Page 71 of His Enemy's Daughter
There’s no point lying to someone who reads me like I’m written in her native language. “The legal system is fragile. Cases fallapart. Evidence gets suppressed. Witnesses disappear or change their stories when the price is right.”
“So you’re building a backup plan.” It’s not a question. “Something that doesn’t rely on judges and juries.”
“I’m ensuring that regardless of what happens in court, Sabino Picarelli never poses a threat to you again.” The words come out harder than intended, carrying years of learning that the only person you can truly rely on is yourself. “Borghese gets her case, her headlines, her federal conviction if everything goes perfectly. But if it doesn’t—”
“You’ll handle it your way.” Regina’s expression doesn’t show shock or horror, just understanding that sits heavy between us. “The permanent way.”
“Are you going to tell me I’m wrong?” I search her face for judgment and find only that fierce determination that matches my own. “That I should trust the system to deliver justice?”
“No.” She rises on her toes, pressing her forehead to mine. “I’m going to tell you that whatever you’re planning, I’m part of it. We let Borghese build her legal case while we dismantle him our way. And if the courts fail—when they fail, because let’s be honest about the odds—we won’t.”
The casual certainty in her voice, the acceptance that justice might require getting blood on our hands, should probably concern me. Instead, it settles something restless in my chest.
“You understand what you’re saying?” I need her to be clear about this, about what crossing this line means. “There’s no coming back from some choices, Regina.”
“I’ve been living with no way back since I was six months old.” Her smile carries edges sharp enough to cut. “The only difference now is I’m choosing my own path instead of following the one he carved for me. So yes, Mauricio. I understand exactly what I’m saying. We end this together, whatever it takes.”
I kiss her then, hard and claiming, tasting coffee and determination and the future we’re building from the ashes of her father’s empire. When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, her lips are swollen, and her eyes have darkened to forest green.
“Coffee first,” she says, voice rough. “Then I commit financial crimes. Then we plan how to destroy my father in ways that don’t require faith in the American justice system.”
“I love it when you talk strategy.”
“I know you do.” She pulls away with visible reluctance, moving toward the kitchen with that hip-swaying walk that’s absolutely deliberate. “It’s almost as sexy as when you coordinate military-style operations before dawn.”
The next six hours blur into coordinated chaos. Regina works her laptop magic while I field calls from David, Tiziano, and Borghese—each reporting progress that paints a satisfying picture of Sabino’s empire crumbling from multiple directions.
“Three more arrests,” Borghese reports during her fourth check-in. “Mid-level enforcers. One of them is already talking.”
“Keep the pressure consistent.” I watch Regina’s fingers fly across the keyboard, her expression fierce with concentration. “Don’t give him time to regroup or think strategically.”
By late afternoon, the results speak for themselves. Two major shipments were seized at the port. Four territories are now openly contested. Seven arrests working up the chain of command. And Regina’s personal touch—fourteen accounts frozen, representing roughly eighty million in liquid assets Sabino thought were untouchable.
“He’s bleeding from every direction,” Regina says, closing her laptop with satisfaction. “And he doesn’t even know about the accounts yet. That revelation hits tomorrow morning when he tries to access emergency funds that no longer exist.”
“The most dangerous moment—”
“Is when a cornered animal realizes it has nothing left to lose.” She finishes my thought with the same strategic mind that first drew me to her. “I know. Which is why we need to be ready for whatever desperate move he makes next.”
My phone rings before I can respond. Unknown number, but I answer anyway because at this stage, any call could be relevant.
“Mauricio Barone.” The voice on the other end is cold, controlled, and instantly recognizable from intelligence photos. “I believe you have something that belongs to me.”
Sabino Picarelli. Calling personally instead of sending intermediaries. That’s desperation wrapped in bravado.
“I have a woman who belongs to herself,” I correct, meeting Regina’s eyes across the room. “What do you want, Sabino?”
“A meeting. Neutral location. Tomorrow evening. Just you, me, and Regina—we discuss terms for her return like civilized men.”
It’s obviously a trap. But it’s also exactly the opportunity we need.
“Send me the location,” I say. “We’ll be there.”
I disconnect to find Regina already on her feet, green eyes blazing with determination that matches my own.
“I’m coming with you,” she says before I can argue. “This is my fight as much as yours.”
“I know.” Because trying to keep her away would be like trying to stop a hurricane with good intentions. “But we do this my way, with my security, following my plan.”
