Chapter 5 Regina #2
The observation lands too close to the truth I’m not ready to acknowledge. I close my laptop with deliberate precision, meeting his gaze directly.
“Why are you really sitting here, Mr. Barone?”
“Call me Mauricio.” His smile sharpens. “And maybe I’m sitting here because I’m curious about the woman who’s been researching me for the past few days.”
Ice floods my veins. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t.” He pulls out his phone, scrolls for a moment, then turns the screen toward me. “Your father’s security isn’t as tight as he thinks. When someone accesses specific files repeatedly—especially someone who shouldn’t have access to those particular files—it leaves traces.”
The screen shows activity logs from Father’s system. My activity logs. Every file I opened, every photo I studied, every piece of intelligence I reviewed about Mauricio Barone and his connection to Simeone Codella.
“How did you—” I start, then stop, because the answer is obvious. Someone in Father’s organization is feeding information to the Codellas. Someone close enough to access security logs and confident enough to share them.
“Relax.” Mauricio pockets his phone. “Your father doesn’t know. Yet. Consider this a courtesy warning—if I found out, others might too.”
“Why tell me?” Suspicion wars with something that feels dangerously like hope. “What do you want?”
“Same thing you want.” He takes another sip of coffee, casual as discussing the weather. “Information. Understanding. Maybe a conversation between two people who recognize that sometimes the roles we’re forced to play don’t match who we actually are.”
The accuracy of his read makes my skin prickle. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Don’t I?” He tilts his head, studying me with unsettling focus.
“Twenty-eight years old, MBA from an excellent university, works as your father’s business consultant for his legitimate operations.
Never married despite coming from a family where that would be expected.
Speaks four languages, plays violin, volunteers at a charity that helps trafficking victims.”
The last detail makes me flinch. “You’ve been researching me too.”
“I’ve been doing my homework.” His correction is gentle but firm. “There’s a difference. Researching is clinical, detached. Homework means you’re trying to understand not just what someone does, but why they do it.”
“And what does your homework tell you about my why?”
“That you’re suffocating.” The words land with devastating accuracy.
“That you’ve spent your entire life being the perfect daughter, the perfect asset, the perfect ornament for your father’s empire.
That you volunteer at a trafficking charity because you recognize captivity when you see it, even if it looks different from the outside. ”
I should leave. Should gather my laptop and walk away from this conversation before it becomes something I can’t take back.
Instead, I lean forward slightly, drawn by the same gravitational pull that’s been haunting me since I first saw his photograph.
“That’s quite a theory based on public information and surveillance.”
“It’s an educated guess based on patterns I recognize.” His expression softens almost imperceptibly. “I know what it looks like when someone’s learned to survive by becoming invisible. I spent fifteen years watching people perfect that particular skill.”
“Prison made you philosophical.”
“Prison made me observant.” He pauses. “So did having fifteen years to think about the life I had before and the one I wanted after.”
“And what life did you want?”
“One where I’m not defined by other people’s choices.” The honesty in his voice catches me off guard. “One where sacrifice means something beyond just survival.”
The silence that follows feels charged with understanding that shouldn’t exist between enemies. Because that’s what we are, theoretically—the daughter of Sabino Picarelli and the best friend of Simeone Codella, two families moving toward collision.
“Your father’s been making moves against the Codellas,” Mauricio says finally, shifting topics with strategic precision. “Threats. Intimidation. Testing boundaries.”
“I know.” No point denying what we both understand. “He sees Simeone as a threat that needs neutralizing.”
“And you? What do you see?”
I should lie. Should give him the party line about family loyalty and territorial disputes. Should maintain the perfect facade I’ve spent twenty-eight years constructing.
But something about his storm-gray eyes and the way he’s looking at me—like I’m a person rather than property—breaks through years of careful self-preservation.
“I see an opportunity.”
“For what?”
“For chaos.” The admission tastes like freedom and terror. “For the kind of conflict that might crack open cages that seemed unbreakable.”
His expression doesn’t change, but I see understanding flash across his features. “You want to use the war between our families to escape yours.”
“I want to use whatever tools are available to stop being Sabino Picarelli’s most valuable asset.” My hands tighten around my coffee cup. “I want to become someone whose value isn’t measured in marriage prospects and strategic alliances.”
“That’s dangerous thinking.”
“Living safely hasn’t gotten me anywhere except more trapped.” The words spill out faster now, years of suffocation finding voice. “Father’s deciding which man I’ll marry. Days, maybe weeks—that’s all I have left before he announces his choice and I become someone else’s perfectly controlled wife.”
“So you thought you’d what? Research the enemy? Find leverage?” Mauricio’s voice carries something between respect and concern. “Or were you looking for an exit strategy?”
“I don’t know.” The honesty feels dangerous. “Maybe all of those things. Maybe none of them. Maybe I just needed to prove to myself that I could do something—anything—that wasn’t part of Father’s carefully orchestrated plan for my life.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, those storm-gray eyes assessing me with the kind of intensity that makes me feel simultaneously exposed and seen.
“Are you happy, Regina?”
The question lands like a punch. Nobody’s asked me that. Ever. Not Father, not Rosalia, not even Dr. Muni, who’s been documenting my psychological captivity for years.
My practiced smile starts to form automatically—the one that says I’m perfectly content, that my life is enviable, that being Sabino Picarelli’s daughter is a privilege rather than a sentence.
But something about Mauricio’s gaze, about the way he’s waiting for truth instead of performance, makes the smile falter before it fully forms.
“No.” The word comes out barely above a whisper. “I’m not happy. I’m not sure I even remember what happy feels like.”
“Then we might be able to help each other.”
“How?”
“You want chaos that creates opportunities for escape.” He leans forward, voice dropping low enough that only I can hear. “I want information that helps me understand your father’s operations, his security, his plans. We both want things that the other might be able to provide.”
“You’re suggesting we work together.” I force myself to consider it logically rather than emotionally. “You’re suggesting I betray my father.”
“I’m suggesting you choose yourself for once.” His correction carries no judgment. “There’s a difference between betrayal and survival.”
My heart hammers against my ribs as I process what he’s offering. Alliance with my father’s enemy. Intelligence sharing that could destroy everything Sabino’s built. A partnership that would make me a traitor if discovered.
Or a survivor if successful.
“I need to think about this.”
“Of course.” He stands, taking my phone from where I have it next to my laptop and typing something quickly. “My number. When you’re ready to talk—if you’re ready to talk—contact me. We’ll figure out something that works for both our interests.”
I take the phone, see his contact information displayed with the kind of casual certainty that suggests he never doubted I’d accept.
“And if I decide to tell Father about this conversation?”
“Then you tell him.” Mauricio’s smile is sharp enough to cut. “But we both know you won’t. Because if you were the kind of person who reports everything to Daddy, you wouldn’t have been researching me in the first place.”
He’s right, and we both know it.
“Why are you doing this?” The question escapes before I can stop it. “Why risk approaching me at all?”
“Because fifteen years in prison taught me to recognize when someone’s trapped in a cage they didn’t build.” His expression softens slightly. “And because maybe I’m tired of watching people suffer for other people’s choices when there might be alternatives.”
“Alternatives that serve your interests.”
“Alternatives that serve everyone’s interests.” He corrects. “I won’t lie and pretend this is purely altruistic. But it doesn’t have to be exploitative either. Sometimes mutual benefit is the best foundation for partnership.”
He leaves before I can respond, moving through the coffee shop with that same controlled grace, drawing eyes without seeming to notice or care.
I stare at his contact information on my phone screen, at the decision point he’s presented wrapped in philosophical justifications and strategic logic.
Father expects me to marry within days. Mauricio Barone offers chaos that might create escape routes.
The choice should be impossible.
Instead, it feels inevitable.
I save his number under an innocuous name—”Dr. M. Barrett”—and finish my coffee while my entire world tilts on an axis I didn’t know existed until twenty minutes ago.
Outside, the city continues its normal rhythm, unaware that somewhere in a trendy coffee shop, two people from warring families just planted seeds that might grow into revolution or ruin.
I’m betting on both.