Chapter 4 Mauricio
Mauricio
“You’re staring at that building like it personally offended you.”
I don’t turn away from the window when Tiziano speaks, too focused on the glass-and-steel structure across the street that houses one of Sabino Picarelli’s “legitimate” business operations.
Three days of surveillance have taught me the patterns—shift changes, security rotations, the careful choreography of people moving in and out with the precision of soldiers following orders.
“I’m staring at it because it’s familiar.” The admission tastes like rust. “This whole territory is familiar.”
“Should it be?” Tiziano moves to stand beside me, following my gaze to the building that looks like any other corporate headquarters if you ignore the armed guards trying to pass as security.
“The Moretti job.” I say it quietly, testing how the words feel after fifteen years of not speaking them aloud. “Fifteen years ago, when everything went to hell and I ended up inside—we were trying to establish a foothold in Picarelli territory.”
The silence that follows carries weight. Tiziano’s too smart not to understand what I’m implying.
“You’re saying the job that sent you to prison was sabotaged by the same man currently threatening Simeone’s family?”
“I’m saying we underestimated Sabino Picarelli’s reach and ruthlessness.
” I finally turn to face him, seeing my suspicions reflected in his winter-pale eyes.
“We thought we were being clever, moving into territory he’d neglected.
Turns out he doesn’t neglect anything—he just lets you think he does before crushing you. ”
“Christ.” Tiziano runs a hand through his dark hair. “Does Simeone know?”
“Not yet.” I move away from the window, pacing the small surveillance room we’ve set up in a building with a perfect sight line to Picarelli’s operations.
“I wanted to be certain before bringing him old ghosts. But the more I dig into current threats, the more I see patterns from fifteen years ago.”
“Patterns like what?”
“Systematic intimidation. Careful escalation designed to destabilize without triggering all-out war.” I tick off points that have been haunting me since I started analyzing Simeone’s intelligence files.
“Testing boundaries to find weaknesses. It’s the same playbook Picarelli used before—push until someone pushes back, then retreat and regroup. ”
“So what’s different now?” Tiziano leans against the desk, arms crossed. “Why come after Simeone after all this time?”
“Because Simeone’s empire has tripled in size.” The answer comes easily, born from three days of obsessive analysis. “Because what used to be separate territories are now overlapping. Because Sabino sees Simeone as a threat that needs to be neutralized before it becomes unmanageable.”
“And the best way to neutralize Simeone—”
“Is to go after what he actually cares about now.” I finish the thought. “Not territory or money or power. His family. Loriana and Alessandro represent vulnerabilities he never had before.”
“Bastard.”
“Smart bastard,” I correct. “Which makes him dangerous. Men who rely on brute force are predictable. Men who use psychology as a weapon are the ones you need to worry about.”
My phone buzzes with an alert from the surveillance cameras we’ve positioned around the building’s perimeter. I pull up the feed, watching as a sleek BMW pulls into the private parking area reserved for executives and people important enough to bypass normal channels.
“Movement,” I tell Tiziano, who immediately moves to the window with binoculars.
The car door opens, and a woman emerges—dark hair pulled into some elaborate style, designer suit, movements precise and controlled like someone who’s learned to take up exactly the right amount of space.
Even from this distance, even through surveillance equipment, I recognize her immediately.
Regina Picarelli.
“That’s her,” Tiziano observes unnecessarily. “The daughter.”
I don’t respond, too busy watching how she moves across the parking area—confident but careful, aware of her surroundings without being obvious about it.
She’s carrying a leather portfolio that suggests business rather than a social visit, and she’s alone except for the security detail that shadows her at a respectful distance.
“She comes here every Tuesday and Thursday,” Tiziano continues, consulting notes he’s been keeping. “Usually stays between thirty and forty-five minutes. Always carrying documents. My contact inside says she works as her father’s business consultant for his legitimate operations.”
“Consultant.” The word tastes like a lie. “Or prisoner with a fancy job title?”
“Does it matter?”
It shouldn’t. She’s Sabino Picarelli’s daughter, part of the machine that’s threatening Simeone’s family. Whether she’s willing or unwilling is irrelevant to the bigger picture.
But I can’t stop watching her as she disappears into the building, briefcase in hand and shoulders straight with the kind of posture that speaks to years of training.
“Pull up the interior cameras,” I tell Tiziano. “I want to see how this meeting goes.”
He hesitates for just a moment—long enough to communicate disapproval without actually voicing it—before pulling up feeds from the security cameras his contact inside has given us access to. The quality isn’t perfect, but it’s good enough to track Regina’s progress through the building.
She navigates the hallways like someone who’s memorized every step, every turn.
Staff members flatten themselves against walls as she passes, their deference so automatic it’s barely conscious.
That smile—I’ve seen it before in the gala footage.
It’s architectural. Carefully constructed, structurally sound, and about as warm as marble.
The feed switches to what appears to be an executive office. Sabino Picarelli sits behind a desk that screams power and intimidation, reviewing something on his computer without looking up when his daughter enters.
No audio on these feeds, but I don’t need sound to read the dynamic.
Regina stands in front of her father’s desk like a subordinate awaiting acknowledgment.
She doesn’t sit. Doesn’t speak. Just waits with the patient resignation of someone who’s learned that asserting herself only makes things worse.
“Look at that,” Tiziano murmurs. “She’s been standing there for almost three minutes, and he hasn’t acknowledged her existence.”
It’s a power play. Classic dominance behavior—making someone wait to establish who controls the interaction. I’ve seen it a thousand times in prison, on the streets, in every hierarchy where men use psychological warfare instead of physical violence.
Finally, Sabino looks up. His expression doesn’t soften when he sees his daughter. If anything, it becomes more calculating, assessing her like merchandise rather than family.
Regina steps forward, opening her portfolio to present whatever documents she’s brought. Her body language is textbook professional—efficient, deferential, designed to take up minimal space and demand minimal attention.
Sabino flips through the papers with casual disinterest, barely glancing at what she’s presenting. When he speaks—and I wish desperately that we had audio—his expression carries dismissal and something that looks uncomfortably like contempt.
Regina’s posture doesn’t change. She maintains that perfect professional veneer, but I catch it—just for a second, so brief I almost miss it.
Her hand tightens on the portfolio case.
Her jaw clenches. Something flickers in her eyes that might be anger or pain or both before she smooths it away with practiced efficiency.
“She’s good at hiding it,” I observe. “But not perfect.”
“Hiding what?”
“How much she hates this.” I lean closer to the monitor, studying every micro-expression I can catch. “How much she hates him.”
Tiziano makes a noncommittal sound. “Or you’re seeing what you want to see.”
“Maybe.” But I don’t think so. I’ve spent fifteen years learning to read people in an environment where missing a signal could mean death. Regina Picarelli is performing—giving her father exactly what he expects while keeping something vital locked away where he can’t touch it.
The meeting continues for another twenty minutes.
Sabino signs documents, makes phone calls that Regina clearly isn’t supposed to hear—she turns away, giving him privacy like a well-trained assistant.
When he finally dismisses her with a wave that barely qualifies as acknowledgment, she gathers her materials with the same efficient precision she brought them.
She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t protest. Just leaves with perfect obedience that somehow feels like an act of rebellion all on its own.
The surveillance feed tracks her exit from the building, and I find myself following her progress with more attention than tactical necessity requires.
She pauses in the lobby, just for a moment, and I see her shoulders drop the same way they did in the gala footage—that brief moment of unguarded exhaustion before she rebuilds her armor.
Then she straightens, fixes that hollow smile back in place, and walks out into the afternoon sun like she’s heading to something pleasant instead of back to whatever gilded cage she calls home.
“Well?” Tiziano asks when the feed shows her car pulling away. “What did we learn?”
“That Sabino Picarelli treats his daughter like decorative property.” I pull away from the monitors, processing information that feels more personal than it should.
“That she’s learned to survive by being perfect and invisible at the same time.
And that whatever intelligence or fire she has, she’s learned to hide it so thoroughly that even her own father probably doesn’t see it. ”
“All of which tells us what, exactly?”