Page 6 of His Enemy's Daughter
My phone—a sleek device Simeone provided that I’m still learning to operate—buzzes with a message.
Security footage from the estate’s main gate. Thought you’d want to review. - T
I pull up the video, watching as cars come and go with the kind of casual frequency that speaks to how normalized this level of surveillance has become. Delivery trucks, staff vehicles, the occasional visitor vetted so thoroughly they probably had background checks dating back to childhood.
Then I see it—a pattern in the timestamps. Same vehicle, different drivers, appearing at intervals that seem random until you plot them on a calendar. Every nine days like clockwork, always during shift changes when security is most distracted.
“Smart,” I mutter, zooming in on the vehicle’s plates. “Not smart enough, but smart.”
I’m about to dig deeper when another file catches my attention. Security footage from external cameras monitoring approaches to the estate. Standard practice—Simeone’s paranoia has always been well-earned—but something about the angle seems off.
I open the file and suddenly I’m watching footage from what appears to be a charity gala. The timestamp reads three weeks ago, matching Tiziano’s earlier reference.
The camera sweeps across a ballroom where designer gowns and bespoke suits serve as expensive camouflage. I catalog faces from my intelligence reports—a senator with offshore accounts, a tech CEO laundering cartel money, legitimate businessmen who’ve never done legitimate business. Then the lens finds her.
Regina Picarelli stands near the bar, that same hollow smile fixed on her face as she converses with an older man whose body language screams proprietary interest. Her father, I realize, watching how he touches her arm with casual possession, how she responds with practiced deference that makes my skin crawl.
I watch as they move through the crowd, Sabino introducing his daughter to various contacts with the air of someonedisplaying valuable merchandise. Regina plays her part perfectly—charming without being flirtatious, intelligent without threatening anyone’s ego, beautiful without drawing too much attention.
It’s a masterclass in survival, and I recognize it because I spent fifteen years perfecting the same skill set in an environment where showing weakness meant death.
The footage continues, tracking Regina’s movements throughout the evening. Always within sight of her father’s security. Always aware of exits and potential threats. Always wearing that smile that doesn’t reach anywhere near her eyes.
Then something happens. She excuses herself, moving toward what I assume are restrooms. The camera angle switches, following her down a corridor away from the crowd. For just a moment—maybe five seconds—she stops. Her shoulders drop. That perfect posture crumbles. She presses one hand against the wall like she needs it to stay upright.
Her face, when she tilts it toward the camera without knowing it’s there, shows such raw exhaustion and despair that something in my chest tightens unexpectedly.
Then she straightens, rebuilds that armor, fixes that smile, and walks back into the ballroom like nothing happened.
“Christ.” I rewind the footage, watching that moment again. “What are you surviving, Regina Picarelli?”
My phone buzzes again.
Loriana wants to know if you’re joining us for dinner. She’s making something Italian and insists you need proper food after fifteen years of prison cuisine. - S
I should decline. Should stay here with my files and footage, planning the kind of calculated revenge that requires solitude and focus. But the idea of actual Italian food—and more importantly, the idea of being around people who matter—pulls at something I thought prison had killed.
Be there in twenty minutes.
I close my laptop, but can’t quite bring myself to exit the video file completely. Regina’s face—that moment of raw vulnerability—stays with me as I shower and change into clothes that don’t carry the smell of institution and desperation.
The walk to the main house takes me through grounds that are both fortress and home. Security cameras track my movement, but there’s also beauty here—gardens that someone tends with care, lighting that creates ambiance rather than just functionality, the kind of details that speak to people actually living rather than just surviving.
Loriana answers the door before I can knock. Alessandro balanced on her hip and a wooden spoon in her free hand.
“You’re three minutes early,” she observes. “Simeone said you’d be exactly on time. I guess prison didn’t completely destroy your ability to be unpredictable.”
“I contain multitudes.” I step inside, immediately hit by smells that transport me back to childhood in Sicily—garlic, tomatoes, herbs that have names I’d need to be reminded of. “Something smells incredible.”
“Osso buco.”She leads me toward the kitchen, where Simeone is attempting to open wine with the kind of focused intensity most people reserve for defusing bombs. “Figured if we’re welcoming you back to civilization, we should do it properly.”
“Civilization.” I test the word like it might bite. “Is that what this is?”
“It’s what we’re building.” Simeone finally gets the cork free, pours three glasses of red. “Or trying to build, anyway. Family. Safety. Something worth protecting beyond just power and territory.”
“Domestic bliss in a fortress.” I accept the wine, take a sip that tastes like money and tradition. “You’ve really changed,fratello.”
“He’s still terrifying when necessary,” Loriana assures me, stirring something on the stove that makes my mouth water. “But he’s also capable of having dinner parties now. Progress.”
