Page 67 of His Enemy's Daughter
“My father says a lot of things.” I step forward, acutely aware of Mauricio’s presence at my back—solid, protective, his hand probably resting near the gun tucked against his spine. “Most of them are lies designed to manipulate whoever’s listening.”
“Fair assessment.” Borghese’s gaze flicks to Mauricio, assessing him with the kind of professional interest that comes from years of reading dangerous men. “Mr. Barone. The shoulder healing well?”
“Well enough to put a bullet in anyone who threatens her.” His voice carries that rough edge I’m learning means he’s on high alert. “Let’s skip the pleasantries, Detective. You said you have immunity agreements?”
She reaches slowly into her briefcase—telegraphing every movement so Mauricio doesn’t shoot her—and pulls out a folder thick with legal documents. “Federal immunity for Miss Picarelli, covering any crimes committed under duress or coercion. Witness protection if she needs it, though given Mr. Codella’s resources, that might be redundant.”
I take the folder with hands that tremble slightly, scanning legal language that I’ve dreamed about for years. It’s real. Actual immunity, signed by people whose names I recognize from news coverage of major prosecutions.
“This is legitimate,” I breathe, looking up at Borghese with something between hope and suspicion. “Why?”
“Because your father murdered my partner.” The words come out flat, emotionless, but I see the grief underneath. “Nine years ago. Landon was investigating Sabino’s trafficking operations, got too close, and ended up in the river with two bullets in his head. Officially ruled a mob hit by persons unknown. I’ve been building this case ever since.”
The raw honesty steals my response. This isn’t just professional dedication—it’s personal vendetta wrapped in legal procedure.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I finally manage.
“Don’t be sorry. Help me make sure he pays for it.” Borghese pulls out another folder. “This is my federal case—eight years of evidence, testimony, and financial records. But I’m missing one crucial piece.”
“The ledgers,” Mauricio says.
“The ledgers.” She meets his gaze directly. “With those, I can connect everything. Prove the trafficking, the murders, the bribes. Without them, I have a strong case that could still fall apart with the right legal maneuvering.”
I look at Mauricio, seeing my own hesitation reflected in his storm-gray eyes. We stole those ledgers to destroy Father ourselves, to burn his empire using the intelligence I’ve gathered for years. Handing them to law enforcement feels like giving up control.
But it also feels like finally having legitimate power instead of just desperate revenge.
“We have conditions,” I say, decision crystallizing with startling clarity.
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.” Borghese pulls out a notepad, pen poised. “What do you need?”
“Giordano Caselli.” His name catches in my throat. “Father’s enforcer. He helped me escape, and Father’s been torturing him as punishment. When you move against Sabino, I need you to make sure Giordano gets medical attention and immunity, too.”
Borghese’s pen pauses. “Giordano Caselli has killed people, Miss Picarelli. Specifically, he’s killed at least eight people we can prove. Immunity for him is complicated.”
“So is everything about this situation.” I step closer, letting her see exactly how serious I am. “Giordano has been gathering his own evidence against Father for years. He has information about hits I don’t know about, operations I’ve never seen. He’s been protecting me since I was ten years old, and if you can’t save him, then maybe your federal case isn’t as strong as you think.”
The challenge hangs between us, and I watch Borghese calculate—weighing the value of Giordano’s testimony against the crimes he’s committed.
“I can offer him a deal,” she finally says. “Testimony in exchange for reduced sentencing. He’ll do time, but not life. And I’llmake sure he gets medical attention immediately when we raid Sabino’s estate.”
It’s not perfect. But it’s more than I had five minutes ago.
“Deal,” I say, before Mauricio can object. “When do you move?”
“Soon.” Borghese closes her notepad with decisive finality. “I need time to coordinate with federal prosecutors, get warrants signed, and assemble the tactical teams. But once I have those ledgers, I can move fast.”
“There are still twenty-five million worth of bounties on our heads.”
“Which is why you’re going to disappear completely.” Borghese pulls out yet another folder—this woman came prepared. “Safe house coordinates, secured by federal marshals who don’t know what case they’re protecting. You stay there, don’t contact anyone, don’t take any risks. Before you know it, this will be over.”
“Just like that?” Skepticism colors my voice. “We hand over everything we have, hide in a federal safe house, and trust that you’ll actually follow through?”
“No.” Her correction is gentle but firm. “You hand over evidence, hide in a secure location, and watch as I do what I’ve been preparing for eight years to do. You don’t have to trust me completely, Miss Picarelli. You just have to trust that I want Sabino Picarelli destroyed even more than you do.”
This woman isn’t lying—she’s been living for this moment, building this case brick by brick while Father dismissed her as an annoyance he couldn’t quite eliminate.
“The ledgers are in our car,” Mauricio says, making the decision for both of us. “Along with the evidence Regina gathered throughout her own years of snooping around, financial records, encrypted communications, and testimony she’s documented about his crimes.”
