Page 68 of His Enemy's Daughter
“And Dr. Muni’s psychological evaluation,” I add, pulling out my phone. “He’s standing by to provide expert testimony about Father’s systematic abuse and manipulation. Three years of session notes documenting everything.”
Borghese’s expression transforms—predatory satisfaction replacing professional neutrality. “You’ve built half my case for me.”
“I’ve been building it for years,” I correct. “You’re just the first person with actual power to use it properly.”
We walk to our car in tense silence, and I feel the weight of seven years lifting with each step. The ledgers that felt like my only weapon, the evidence I’ve gathered in stolen moments, the documentation that’s been my secret rebellion—all of it about to become something bigger than just my personal vendetta.
Mauricio pulls the leather-bound ledger from our trunk, along with three flash drives containing everything I’ve compiled. Hishand rests on the small of my back as he hands everything to Borghese, and I draw strength from that contact.
“If anything happens to her,” Mauricio says, voice dropping to something dangerous, “immunity agreements won’t save you from me, Detective.”
“Noted.” But Borghese is already flipping through the ledger, eyes widening as she processes exactly what she’s holding. “Christ. This is... Miss Picarelli, do you understand what you’ve given me? This isn’t just evidence—this is a roadmap to dismantling his entire organization.”
“Good.” I meet her gaze directly. “Use it. Make sure when you move against him, there’s nothing left except prison bars and regret.”
“Oh, I intend to.” She closes the ledger with reverence usually reserved for religious texts. “But I need you both to understand something. When I move against Sabino, and this becomes public, your life will change forever, Miss Picarelli. You’ll be the daughter who destroyed her father. Some people will see you as a hero. Others will see you as a traitor. That reputation follows you.”
“I’ve been living with reputations I didn’t earn for twenty-eight years.” My hand finds Mauricio’s, fingers lacing through his with a desperate need for connection. “At least this one will be honest.”
Borghese nods slowly, studying us with an expression I can’t quite read. “You two make an interesting pair. The daughter who betrayed her father and the man who spent fifteen years protecting loyalty. What happens after this is over?”
“We figure out who we are when we’re not just surviving,” Mauricio answers honestly. “We build something that isn’t just revenge or rebellion.”
“Then I hope I’m giving you that chance.” Borghese tucks the ledgers and evidence under her arm with the care of someone handling nitroglycerin. “Stay hidden, stay safe, and let me do what I’ve been preparing for eight years to do.”
She’s walking away when I call out, voice cracking with emotion I can’t quite contain. “Detective?”
She turns back, eyebrows raised.
“If it comes to it—” I take a breath, steadying myself. “If the legal approach fails, if Father somehow slips through every charge—I’ll kill him myself. I just wanted you to know that. So you understand what’s at stake.”
The silence that follows is heavy with implications. Borghese should probably arrest me for that admission, should read me my rights and explain how premeditated immunity agreements don’t cover murder.
Instead, she smiles—small, understanding, tinged with something that looks like approval.
“I hope it won’t come to that,” she says quietly. “But if it does? I understand. And I’ll make sure any evidence gets buried where it can’t hurt you.”
Then she’s gone, disappearing into the parking garage shadows with everything I’ve gathered, everything I’ve sacrificed, everything I’ve risked for seven years.
I collapse against the car, adrenaline finally crashing, and Mauricio’s arms wrap around me before I can fully process what just happened.
“We did it,” I whisper against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong beneath my palm. “We actually did it.”
“We did.” His lips brush against my temple. “But it’s not over yet, Regina. We need to wait until Borghese moves, and every second of that, your father’s going to be hunting us.”
“Let him hunt.” I pull back enough to meet his eyes, seeing my own fierce determination reflected in storm-gray depths. “We’re not running anymore. We’re just waiting for the hammer to fall.”
“Poetic.” But he’s smiling, that dangerous expression that makes heat pool low in my belly. “Though I’d prefer if the hammer fell on Sabino instead of us.”
“That’s the plan.” I rise on my toes, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Now let’s get to that federal safe house before someone collects on our bounties.”
“We’re not going to the federal house.”
“Oh?” I raise my brows.
“I might be working with the feds, but I don’t trust them,” he tells me. “The cabin hasn’t been compromised. We’re going back.”
I stare at him for a long moment, then burst out laughing. The sound is slightly hysterical, slightly unhinged, but it feels right—like releasing pressure that’s been building for twenty-eight years.
