Chapter 3 Regina
Regina
“You’d make such a beautiful bride, Regina. All that dark hair against white silk—simply stunning.”
I don’t flinch at Rosalia’s words, even though they land like a slap. Instead, I keep my smile perfectly in place, the one I’ve practiced in mirrors until it looks genuine, and turn to face my stepmother with the deference she craves.
“You’re too kind,” I murmur, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from my red gown.
“Kind?” Her laugh is sharp, crystalline, designed to cut. “I’m being practical, darling. Twenty-eight is practically ancient for unmarried women in our world. Your father’s been patient, but even his patience has limits.”
The ballroom glitters with designer gowns and champagne that costs more than rent.
Conversations drift past—polite on the surface, brutal underneath.
Business deals disguised as small talk. Territorial negotiations wrapped in compliments.
Just another charity gala. Just another night as Sabino Picarelli’s perfect daughter, the beautiful proof that monsters can pretend to be men.
“I’m aware of the timeline.” I take a sip of champagne I don’t want, anything to occupy my hands so I don’t wrap them around her surgically enhanced throat. “Father has made his expectations clear.”
“Has he?” Rosalia leans closer, her perfume—something expensive and cloying—invading my space. “Because from where I’m standing, you’ve done an excellent job of avoiding every suitable match he’s presented. Almost like you think you have a choice in the matter.”
I meet her gaze with the blank politeness I’ve perfected over eighteen years of living under her roof. She married my father when I was ten, and she’s spent every day since reminding me that I’m an obligation he tolerates, not a daughter he loves.
If she only knew the truth, that I’m not his daughter at all, just the child of the people he murdered, would she be even crueler? Or would it simply confirm what she’s always believed: that I don’t belong here.
“I would never presume to have choices Father doesn’t approve.” The lie tastes like dry desert sand, but I’ve learned to swallow worse. “I only want to make the best match possible to honor his name.”
“How dutiful.” But there’s no warmth in her smile, just satisfaction at putting me in my place.
“Well, tonight you’ll have plenty of opportunities to be dutiful.
Senator Vena’s son is here, and the Di Noto heir, and I believe your father invited someone from the Alba family.
All perfectly acceptable options for a woman your age. ”
“I’m sure Father’s choices are impeccable.” I spot an escape route—one of the servers passing with a tray of champagne. “If you’ll excuse me, I should circulate.”
“By all means.” Rosalia’s hand on my arm stops me, her manicured nails pressing just hard enough to remind me she could draw blood if she wanted. “But remember, darling—you’re here to be seen, not heard. Men don’t want wives who think too much.”
I nod, extract myself from her grip with practiced grace, and move into the crowd like a ghost haunting her own life.
The thing about being invisible is that you become very good at observing.
I’ve spent years watching people at these events—learning to read body language and micro-expressions, understanding the unspoken hierarchies, cataloging information that might someday be useful if I ever find a way out of this gilded prison.
Senator Vena’s son stands near the bar, laughing too loudly at something his companion said.
Drunk already, or close to it. He has his father’s weak chin and his mother’s calculating eyes, and I know from careful research that his father has a taste for women who aren’t his wife and gambling debts that would make even billionaires nervous.
The Di Noto heir holds court near the orchestra, surrounded by people who laugh at his jokes with the kind of enthusiasm that comes from fear rather than humor.
He’s handsome in a conventional way—dark hair, strong jaw, expensive suit—but there’s cruelty in the way he dismisses a server who doesn’t move fast enough.
And lurking near the exit, trying to look casual and failing, is someone from the Alba family. I don’t know which one, because there are too many cousins and nephews to track, but he has the look of someone who’s been told to observe and report back.
So, these are my fucking options.
These are the men my father considers “suitable.”
I drain my champagne and grab another glass from a passing server, ignoring the voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like my therapist, Dr. Muni, warning me about using alcohol to cope.
“Easy there, Regina. Your father wouldn’t appreciate you getting drunk on his time.”
I turn to find Giordano Caselli watching me with those concerned gray eyes that have haunted the edges of my life for as long as I can remember. He’s my father’s enforcer, his right-hand man, the person who handles problems that are too messy for public consumption.
He’s also the only person in my father’s organization who looks at me like I’m human instead of property.
“I’m having one glass of champagne, Giordano. Hardly scandalous.” I keep my voice light, but I can’t quite hide the edge of desperation. “Unless Father’s decided even that’s too much autonomy for his dutiful daughter?”
“He’s watching you tonight.” Giordano doesn’t move closer, maintaining the professional distance he’s always careful to observe. “Watching how you interact with his chosen candidates. This isn’t just another gala, Regina. This is an audition. Your audition”
“I know.” The admission comes out bitter, and I force myself to soften. Giordano doesn’t deserve my anger—he’s just the messenger. “I’ve always known this was coming. I just hoped...”
“That you’d have more time?” His voice drops low enough that no one else can hear. “Or that something would change?”
“That I’d wake up and discover this was all a nightmare.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Silly, right? Twenty-eight years old and still believing in fairy tales.”
“Regina—”
“Giordano.” My father’s voice cuts through the conversation like a blade. “I believe you have other duties to attend to.”
Giordano’s expression shutters immediately, becoming the blank mask of the perfect subordinate. “Of course, Mr. Picarelli.” He nods to me, respectful and distant. “Miss Picarelli.”
I watch him disappear into the crowd, taking with him the last remnants of human connection in this sea of sharks and parasites.
“Regina.” My father appears at my side, his presence commanding attention even in a room full of powerful men. Sabino Picarelli at fifty-five is still imposing—dark hair graying at the temples, cold brown eyes that see everything, expensive suit that speaks of wealth and taste. “Walk with me.”
It’s not a request.
I fall into step beside him, nodding and smiling at people we pass while my heart hammers against my ribs. When he guides me toward a quieter corner of the ballroom, away from the main crush of bodies, I know this conversation won’t be pleasant.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he says, and it sounds like an assessment rather than a compliment. “The red suits you.”
“Thank you, Father.” I keep my hands loose at my sides, resisting the urge to fidget with my clutch. “I’m glad it meets your approval.”
“Everything you do meets my approval, figlia mia.” The Italian endearment—my daughter—should warm me. Instead, it feels like ownership. “You’ve always been such an obedient child.”
The word child grates, but I don’t react. “I only want to honor our family.”
“Good.” He surveys the room with the air of a general reviewing troops. “Because tonight is important. I’ve been patient with your education, allowed you to pursue your MBA, given you responsibilities in my legitimate businesses. But it’s time for you to fulfill your primary purpose.”
“Marriage,” I say, because there’s no point pretending I don’t know where this is leading.
“Strategic alliance.” His correction is sharp. “I’ve built an empire, Regina. But empires need heirs to continue, alliances to strengthen them. You are my most valuable asset in creating those bonds.”
“I understand.” And I do, with the kind of clarity that comes from years of knowing you’re not really human to the man who raised you. “What would you like me to do?”
“Circulate. Speak with the candidates I’ve selected. Show them the woman they’d be getting—intelligent, well-mannered, beautiful.” His hand rests on my shoulder, heavy with expectation. “I’m narrowing my choices. When I’ve made my final decision, I’ll inform you.”
The casualness of his statement—when I’ve made my final decision—drives home exactly how little say I have in my own future. Not if. Not a discussion. Just a decision he’ll make and expect me to accept.
“How much time do I have?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
His eyes narrow slightly. “Time for what?”
“To prepare myself. Mentally.” I scramble to make it sound like compliance rather than desperation. “I want to be the perfect wife when the time comes. I just need to know when to be ready.”
“Soon.” The single word carries finality. “I’ll decide soon. Days, perhaps a week. Maybe two. No longer.”
Days. Maybe a week or two. After twenty-eight years of knowing this was inevitable, I’m down to counting in single digits.
“Thank you for the warning, Father.” The words taste like betrayal of everything I am. “I won’t disappoint you.”
“You never have.” He squeezes my shoulder once before releasing me. “Now go. Be charming. Remember that every word, every gesture represents the Picarelli name.”
He walks away, leaving me standing alone. A room full of people surrounds me, but I’m drowning anyway—in silk that costs more than cars, in champagne I don’t want, in expectations that have been crushing me since before I understood what they meant.