Chapter 2 Mauricio #2
Then something happens. She excuses herself, moving toward what I assume are restrooms. The camera angle switches, following her down a corridor away from the crowd.
For just a moment—maybe five seconds—she stops.
Her shoulders drop. That perfect posture crumbles.
She presses one hand against the wall like she needs it to stay upright.
Her face, when she tilts it toward the camera without knowing it’s there, shows such raw exhaustion and despair that something in my chest tightens unexpectedly.
Then she straightens, rebuilds that armor, fixes that smile, and walks back into the ballroom like nothing happened.
“Christ.” I rewind the footage, watching that moment again. “What are you surviving, Regina Picarelli?”
My phone buzzes again.
Loriana wants to know if you’re joining us for dinner. She’s making something Italian and insists you need proper food after fifteen years of prison cuisine. - S
I should decline. Should stay here with my files and footage, planning the kind of calculated revenge that requires solitude and focus. But the idea of actual Italian food—and more importantly, the idea of being around people who matter—pulls at something I thought prison had killed.
Be there in twenty minutes.
I close my laptop, but can’t quite bring myself to exit the video file completely. Regina’s face—that moment of raw vulnerability—stays with me as I shower and change into clothes that don’t carry the smell of institution and desperation.
The walk to the main house takes me through grounds that are both fortress and home.
Security cameras track my movement, but there’s also beauty here—gardens that someone tends with care, lighting that creates ambiance rather than just functionality, the kind of details that speak to people actually living rather than just surviving.
Loriana answers the door before I can knock. Alessandro balanced on her hip and a wooden spoon in her free hand.
“You’re three minutes early,” she observes. “Simeone said you’d be exactly on time. I guess prison didn’t completely destroy your ability to be unpredictable.”
“I contain multitudes.” I step inside, immediately hit by smells that transport me back to childhood in Sicily—garlic, tomatoes, herbs that have names I’d need to be reminded of. “Something smells incredible.”
“Osso buco.” She leads me toward the kitchen, where Simeone is attempting to open wine with the kind of focused intensity most people reserve for defusing bombs. “Figured if we’re welcoming you back to civilization, we should do it properly.”
“Civilization.” I test the word like it might bite. “Is that what this is?”
“It’s what we’re building.” Simeone finally gets the cork free, pours three glasses of red. “Or trying to build, anyway. Family. Safety. Something worth protecting beyond just power and territory.”
“Domestic bliss in a fortress.” I accept the wine, take a sip that tastes like money and tradition. “You’ve really changed, fratello.”
“He’s still terrifying when necessary,” Loriana assures me, stirring something on the stove that makes my mouth water. “But he’s also capable of having dinner parties now. Progress.”
“Baby steps toward humanity,” Simeone agrees, but there’s warmth in his voice that would have been unthinkable fifteen years ago.
We settle into a conversation that flows easier than it should—war stories from prison, updates on the organization, Loriana’s ruthless business acumen that apparently rivals her husband’s. Alessandro provides entertainment by demonstrating his ability to throw food with impressive accuracy.
It’s normal. Almost painfully so.
“You keep looking at the door,” Loriana observes during a lull in conversation. “Like you’re expecting trouble.”
“Old habits.” I force myself to focus on the present instead of constantly assessing exits and threats. “Prison teaches you that comfort is usually followed by violence.”
“This isn’t prison.” Her voice is gentle but firm. “You’re allowed to relax.”
“Am I though?” The question comes out sharper than intended. “Because I’m sitting here eating incredible food and drinking expensive wine while the people who set me up are still out there living their lives.”
The silence that follows isn’t comfortable.
“Mauricio—” Simeone starts.
“No.” I cut him off. “I’m not saying this to make you feel guilty. I’m saying it because it’s true. Fifteen years, Simeone. Fifteen years of my life gone because someone sold us out, and we still don’t know who.”
“We’ll find them.” His voice carries absolute certainty. “However long it takes.”
“Will we?” I meet his gaze across the table. “Or will you keep building this life—this good, decent life—and eventually decide that revenge isn’t worth risking it?”
“That’s not fair.” Loriana’s interruption is sharp. “You don’t know what Simeone has sacrificed—”
“I know exactly what he’s sacrificed because I was there.” I soften my tone, not wanting to hurt her but needing her to understand. “I’m not angry at him. I’m angry at the situation. At times, I can’t get back. At becoming someone who doesn’t fit in the world anymore.”
Alessandro chooses that moment to start fussing, and Loriana excuses herself to put him to bed. The silence she leaves behind feels heavy with unspoken things.
“You’re right.” Simeone refills our glasses. “I have built something worth protecting. Something that makes me hesitate before doing things that might burn it all down.”
“I’m not asking you to burn anything down.” I swirl the wine, watching it catch the light. “I’m just trying to figure out where I fit in a world that moved on without me.”
“You fit wherever you want to fit.” He leans back, studying me with that penetrating gaze that used to unnerve marks. “The question is what you want, Mauricio. Real talk—what do you actually want?”
What do I want? It’s the same question I asked myself countless times in that cell, and the answer has never gotten clearer.
“I want the people who took fifteen years of my life to pay for it.” The honesty feels dangerous but necessary. “And I want to figure out who the hell I am now that I’m not that thirty-one-year-old kid who thought he was invincible.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive goals.”
“Aren’t they?” I gesture around the kitchen, at this life he’s built. “Because from where I’m sitting, revenge and redemption look like opposite directions.”
“Maybe.” He considers this. “Or maybe they’re two sides of the same coin. Justice for what was taken while building something new with what remains.”
“Philosophical.” I can’t help but smile. “Fatherhood’s made you deep.”
“Fatherhood’s made me realize that some things matter more than others.” He stands, moves to the window that overlooks his empire. “But that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten what was stolen from you—from us. It just means I’m more careful about how I pursue making it right.”
I join him at the window, watching security lights illuminate grounds that represent everything we fought to build.
“Tiziano showed me footage today,” I say, testing waters I’m not sure I should enter. “From a charity gala. Regina Picarelli.”
Simeone’s expression doesn’t change, but I feel tension enter his posture. “What about her?”
“She looks like someone who’s learned to be a ghost in her own life.” I choose my words carefully. “Like someone surviving something nobody else can see.”
“Probably because she is.” He turns to face me fully. “Mauricio, whatever you’re thinking—”
“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 through that 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.
Somewhere in this city, Regina Picarelli is probably looking out a different window, feeling trapped in a different kind of prison.
The thought shouldn’t bother me as much as it does.
But then again, I’ve never been good at ignoring things that feel important, even when ignoring them would be smarter.