Page 7 of His Enemy's Daughter
“Baby steps toward humanity,” Simeone agrees, but there’s warmth in his voice that would have been unthinkable fifteen years ago.
We settle into a conversation that flows easier than it should—war stories from prison, updates on the organization, Loriana’s ruthless business acumen that apparently rivals her husband’s. Alessandro provides entertainment by demonstrating his ability to throw food with impressive accuracy.
It’s normal. Almost painfully so.
“You keep looking at the door,” Loriana observes during a lull in conversation. “Like you’re expecting trouble.”
“Old habits.” I force myself to focus on the present instead of constantly assessing exits and threats. “Prison teaches you that comfort is usually followed by violence.”
“This isn’t prison.” Her voice is gentle but firm. “You’re allowed to relax.”
“Am I though?” The question comes out sharper than intended. “Because I’m sitting here eating incredible food and drinking expensive wine while the people who set me up are still out there living their lives.”
The silence that follows isn’t comfortable.
“Mauricio—” Simeone starts.
“No.” I cut him off. “I’m not saying this to make you feel guilty. I’m saying it because it’s true. Fifteen years, Simeone. Fifteen years of my life gone because someone sold us out, and we still don’t know who.”
“We’ll find them.” His voice carries absolute certainty. “However long it takes.”
“Will we?” I meet his gaze across the table. “Or will you keep building this life—this good, decent life—and eventually decide that revenge isn’t worth risking it?”
“That’s not fair.” Loriana’s interruption is sharp. “You don’t know what Simeone has sacrificed—”
“I know exactly what he’s sacrificed because I was there.” I soften my tone, not wanting to hurt her but needing her to understand. “I’m not angry at him. I’m angry at the situation. At times, I can’t get back. At becoming someone who doesn’t fit in the world anymore.”
Alessandro chooses that moment to start fussing, and Loriana excuses herself to put him to bed. The silence she leaves behind feels heavy with unspoken things.
“You’re right.” Simeone refills our glasses. “I have built something worth protecting. Something that makes me hesitate before doing things that might burn it all down.”
“I’m not asking you to burn anything down.” I swirl the wine, watching it catch the light. “I’m just trying to figure out where I fit in a world that moved on without me.”
“You fit wherever you want to fit.” He leans back, studying me with that penetrating gaze that used to unnerve marks. “The question is what you want, Mauricio. Real talk—what do you actually want?”
What do I want? It’s the same question I asked myself countless times in that cell, and the answer has never gotten clearer.
“I want the people who took fifteen years of my life to pay for it.” The honesty feels dangerous but necessary. “And I want to figure out who the hell I am now that I’m not that thirty-one-year-old kid who thought he was invincible.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive goals.”
“Aren’t they?” I gesture around the kitchen, at this life he’s built. “Because from where I’m sitting, revenge and redemption look like opposite directions.”
“Maybe.” He considers this. “Or maybe they’re two sides of the same coin. Justice for what was taken while building something new with what remains.”
“Philosophical.” I can’t help but smile. “Fatherhood’s made you deep.”
“Fatherhood’s made me realize that some things matter more than others.” He stands, moves to the window that overlooks his empire. “But that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten what was stolen from you—from us. It just means I’m more careful about how I pursue making it right.”
I join him at the window, watching security lights illuminate grounds that represent everything we fought to build.
“Tiziano showed me footage today,” I say, testing waters I’m not sure I should enter. “From a charity gala. Regina Picarelli.”
Simeone’s expression doesn’t change, but I feel tension enter his posture. “What about her?”
“She looks like someone who’s learned to be a ghost in her own life.” I choose my words carefully. “Like someone surviving something nobody else can see.”
“Probably because she is.” He turns to face me fully. “Mauricio, whatever you’re thinking—”
