Page 70 of His Enemy's Daughter
Six feet under, preferably. Or in pieces small enough that identification requires dental records.
The thought should probably bother me more than it does. When I was younger, I might have hesitated at the cold calculation required to plan a man’s death. But prison burns away hesitation the same way it burns away everything soft and unnecessary. What’s left is the truth I’ve always known—some men don’t deserve the mercy of legal systems and second chances.
Sabino murdered Regina’s parents. Raised her as property. Used her as a bargaining chip for twenty-eight years. The ledgers she handed Borghese document dozens of other crimes—murders, trafficking, extortion—each one representing lives destroyed by a man who thinks power makes him untouchable.
Let Borghese have her arrests and her headlines. I’ll settle for making sure he never threatens Regina again.
My phone rings—David, already reporting progress. “First shipment seized at Port Elizabeth. Thirty million in product, confiscated by very motivated customs officials who received anonymous tips about container contents.”
“Motivated by your generous contributions to their retirement funds?” I ask dryly.
“Everyone deserves financial security, my friend.” His laugh carries genuine amusement. “Second shipment rerouted to wrong destination—will take weeks to locate and recover. Thirdone? Let’s just say there was an unfortunate fire at the warehouse. Total loss.”
“You work fast.”
“I work thorough,” he corrects. “And I remember that Sabino Picarelli once tried to move into territory that wasn’t his. Cost me good men before we pushed him back. This? This is old debt collecting interest.”
I file that information away for later examination. Sabino’s made more enemies than even I realized, which means his empire was always more fragile than it appeared. We’re not destroying something solid—we’re exposing the rot that’s been hidden under expensive suits and reputation.
“Keep the pressure consistent,” I tell David. “I want him bleeding from every direction.”
“Consider it done.”
“You’re plotting without me.”
Regina’s voice makes me turn, and the sight of her leaning against the bedroom doorframe in my shirt—just my shirt, hanging to mid-thigh and revealing miles of bare leg—derails every strategic thought in my head.
“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” I manage, though my voice has dropped to something rougher.
“Hard to sleep when I can hear you orchestrating someone’s destruction in the next room.” She moves toward me with that dangerous grace that makes me forget she’s not supposed to be the one thing I can’t plan around. “David Kalinin?”
“You were listening.”
“I was strategizing.” She takes the phone from my hand, scrolling through my recent calls with the efficiency of someone used to gathering intelligence. “David for international pressure, Tiziano for territorial squeeze, Borghese for legal assault. You’re attacking him from four directions simultaneously.”
“Five.” I catch her wrist, pulling her close enough that bergamot and vanilla wrap around me like temptation. “You’re going to systematically freeze his hidden accounts. The ones you told me about—the emergency funds he thinks no one knows exist.”
Her smile turns predatory. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
“I need you on the computer within the hour.” My hands find her hips, thumbs tracing circles through the expensive cotton that now smells like me. “Can you do it without being traced?”
“Please.” She rises on her toes, lips brushing my jaw. “I’ve been planning this particular revenge since I was sixteen and figured out his password scheme. He’ll wake up tomorrow morning and find himself suddenly, catastrophically poor.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Your girl wants coffee before committing financial terrorism.” But she’s not pulling away, and neither am I, and suddenly the strategic planning feels less urgent than mapping the curve of her neck with my mouth.
Her fingers thread through my hair, nails scraping lightly against my scalp in a way that makes strategic thinking nearly impossible. “Mauricio.”
“Mmm?”
“What aren’t you telling Borghese?”
The question cuts through the haze of want, sharp enough that I pull back to meet her eyes. Green depths study me with the intelligence that first made me realize she was dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with her father’s name.
“What makes you think I’m not telling her everything?” I hedge, because admitting I’m planning murder to a woman who’s already sacrificed so much feels like another weight she shouldn’t have to carry.
“Because I know you.” Her hand cups my face, thumb tracing the scar that runs from temple to jaw. “You’re coordinating with her, feeding her information, letting her make her arrests. But you don’t trust her to finish this. Not really.”
