Page 74 of His Enemy's Daughter
His eyes go glassy, fixed on nothing, and I feel... relief. Pure, crystalline relief that he’s gone. That he can’t hurt me anymore. Can’t use me. Can’t manipulate or control or trap me in gilded cages while calling it love.
The gun falls from my nerveless fingers, clattering on stone that’s probably witnessed a thousand prayers and now holds one more body. Mauricio’s arms wrap around me before I fully process what I’ve done, holding me steady while aftershocks of adrenaline make my hands shake.
“It’s done,” he murmurs against my temple. “It’s over.”
“I killed him.” The words sound distant, like someone else is saying them. “I actually killed him.”
“You freed yourself.” His correction is gentle but firm. “There’s a difference.”
Giordano approaches slowly, his weapon holstered now, expression carrying something that looks like pride. “He would have killed you the moment he had the chance, Regina. You did what needed to be done.”
“I know.” And I do. Logically, rationally, I understand that Sabino would never have stopped. Would never have let me go. This was always going to end in blood—the only question was whose.
I chose mine to stay inside my body instead of painting church floors.
“We need to move.” Mauricio’s tactical mind is already working. “Borghese will be here soon to clean up the scene. David’s men have contained the reinforcements outside. But we should be gone before authorities arrive with questions we don’t want to answer.”
“What about...” I gesture at Sabino’s body, feeling nothing. No grief, no guilt. Just exhaustion that settles into my bones.
“Detective Borghese gets her crime scene.” Mauricio guides me toward the exit with Giordano flanking us. “Sabino Picarelli died in a shootout with parties unknown. His empire collapses under federal investigation. Justice, technically, is served.”
“And we disappear.” I understand the plan now, the brilliance of letting the legal system claim credit while we walk away clean.
“For a while.” His hand finds mine, fingers lacing together with desperate need for connection. “Until the dust settles and bounties expire and we can figure out who we are when we’re not just surviving.”
I take one last look at the church—at Sabino’s body lying in his own blood, at the broken stained glass painting everything red, at the altar where he thought he’d reclaim his property and instead found his end.
“Goodbye, Father,” I whisper, and mean it as the final farewell it is. “Thank you for teaching me exactly what kind of person I never want to become.”
Then I walk out into fading sunlight with Mauricio’s hand in mine and Giordano’s solid presence at my back, leaving behind corpses and curses and twenty-eight years of imprisonment.
Free, finally.
Even if that freedom cost blood.
23
Regina
“I can still smell the gunpowder.”
The words fall into the cabin’s silence like stones into deep water. I sit curled on the couch, wrapped in one of Mauricio’s shirts that smells like cedar and safety, watching dawn break over mountains that don’t care about blood or bullets or the weight of killing your father.
Mauricio doesn’t look up from the coffee he’s making, doesn’t offer platitudes about it getting easier or time healing wounds. He just pours two cups with a steadiness of someone who understands that some actions can’t be undone, only survived.
“It’ll fade,” he says finally, bringing me coffee that’s too strong and exactly what I need. “The smell. The way his face looked when he realized you actually pulled the trigger. The sound of him hitting the floor.” He settles beside me, close but not crowding. “What doesn’t fade is the knowledge that you did what needed to be done.”
“Does that make it easier?” I wrap my hands around the mug, seeking warmth that has nothing to do with temperature. “Knowing it was necessary?”
“No.” His honesty cuts cleaner than comfort would. “But it makes it survivable.”
We sit in silence punctuated only by coffee sips and the distant sound of David’s men patrolling the property. Three days since I shot Sabino. Seventy-two hours since I became a killer. The world should feel different, but instead everything just feels... quiet.
My phone buzzes with another text from Borghese. The detective has been updating us hourly, her messages clinical and efficient:
Crime scene processed. Narrative established: Sabino Picarelli was killed in a shootout during the attempted kidnapping of his daughter, Regina. Self-defense ruling likely. Federal warrants have been executed on the remaining organization members.
Then, an hour later,
