Page 35 of His Enemy's Daughter
“Why?” Her challenge is sharp. “So, you could tell me what you’re telling me now? That I’m compromised? That working with me put your organization at risk? That maybe I should just disappear and let you handle this without the inconvenient complication of Sabino Picarelli’s daughter?”
“That’s not what I’m saying—”
“Then what are you saying?” She moves closer, and now we’re inches apart, tension crackling between us like a live wire. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re looking for an excuse to push me away. To maintain that careful distance you’ve been so good at preserving.”
“I’m trying to keep you alive.” My hands find her shoulders without permission, steadying or claiming, I’m not entirely sure. “I’m trying to make sure Sabino doesn’t figure out you’ve been betraying him before we’re ready to move.”
“And I’m trying to survive long enough to actually be free.” Her palms rest flat against my chest, and I’m acutely aware she can probably feel how fast my heart is beating. “But you keep treating me like I’m fragile. Like I don’t understand the risks.”
“You’re not fragile—you’re reckless.” The observation comes out harsher than I mean it. “There’s a difference between understanding risks and accepting death as inevitable.”
“Says the man who spent fifteen years in prison protecting someone else.” Her eyes flash with something dangerous. “Don’t lecture me about accepting risk when your entire life has been one calculated gamble after another.”
The accuracy of her read lands like a punch. We’re standing too close now, breathing each other’s air, every point of contact between us charged with electricity that has nothing to do with strategy.
“This is different,” I force out.
“How?” Her voice drops to something intimate, devastating. “How is this different from you protecting Simeone? From you taking the fall so he could build his empire?”
“Because I chose that sacrifice.” My hands tighten on her shoulders. “You didn’t choose any of this. You were born into it. Raised by a monster who murdered your parents. You deserve better than becoming another casualty in a war you never asked to fight.”
“And you deserved better than fifteen years in prison.” Her fingers curl into my shirt. “But we don’t get what we deserve, Mauricio. We get what we fight for. And I’m fighting for this—for freedom, for revenge, for the chance to be something other than Sabino Picarelli’s perfectly controlled daughter.”
“Even if fighting gets you killed?”
“Especially if fighting gets me killed.” Fire burns in her green eyes now, consuming whatever fear she might have. “Because at least then I’ll die as myself instead of living as someone else’s property.”
The conviction in her voice does something uncomfortable to my chest. I recognize that determination—felt it myself during those endless prison years when the only thing keeping me sane was the promise of eventual freedom.
“I can get you out now.” The offer escapes before I can think better of it. “Tonight. New identity, new country, somewhere Sabino’s reach doesn’t extend. You don’t have to stay for the endgame.”
“Yes, I do.” No hesitation. “Because running means Lorenzo Di Noto marries someone else. It means Father continues building his empire. It means Giordano stays trapped in service to a monster. It means my biological parents’ deaths go unavenged. It means nothing changes except my location.”
“You’d be alive—”
“I’d be hiding.” Her correction is firm. “There’s a difference. And I’m done hiding, Mauricio. I’m done performing. I’m done being less than I am so men feel comfortable around me.”
The raw honesty in her admission breaks something in my carefully maintained control. My hand moves to cup her jaw almost without conscious thought, thumb brushing across her cheekbone with devastating gentleness.
“You’re going to get yourself killed.” But my voice has lost its edge, roughened by something that feels dangerously close to actual emotion.
“Probably.” Her eyes search mine, pupils dilated, breath coming faster. “But at least I’ll die trying instead of surviving in a cage.”
“Regina—” Her name comes out like a prayer and a curse combined.
“Don’t.” She rises slightly on her toes, bringing her lips dangerously close to mine. “Don’t tell me again why this is a bad idea. Don’t explain the strategic risks. Don’t treat me like I’m a problem you need to solve.”
“Then what do you want me to do?” The question emerges raw, stripped of the armor I’ve been maintaining.
“I want you to stop pretending you don’t feel this.” Her hand slides up to my neck, fingers threading through my hair. “I want you to stop calculating every risk and just feel something real for once.”
“Feeling things gets people killed.” But even as I say it, I’m pulling her closer, eliminating the remaining distance between us.
“Then let me feel alive before I die.” Her lips brush against mine, barely a whisper of contact. “Please, Mauricio. Just this once, stop being the man who survived prison and be the man who wants me.”
The last thread of my control snaps.
I kiss her like I’ve been wanting to since that first meeting in the abandoned church—desperate and claiming and raw with need I’ve been denying for weeks. Her mouth opens under mine with a gasp that I swallow, tasting coffee and determination and something uniquely Regina.
