Page 85 of His Enemy's Daughter
“Bruised ribs, split lip, and alive.” David raises his glass in salute. “Because of him. Because a man I didn’t know, who had no reason to risk himself, decided that four against one offends his sense of fair play.”
“It wasn’t about fair play.” I meet Regina’s gaze, needing her to understand. “It was about what kind of man I wanted to be inside those walls. You can let prison make you into a monster, or you can hold onto pieces of humanity that matter. That day, helping David mattered.”
“The consequences, though.” David’s reminder is gentle. “Vlad’s people came after you for months. Made your life inside very difficult. And you never complained, never asked me to fix it, never suggested that maybe helping me wasn’t worth the trouble it caused.”
“Because it wasn’t trouble.” I set down my wine, the memory of those months sharp but distant now. “It was a choice. And I’d make it again.”
“Which is why, when you called asking for help destroying Sabino Picarelli’s empire, I didn’t hesitate.” David’s voice drops to something serious. “Life debt, Mauricio. In my culture, that means something. You want international connections disrupted? Done. You want shipments seized? Arranged. You want a man to know his world is crumbling from every direction? I make that happen. Because you saved my life when you had no reason except that it was the right thing to do.”
Silence settles over the terrace, weighted with shared history and debts that transcend normal friendship. Regina’s hand finds mine, squeezing gently.
“Thank you,” she says quietly, looking at David. “For helping us. For being there when Mauricio needed you.”
“It's nothing.” But David’s expression suggests it’s everything. “Besides, destroying the empires of men who murder children’s parents? That is good work. Righteous work. The kind that makes the universe slightly more balanced.”
“Speaking of balance.” I deliberately shift the conversation, needing to move past the heaviness. “Regina’s been cooking all afternoon. Whatever she’s making smells incredible, and if we don’t eat soon, I’m going to start gnawing on furniture.”
“Dramatic.” But Regina’s already standing, heading toward the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready. David, I hope you like osso buco. Mauricio claims it’s his favorite, but he says that about everything I cook.”
“Because everything you cook is excellent,” I call after her, then turn to find David watching me with a knowing expression.
“You love her.” It’s not a question.
“Obviously.”
“No.” His correction is firm. “I mean, really love her. The kind that changes man. Makes him want things like villas, legitimate businesses, and cooking dinner on Saturday nights. This is not about friendship, convenience, or partnership. This is real.”
“Yes.” The admission comes easier than expected. “It’s real.”
“Good.” David stands, clapping me on the shoulder hard enough to bruise. “Then I am happy for you, my friend. You deserve this peace after fifteen years of hell. You deserve a woman who looks at you like you hung the moon, and a business that doesn’t require looking over your shoulder, and a life that is yours instead of stolen or survived.”
“Thank you.” The words feel inadequate for what I’m trying to express. “For everything. For being a friend when I had few. For helping when I needed it. For coming here to see that I’m actually okay.”
“You’re more than okay.” His smile is genuine, warm. “You’re happy. And that, Mauricio Barone, is the best revenge against everyone who thought prison would break you. You survived. You built something beautiful. And now you get to enjoy it.”
Regina calls from inside that dinner’s ready, and we move toward the dining room where she’s set a table that looks like something from a magazine—candles, good china, food arranged with care that speaks of effort and affection.
As we settle in to eat, David regaling Regina with increasingly embellished stories about our prison days, I realize he’s right.
I am happy.
After fifteen years of survival and months of war, I’ve finally found peace.
27
Regina
“I can’t believe you convinced a priest to marry us.”
My voice carries across the villa’s sun-drenched grounds, where white chairs are arranged in neat rows facing the sea. Mauricio adjusts his tie—charcoal gray that matches his eyes—and shoots me a look that’s equal parts amused and exasperated.
“I didn’t convince him. I paid him.” His correction is matter-of-fact. “There’s a difference. Father Benedetto understands that some unions are blessed by circumstances rather than conventional virtue.”
“How romantic.” But I’m smiling, watching Loriana fuss with the flower arrangements while Simeone holds baby Alessandro on his hip. “You bribed a priest to officiate our wedding.”
“I prefer to think of it as a generous donation to his parish.” Mauricio crosses to me, hands finding my waist. “Besides, he’s known me since prison. If anyone understands that even reformed criminals deserve happiness, it’s Father Benedetto.”
“Reformed criminals getting married in a Sicilian villa overlooking the Mediterranean.” I smooth his lapels, unnecessary but needing the contact. “Very dramatic. Very us.”
