Page 75 of His Enemy's Daughter
Eighteen arrests weremade using ledger evidence. RICO charges filed. Eastern territory operations completely dismantled. You’re safe.
And this morning,
Rosalia Picarelli was arrested at the airport with $4.2M in embezzled funds. Facing 15-20 years. She’s not your problem anymore.
I should feel something about Rosalia’s arrest—satisfaction, maybe, or vindication that the woman who saw me as competition is facing consequences. Instead, I feel nothing. She’s just another piece of wreckage from a life I’m trying to leave behind.
“Borghese wants to meet,” I tell Mauricio, showing him the latest message. “Says she needs my statement for the official report, but the self-defense angle is solid. No charges are being filed against me.”
“Because you were defending yourself.” His hand finds mine, thumb tracing circles on my palm. “That’s not a lie, Regina. He would have killed you if you hadn’t acted first.”
“I know.” And I do. Logically, rationally, I understand that Sabino’s death was justified. That he murdered my parents, raised me as property, would have used me until I stopped being useful, and then disposed of me without hesitation.
But logic doesn’t stop me from seeing his face every time I close my eyes. Doesn’t erase the memory of pulling the trigger on the man who taught me to read, who attended my school performances, who played the role of father so convincingly that sometimes I almost believed it was real.
“He wasn’t your father,” Mauricio says quietly, reading my thoughts with the accuracy that should probably unsettle me but instead feels like relief. “He was your captor. The fact that he occasionally showed you kindness doesn’t change what he fundamentally was.”
“A monster.”
“A monster,” he agrees. “Who’s dead now and can’t hurt anyone else.”
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s a longer message from Borghese:
Giordano Caselli entered witness protection this morning. His testimony secured convictions for eight additional murders and detailed operations spanning two decades. He asked me to tell you he’s proud of you and hopes you find the happiness you deserve. You won’t be able to contact him, but he’s safe.
The news hits harder than expected. Giordano—my quiet guardian, the man who protected me when he didn’t have to—disappearing into a new identity while I figure out who I am without Sabino’s shadow defining me.
“He’ll be okay,” Mauricio says, reading the message over my shoulder. “Witness protection is secure, especially with the kind of testimony he provided. And he gets medical care for those injuries, reduced sentencing, a chance at something resembling a normal life.”
“He deserves that.” I blink back tears that feel too complicated to name. “He deserves everything good after years of serving a monster while trying to protect me from the worst of it.”
“He got what he wanted.” Mauricio’s voice softens slightly. “You, free. Sabino, dead. And justice, served. That’s probably worth more to him than any new identity.”
I lean into him, seeking the solid warmth that’s become my anchor in aftermath chaos. His arm wraps around me automatically, pulling me close in a way that feels less like possession and more like partnership.
“What happens now?” I ask the question that’s been circling my mind since Sabino’s body hit the church floor. “Borghese says the legal issues are handled. The organization is dismantled. But what about us?”
“What about us?”
“Do we...” I struggle to articulate thoughts I haven’t fully formed. “Stay together? Go our separate ways now that the job is done? Figure out if what we have is real or just proximity and danger?”
The silence that follows feels weighted with possibility and fear in equal measure. We fell for each other in the middle of a war, built our connection on shared goals of destroying a monster. But what happens when the monster’s dead and the war is over?
“Regina.” Mauricio shifts so we’re face-to-face, his storm-gray eyes serious. “I didn’t spend weeks planning Sabino’s destruction and risking everything just to walk away from you when it’s finished. What we have isn’t proximity. It’s not just danger or convenience or a partnership that expires when objectives are met.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s you telling me I’m arrogant and then proving you’re smarter than half my contacts combined. It’s planning financial terrorism before breakfast and looking damn good doing it. It’s trust built in circumstances where trust should be impossible.” His hand cups my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone. “It’s real, if you want it to be.”
“I want it to be.” The admission feels like another kind of freedom. “But I don’t know who I am without him, Mauricio. Twenty-eight years of being Sabino Picarelli’s daughter—his property, his asset, his carefully groomed bargaining chip—and now I’m just... nothing. No family, no organization, no identity beyond ‘the woman who killed her father.”
“You’re Regina.” His correction is gentle but absolute. “Smart, strategic, dangerous when necessary. The woman who survived twenty-eight years in a gilded cage and came out strong enough to destroy the man who built it. That’s who you are. Everything else is just details we figure out together.”
“Together?” Hope threads through the word despite my best efforts at self-protection.
“Together.” He confirms it like a vow. “We leave the country for a while—let the dust settle, let bounties expire, let the media circus around Sabino’s death die down. We go somewhere warm where no one knows our names and we’re just two people figuring out what comes next.”
The image settles in my mind with unexpected clarity: beaches and anonymity, mornings that don’t involve planning someone’s destruction, nights spent exploring connection without the constant threat of violence. A life that’s just... life. Simple. Uncomplicated. Mine.
