Page 43 of His Enemy's Daughter
Time to write a different ending.
The sleeping pills were easy to obtain—Dr. Muni prescribed them months ago for “anxiety,” which wasn’t technically a lie. Crushing them into powder was simple. Getting close enough to my guards’ coffee without raising suspicion took more creativity.
“Gentlemen.” I emerge from my room at 11 PM wearing silk pajamas and carrying a tray with three cups that I made in my room’s small kitchenette. “I couldn’t sleep and made coffee. Thought you might want some since you’re stuck babysitting me all night.”
The guards exchange glances—suspicious but tempted. They’ve been on duty since six, and Father doesn’t allow breaks until shift change at six AM.
“That’s very kind, Miss Picarelli,” the older one says carefully. “But we’re not supposed to accept anything—”
“From prisoners?” I finish his sentence with a smile sharp enough to draw blood. “That’s what I am now, isn’t it? A prisoner in my own home, being prepared for transfer to a different facility.”
The honesty catches them off guard. These men aren’t stupid—they know exactly what kind of man Lorenzo Di Noto is, what my future holds.
“Miss Picarelli—”
“Please.” I soften my voice, let genuine desperation show. “Just take the coffee. It’s the only thing I can control right now—making something for someone else. Let me have this small rebellion.”
The younger guard reaches for a cup. “Thank you, miss.”
His partner follows suit, and I return to my room with my own untainted coffee, counting down minutes with my heart hammering against my ribs.
Twenty minutes later, I hear the first guard’s breathing go heavy. Thirty minutes, and soft snoring filters under my door.
I wait ten more minutes to be certain, then crack the door open. Both guards slumped in their chairs, coffee cups still clutched in slack hands.
Moving quickly, I change into dark jeans and a leather jacket—clothes that won’t catch light or make noise. My emergency bag is already packed and hidden in my closet: cash, fake IDs Giordano helped me obtain two weeks ago, copies of every piece of intelligence I’ve gathered.
The window is the easy part—I disabled the motion sensor days ago, a small act of rebellion Father never noticed because he trusted his technology more than his instincts.
Getting down three stories without breaking my neck is harder.
The trellis groans under my weight but holds. My hands burn where rough wood scrapes skin, splinters digging into my palms, but I don’t stop—can’t stop—until my feet hit grass.
“Going somewhere,piccola?”
Giordano’s voice freezes me mid-step. He emerges from shadows near the garden, and for one terrifying moment I think he’s going to stop me.
Then I see what he’s holding—car keys and a gun.
“Take my car.” He tosses the keys, and I catch them reflexively. “It’s not being tracked. The gun’s loaded and registered to me, so if you get caught with it, I can claim you stole it.”
“Giordano—”
“Go.” His expression is gentle but firm. “Before I change my mind and drag you back inside where at least you’re alive, even if you’re miserable.”
“He’ll kill you when he discovers you helped me.”
“Probably.” His smile is sad, resigned. “But I’ve watched Sabino destroy you piece by piece for eighteen years. At least this way, I’m finally doing something that matters.”
Tears blur my vision. “I love you. You know that, right? You’ve been more of a father than he ever was.”
“I know,piccola.” He steps forward, pressing a kiss to my forehead with devastating gentleness. “Now go. And don’t look back.”
I run.
The car starts with a purr that sounds too loud in the quiet night. Security lights illuminate the driveway, but no alarms sound—Giordano must have disabled them.
The gates open when I approach, and then I’m through, tearing down the street with my hands white-knuckled on the wheel.
