Page 52 of His Enemy's Daughter
Regina’s hand trembles as she presses it against the window glass. “How many people died?”
The question brings out painful memories. “Twelve men on our side. More on his. The warehouse we thought was empty was full of his soldiers waiting for us. It was a massacre, Regina. A calculated demonstration of what happens when you underestimate Sabino Picarelli.”
“And you took the fall.” She turns back to me, and the devastation on her face nearly breaks something in my chest. “You went to prison for fifteen years to protect Simeone and your organization. You sacrificed everything because my father set a trap.”
“I made a choice.” The correction feels necessary. “Nobody forced me into that cell. I chose to take responsibility because Simeone had the organization to run, people depending on him. I was expendable—he wasn’t.”
“Don’t.” Fire enters her voice now, burning through the shock. “Don’t stand there and tell me you were expendable when you spent fifteen years locked away protecting someone else. You were thirty-one years old, Mauricio. You lost your entire thirties because of a choice my father forced you to make.”
The accuracy of her observation makes my throat tight. She’s right—I was young, stupid, convinced I was doing the noble thing. I hadn’t understood yet what fifteen years actually meant, how prison would reshape me into something harder and colder than the man who walked in.
“Your father didn’t force anything.” I close the remaining distance between us, needing her to understand this crucial point. “He outmaneuvered us. Set a trap we walked into willingly. But my decision to take the fall—to keep my mouth shut and protect what mattered—that was mine. Don’t give him credit for choices I made.”
“You don’t get it.” Her hands find my chest, fingers curling into my shirt with desperate intensity. “The man who raised me—who murdered my parents and kept me as insurance—he’s also the man who destroyed an operation that cost you fifteen years of your life. Everything I’ve been trying to dismantle, every piece of his empire I want to burn down—it’s all built on blood. Your blood. The blood of those twelve men who died. Blood he spilled and then walked away from like it meant nothing.”
The raw guilt in her voice does something uncomfortable to my chest. I catch her wrists, gentle but firm, forcing her to meet my gaze.
“Listen to me very carefully.” My voice drops low, intimate. “What Sabino did all those years ago—the trap, the deaths, the systematic destruction of our operation—that’s not your burden to carry. You were what, thirteen? Fourteen? You had no part in his decisions.”
“I’m his daughter—”
“You’re the child of the people he murdered.” The correction is blunt but necessary. “You’re the proof of his crimes, not the cause of them. Don’t confuse being raised by a monster with being responsible for his monstrosity.”
Tears shimmer in her green eyes, but she doesn’t let them fall. “How long have you known? That the man who sent you to prison was the same man raising me?”
“It took me a while to figure out it was Sabino. But once I did, I knew who you were. Picarelli isn’t exactly common. When Tiziano told me about Sabino’s threats against Simeone’s family, when he mentioned a daughter named Regina—I knew. I did the math immediately.”
“And you approached me anyway.” Her voice carries something between wonder and horror. “You saw an opportunity to get revenge on the man who destroyed your life, and you took it.”
“Yes.” No point lying now. “I saw an asset. A potential source of intelligence. A way to finally make Sabino pay for what he did fifteen years ago. That’s exactly what you were when I sat down at your table in that coffee shop.”
“Were?” She catches the past tense, and I see her processing implications. “What am I now?”
“Now you’re the woman I’m willing to burn the world for. You’re what makes fifteen years feel less like time wasted and more like the price I paid to become someone worthy of protecting you.”
Her breath catches. “That’s not fair.”
“Nothing about this is fair.” I close the distance again, unable to stay away. “It’s not fair that Sabino murdered your parents. It’s not fair that I spent fifteen years in a cage. It’s not fair that we found each other through mutual destruction. But here we are anyway—two people built from other people’s cruelty, trying to figure out how to be something other than broken.”
“I don’t know how to process this.” Her voice cracks slightly. “Knowing that the foundation of everything between us is built on my father destroying your life. That every time you look at me, you’re seeing the daughter of the man who took everything from you.”
“That’s not what I see.” I catch her face between my hands, forcing her to hold my gaze. “When I look at you, I see the woman who spent years gathering evidence against a monster. I see someone who drugged guards and scaled buildings to choose freedom over safety. I see the person who makes me want to be more than just the man who survived prison.”
“Even knowing I’m connected to your worst nightmare?”
“Especially knowing that.” My thumb brushes across her lower lip. “Because it means we both understand what it costs to survive someone like Sabino. We both know what it’s like to lose years of our lives to his cruelty. And we both want the same thing—to watch his empire burn.”
She searches my face, looking for lies and finding only raw honesty that probably costs me more than I want to admit. Finally, something shifts in her expression—acceptance bleeding through the shock.
“Tell me about it.” Her voice is quiet but firm. “The Moretti job. What actually happened that night fifteen years ago.”
I should refuse. Should maintain some distance between past trauma and present complications. But looking at her face—atthe determination beneath vulnerability—I know she needs to understand the full story.
“We’d been planning for months.” I guide her to the couch, needing to sit for this conversation. “Small moves at first—establishing contacts in Sabino’s territory, testing his response times, mapping his operations. Everything seemed viable. He controlled the eastern shipping routes, but his attention was divided between multiple conflicts. We thought we’d found an opening.”
“But you hadn’t.” Regina settles beside me, close enough that our thighs touch.
“We’d found exactly what he wanted us to find.” The memory tastes bitter even after fifteen years. “A warehouse supposedly abandoned, perfect for our needs. Intelligence suggesting his forces were stretched thin. Opportunities that looked too good to pass up.”
