Page 8 of His Enemy's Daughter
“I’m thinking that Sabino Picarelli has been threatening your family for months.” The plan that’s been forming since Tiziano left becomes clearer. “I’m thinking that he has a daughter he treats like property. And I’m thinking that sometimes the best way to stop a threat is to understand it from the inside.”
“You’re talking about using her.”
“I’m talking about creating options.” I meet his gaze steadily. “Knowledge is leverage. Understanding his weakness gives us power.”
“She’s not his weakness—she’s his victim.”
“Can’t she be both?” The question hangs between us. “Look, I’m not suggesting we hurt her. But understanding what she knows, what she sees, what she wants—that’s intelligence worth having.”
Simeone is quiet for a long moment, and I can see him weighing loyalty against practicality, protection against necessity.
“If you’re going to do this,” he finally says, “you do it smart. You don’t put her in danger. You don’t make her a target. And if she’s as trapped as you think, you offer her a way out.”
“A way out that serves our interests.”
“A way out that serves everyone’s interests.” His correction is firm. “Because I’m not in the business of creating more victims, Mauricio. Even for revenge.”
“Noted.” I return to the table, to wine and food that’s gotten cold while we talked about using women as leverage. “For what it’s worth, I have no interest in hurting innocent people.”
“She’s Sabino Picarelli’s daughter. By definition, she’s not entirely innocent.”
“Neither was I before prison.” The parallel feels important. “Doesn’t mean I deserved fifteen years for other people’s sins.”
Loriana returns, taking in our serious expressions with raised eyebrows. “What did I miss?”
“Mauricio’s planning something stupid,” Simeone tells her.
“I’m planning something strategic,” I correct.
“Those sound like the same thing when you say them.” But she’s smiling, settling back into her chair. “Should I be worried?”
“Probably.” I raise my glass in a mock toast. “But then again, you married Simeone. Your judgment about dangerous men is clearly questionable.”
“Touché.” She clinks her glass against mine. “Just try to keep the body count low. I’d prefer to stay off the FBI’s radar.”
We talk through the rest of dinner about safer topics, but my mind keeps returning to Regina Picarelli’s face in that moment of unguarded exhaustion.
What is she surviving? And what would she do if someone offered her a way out?
Later, back in the guest house with files spread across every surface, I pull up the footage again. Watch her move throughthat ballroom with practiced perfection. Watch that moment when she thinks no one’s looking and lets the mask slip.
There’s a story here. A pattern of survival that matches my own in uncomfortable ways.
My phone buzzes with a message from Simeone.
Charity gala next week. Picarelli will be there with his daughter. Tiziano can get you on the list if you’re interested.
I stare at the message for a long moment, weighing options and consequences. Then I type a response.
Get me on the list.
The answer comes immediately.
Try not to start a war on your first week out.
No promises.
I close the laptop and move to the window, looking out over grounds that represent safety and family and all the things I sacrificed fifteen years to protect.
