screen toward me. “This was taken at a gala three weeks ago.”
The photo shows a woman in an emerald dress. Dark hair pulled back in some elaborate style, green eyes that somehow manage to look both stunning and dead at the same time. She’s smiling for the camera, but it’s the kind of smile that doesn’t reach anywhere near her soul.
“She’s beautiful.” The observation comes out more clinical than I intend.
“She’s miserable.” Tiziano’s correction is blunt. “Everyone who’s met her says the same thing—perfect manners, perfect appearance, absolutely nothing real beneath the surface.”
“Sounds like someone who’s learned to survive by becoming whatever people expect.” I study the photo more closely, noting details the casual observer might miss—the tension in her shoulders, the way her hand grips her clutch like a lifeline, the practiced nature of that hollow smile. “How often does she appear in public?”
“Monthly, usually at events that benefit Picarelli’s legitimate business interests.” Tiziano takes his phone back, and I find myself oddly reluctant to lose sight of Regina’s image. “Why?”
“Just gathering information.” I stand, moving to the window that overlooks Simeone’s estate. “If Picarelli’s using Simeone’s family as pressure points, turnabout seems fair.”
“You’re talking about going after his daughter.” It’s not a question, and Tiziano’s voice carries warning. “That’s complicated.”
“Everything worth doing is worth the complication.” I turn back to face him. “But I’m not talking about hurting her. I’m talking about understanding the pieces on the board before making any moves.”
“Simeone won’t approve of you dragging an innocent woman into this.”
“Simeone spent fifteen years feeling guilty about me being in prison.” I move back to the coffee table, picking up the files. “He’ll understand that sometimes you need leverage to create change.”
Tiziano stands, and suddenly the room feels smaller, more dangerous. “I’m going to say this once, because Simeone trusts you and that means something. Regina Picarelli isn’t a chess piece. She’s a person trapped in a situation she didn’t create. Whatever you’re planning, remember that.”
“Noted.” I meet his gaze steadily. “Anything else?”
“Yeah.” He heads for the door, pauses with his hand on the frame. “Welcome home, Mauricio. Try not to burn everything down in your first week back.”
“No promises.”
He’s gone before I can say more, leaving me alone with files full of intelligence and a head full of plans that are probably stupid but feel necessary anyway.
Three hours later, I’m drowning in information that paints a picture of a world that moved on without me. Technology I don’t understand—these “ More sophisticated smartphones” everyone seems addicted to, social media platforms that track every moment of people’s lives, security systems that make old-school surveillance look like children’s toys.
The city itself has changed beyond recognition. Neighborhoods I knew as dangerous are now trendy. Restaurants I frequented are gone, replaced by concepts that didn’t exist fifteen years ago. Even the language feels different—slang I don’t recognize, cultural references that sail over my head.
I’m a ghost in a world that buried me and moved on.
The thought should bother me more than it does. Instead, I find it clarifying. No attachments means nothing to lose. No history means freedom to reinvent. Fifteen years of sacrifice bought me the kind of clean slate most people never get.
