Page 77 of His Enemy's Daughter
“Just like that.” He turns back, taking my hands in his. “Unless you’d rather stay here, rebuild in the shadow of everything we destroyed—”
“No.” The answer comes without hesitation. “I want Italy. I want blue water and mornings where no one’s trying to kill us. Wantto figure out if what we have survives without danger keeping us together.”
“It will.” His confidence should probably annoy me, but instead it’s comforting. “We’re not held together by danger, Regina. We’re held together by choice. And that doesn’t expire when the threats do.”
I kiss him again, slower this time, tasting promise and future and freedom that’s finally, actually mine.
“Then let’s choose it,” I murmur against his lips. “Let’s choose each other and Italy and whatever comes after. Let’s choose to be more than survivors.”
“Deal.” He grins, and for the first time in three days, I feel something besides weight and exhaustion. “Now pack. We’ve got a flight to catch and a future to figure out.”
I move toward the closet, already mentally cataloging what to bring to a new life built on nothing but choice and possibility. Behind me, Mauricio makes calls—arranging transportation, confirming reservations, handling logistics with efficient precision.
And for the first time since I pulled the trigger on the man who raised me, I feel something other than relief or guilt or exhaustion.
I feel hope.
24
Mauricio
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
Regina’s question cuts through the silence as we pull up to Simeone’s estate that’s all wrought iron gates and old money that speaks of empires built on blood and loyalty. I can feel her tension radiating in the enclosed space of the car, her fingers drumming against her thigh in a rhythm that betrays nerves she won’t voice.
“Meeting my best friend and his wife?” I glance at her, taking in the careful composure she’s wearing like armor. “Considering we’re about to disappear to another country, it seems like the polite thing to do.”
“I killed my father two days ago.” Her voice drops to something raw. “I’m not exactly in the right headspace for meeting new people.”
“Simeone’s seen worse.” I kill the engine, reaching over to still her restless fingers with mine. “Trust me,fratello miohas witnessed enough darkness that your recent life choices won’t even register as shocking.”
“That’s somehow not as comforting as you think it is.”
I laugh despite the weight of the conversation we’re about to have—the one where I turn down everything I thought I wanted in favor of something I didn’t know I needed. “Come on. Let’s get this over with before you talk yourself out of it.”
The front door opens before we reach it, and Simeone fills the doorframe with that commanding presence that has only grew with years. Silver hair catching afternoon light, dark eyes assessing us both with the tactical precision of a man who’s survived by reading people accurately.
“Mauricio.” His embrace is brief, hard, loaded with everything we won’t say in front of witnesses. When he pulls back, his attention shifts to Regina with interest that’s carefully measured—assessing the woman who’s claimed his best friend’s loyalty. “And you must be Regina. The woman who brought down Sabino Picarelli’s empire in less than a month.”
“Regina Picarelli.” She extends her hand with the poise of someone who’s attended a thousand business meetings withmonsters, her posture professional rather than warm. “Thank you for your assistance with the operation. Mauricio speaks highly of you.”
“Does he?” Simeone’s handshake is brief, respectful but distant. “That’s surprising. He usually prefers to complain about how I’ve gone soft with domestication.”
“I’m standing right here,” I point out, following them into an interior that screams domestic bliss—family photos on walls, toys scattered across expensive rugs, the lingering scent of something baking that makes the house feel lived-in rather than just inhabited.
“And we’re talking about you, not to you.” A petite woman appears from the kitchen, dark hair pulled back, eyes that are sharp with intelligence and warmth in equal measure. “I’m Loriana. The wife who apparently makes Simeone insufferably domestic.”
“Regina.” The introduction is polite and measured. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.” Loriana’s assessment is quick but thorough—the kind of evaluation one woman gives another when measuring whether she’s a threat or potential ally. “Can I get you coffee? Wine? Something stronger, considering the week you’ve had?”
“Coffee’s fine, thank you.” Regina settles onto the couch with the careful posture of someone who’s learned to navigate uncomfortable social situations with grace.
“I’ll take wine if you’re offering,” I add, watching the dynamics play out with interest.
Loriana disappears back into the kitchen, leaving the three of us in loaded silence. Simeone gestures to chairs arranged around a coffee table.
“So.” Simeone settles into his chair with the ease of a man completely comfortable in his domain. “Detective Borghese called me this morning. Said the Picarelli case is closed, organization dismantled, and you two are in the clear.”
