Page 89 of His Enemy's Daughter
“Flavio Codella. At Palermo airport three hours ago. He took a flight to New York. Commercial airline, traveling under his own name like he doesn’t care who knows he’s leaving Sicily.”
The information hits like cold water, washing away the warm contentment of moments before. Flavio. The exile who’s been skulking around Sicily for the past year, making small plays with minor families while nursing his bitterness like fine wine.
“You’re certain it was him?”
“Positive ID. Even got photos if you want confirmation.” Papers rustle on Christopher’s end. “But boss, the thing that’s strange? He wasn’t sneaking. Wasn’t using fake documents. Just bought a ticket and boarded like any tourist heading home.”
That’s what concerns me. Because Flavio doing something like this openly suggests he has a plan; he obviously believes he has protection or leverage that makes subtlety unnecessary. “His exile was supposed to last seven years. It’s only been a good part of one.”
“Maybe he got homesick?” But Christopher’s tone suggests he doesn’t believe his own suggestion.
“Maybe he’s gotten desperate or stupid or both.” I watch Regina through the glass, seeing her completely at peace in a way that makes my chest tight. We’ve built this safety, family, future. And now Flavio’s return threatens the carefully maintained balance between our life here and the world we left behind. “Keep watching. If he comes back to Sicily, I want to know immediately.”
“Will do. Sorry to ruin your evening, boss.”
“You didn’t ruin anything. You did exactly what I pay you to do.” I disconnect, but my hand stays wrapped around the phone like it might offer answers.
Flavio is heading to New York. Back to Simeone’s territory after a year of exile. The timing is too calculated to be a coincidence, too bold to be simple homesickness.
I dial before I can second-guess the impulse, and Simeone answers on the second ring.
“Mauricio. To what do I owe the pleasure?” His voice carries the easy contentment of someone whose biggest problem is probably Alessandro refusing vegetables.
“Flavio’s coming back.” No point in softening the blow. “My contact spotted him at Palermo airport three hours ago. He took a commercial flight to New York, traveling under his own name.”
The silence that follows is weighted with implications. When Simeone speaks again, his voice has shifted—less domestic contentment, more calculating don.
“You’re certain?”
“Positive ID with photo confirmation.” I lean against the terrace railing, watching the Mediterranean turn gold under the setting sun. “He wasn’t hiding, wasn’t using false documents. Just bought a ticket and left like exile was a suggestion rather than a sentence.”
“That’s concerning.” Papers rustle on Simeone’s end. “His exile has six years remaining. Either he’s gotten incredibly stupid or he thinks he has leverage that makes his return viable.”
“Or someone’s backing him. Giving him confidence that your enforcement of his exile won’t hold.” The thought makes my tactical mind race through possibilities. “Who would be bold enough and stupid enough to support him against you?”
“Several families might see him as a useful proxy for testing my resolve.” Simeone’s assessment is clinical. “Or he’s made promises he can’t keep about inside information or access to operations. Either way, he’s a problem that needs addressing.”
“Agreed.” I glance through the glass to where Regina’s now holding Sara. “What do you need from me?”
“Nothing.” His voice is firm. “You’ve built a life, Mauricio. You have a wife and daughter. I’m not pulling you back into this mess because my exile can’t follow simple instructions.”
“Simeone—”
“I mean it.” His voice softens slightly. “This is my problem to handle. Flavio’s return threatens my authority, not yours. Let me deal with it.”
“And if he comes back to Sicily?” The question needs asking. “He’s been here for a year, fratello. Making connections with families who don’t respect your reach. If he returns with backing from New York operations—”
“Then you handle him as you see fit in your territory.” The permission is clear. “But only if he threatens you directly. Otherwise, this is my mess to clean up.”
I hear Loriana’s voice in the background, asking a question I can’t make out. Simeone’s response is muffled, then he’s back.
“Loriana wants me to ask if Regina and Sara are doing well.”
“They’re perfect,” I say. “She’s just three months old and already has both of us completely wrapped around those tiny fingers.”
“Parenthood will do that.” Warmth returns to his voice. “Alessandro just learned to walk. Now he’s into everything, destroying the house one expensive vase at a time. Loriana threatens to bubble-wrap the entire estate.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
