Page 9 of His Enemy's Daughter
Somewhere in this city, Regina Picarelli is probably looking out a different window, feeling trapped in a different kind of prison.
The thought shouldn’t bother me as much as it does.
But then again, I’ve never been good at ignoring things that feel important, even when ignoring them would be smarter.
3
Regina
“You’d make such a beautiful bride, Regina. All that dark hair against white silk—simply stunning.”
I don’t flinch at Rosalia’s words, even though they land like a slap. Instead, I keep my smile perfectly in place, the one I’ve practiced in mirrors until it looks genuine, and turn to face my stepmother with the deference she craves.
“You’re too kind,” I murmur, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from my red gown.
“Kind?” Her laugh is sharp, crystalline, designed to cut. “I’m being practical, darling. Twenty-eight is practically ancient forunmarried women in our world. Your father’s been patient, but even his patience has limits.”
The ballroom glitters with designer gowns and champagne that costs more than rent. Conversations drift past—polite on the surface, brutal underneath. Business deals disguised as small talk. Territorial negotiations wrapped in compliments. Just another charity gala. Just another night as Sabino Picarelli’s perfect daughter, the beautiful proof that monsters can pretend to be men.
“I’m aware of the timeline.” I take a sip of champagne I don’t want, anything to occupy my hands so I don’t wrap them around her surgically enhanced throat. “Father has made his expectations clear.”
“Has he?” Rosalia leans closer, her perfume—something expensive and cloying—invading my space. “Because from where I’m standing, you’ve done an excellent job of avoiding every suitable match he’s presented. Almost like you think you have a choice in the matter.”
I meet her gaze with the blank politeness I’ve perfected over eighteen years of living under her roof. She married my father when I was ten, and she’s spent every day since reminding me that I’m an obligation he tolerates, not a daughter he loves.
If she only knew the truth, that I’m not his daughter at all, just the child of the people he murdered, would she be even crueler? Or would it simply confirm what she’s always believed: that I don’t belong here.
“I would never presume to have choices Father doesn’t approve.” The lie tastes like dry desert sand, but I’ve learned to swallow worse. “I only want to make the best match possible to honor his name.”
“How dutiful.” But there’s no warmth in her smile, just satisfaction at putting me in my place. “Well, tonight you’ll have plenty of opportunities to be dutiful. Senator Vena’s son is here, and the Di Noto heir, and I believe your father invited someone from the Alba family. All perfectly acceptable options for a woman your age.”
“I’m sure Father’s choices are impeccable.” I spot an escape route—one of the servers passing with a tray of champagne. “If you’ll excuse me, I should circulate.”
“By all means.” Rosalia’s hand on my arm stops me, her manicured nails pressing just hard enough to remind me she could draw blood if she wanted. “But remember, darling—you’re here to be seen, not heard. Men don’t want wives who think too much.”
I nod, extract myself from her grip with practiced grace, and move into the crowd like a ghost haunting her own life.
The thing about being invisible is that you become very good at observing. I’ve spent years watching people at these events—learning to read body language and micro-expressions, understanding the unspoken hierarchies, cataloging information that might someday be useful if I ever find a way out of this gilded prison.
Senator Vena’s son stands near the bar, laughing too loudly at something his companion said. Drunk already, or close to it. He has his father’s weak chin and his mother’s calculating eyes, and I know from careful research that his father has a taste for women who aren’t his wife and gambling debts that would make even billionaires nervous.
The Di Noto heir holds court near the orchestra, surrounded by people who laugh at his jokes with the kind of enthusiasm that comes from fear rather than humor. He’s handsome in a conventional way—dark hair, strong jaw, expensive suit—but there’s cruelty in the way he dismisses a server who doesn’t move fast enough.
And lurking near the exit, trying to look casual and failing, is someone from the Alba family. I don’t know which one, because there are too many cousins and nephews to track, but he has the look of someone who’s been told to observe and report back.
So, these are my fucking options.
These are the men my father considers “suitable.”
I drain my champagne and grab another glass from a passing server, ignoring the voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like my therapist, Dr. Muni, warning me about using alcohol to cope.
“Easy there, Regina. Your father wouldn’t appreciate you getting drunk on his time.”
I turn to find Giordano Caselli watching me with those concerned gray eyes that have haunted the edges of my life for as long as I can remember. He’s my father’s enforcer, his right-hand man, the person who handles problems that are too messy for public consumption.
He’s also the only person in my father’s organization who looks at me like I’m human instead of property.
“I’m having one glass of champagne, Giordano. Hardly scandalous.” I keep my voice light, but I can’t quite hide the edge of desperation. “Unless Father’s decided even that’s too much autonomy for his dutiful daughter?”
