Chapter 8 Mauricio #2
“So does playing it safe.” Her reflection in the window glass meets mine.
“You took a risk protecting Simeone. You took a risk approaching me in that coffee shop. You take risks every time we meet for intelligence exchange. So don’t tell me you’re not willing to gamble when we both know you do it constantly. ”
“Those are calculated risks.” But even as I say it, I know she’s found the flaw in my logic. “Strategic decisions with acceptable parameters.”
“And this?” She turns to face me fully. “Us? What parameters make this acceptable?”
“None.” Honesty feels like the only currency worth trading.
“There are no acceptable parameters for getting involved with you, Regina. Every scenario I run ends badly. You get hurt. I get distracted. Sabino discovers the betrayal and destroys both of us. The mission fails. Simeone’s family remains in danger.
There is no version of this where we cross that line and everything works out fine. ”
“Then why do you keep looking at me like you want to cross it anyway?”
“Because wanting something and being smart enough not to take it are two different things.” I finally meet her gaze directly. “And because you deserve better than being someone’s complicated risk calculation.”
“What if I don’t want better?” Her voice carries defiance. “What if I want real—even if it’s messy and dangerous and potentially catastrophic?”
“Then you’re still the desperate woman who walked into that abandoned church looking for an exit strategy.” The observation is gentle but firm. “And I’m still the man who spent fifteen years learning not to mistake desperation for genuine connection.”
The words land like a slap. I see it in how she flinches, how her jaw tightens.
“You’re right.” Her voice is back to that professional neutrality. “I apologize for allowing personal feelings to complicate our partnership. It won’t happen again.”
“Regina—”
“I should go.” She gathers her laptop and flash drives. “Father will be expecting me for dinner. Wouldn’t want to raise suspicions by being late.”
“Wait.” I catch her arm as she heads for the door. “I didn’t mean—”
“You meant exactly what you said.” But she doesn’t pull away, doesn’t run, just stands there with exhaustion written across her features. “And maybe you’re right. Maybe I am just desperate for anything that feels like connection. Maybe I’m confusing adrenaline and rebellion with actual attraction.”
“That’s not what I—”
“But maybe you’re wrong too.” She turns to face me fully.
“Maybe I recognize something in you that has nothing to do with desperation. Maybe I see a man who understands cages and survival and the cost of loyalty. Maybe that recognition is what draws me, not just the thrill of working against my father.”
“And maybe both things are true,” I say quietly. “Maybe you’re desperate and genuine at the same time. Maybe I’m protecting you and wanting you in equal measure. Maybe this whole situation is so fucking complicated that neither of us knows what’s real anymore.”
“Then what do we do?”
“We stay focused.” I release her arm, force myself to create distance. “We stick to the plan, working toward your freedom and Sabino’s downfall. Everything else—all this heat and chemistry and possibility—we box it up and deal with it later. If there is a later.”
“And if I can’t box it up?” Her voice cracks slightly.
“Then you fake it.” The advice tastes bitter but true. “You perform the role, maintain the distance, and tell yourself that surviving is more important than feeling. Trust me—it gets easier with practice.”
“Is that what you did? In prison?” She studies my face like she’s trying to read secrets written in scar tissue. “Just performed the role until you forgot who you really were?”
“Some days. Other days I held onto who I was so tightly it hurt. The trick is knowing which approach keeps you alive.”
“And which approach keeps you alive with Regina Picarelli?”
“I don’t know yet. Ask me again when this is over.”
“If we’re both still alive.”
“If we’re both still alive,” I agree.
She leaves without another word, and I watch from the window as her car disappears into city traffic. My phone buzzes—Tiziano, confirming the intelligence upload and requesting a debrief at the estate.
By the time I arrive at Simeone’s fortress, the sun is setting behind walls and security systems, painting everything in shades of amber and shadow. Simeone meets me in his office—power and responsibility written across every expensive surface.
“How did the surveillance go?” He pours two glasses of whiskey without asking if I want one. “Tiziano said you confirmed the Rotterdam connection.”
“We did.” I take the offered glass, needing the burn. “Regina’s intelligence was accurate. The manifest matches what she said, security rotations are exactly as she described, timing for potential intervention is viable.”
“That’s good news.” But Simeone’s studying me with eyes that have known me too long to miss the tension. “So why do you look like someone kicked your dog?”
“Because the situation with Regina Picarelli is becoming complicated.”
“Complicated how?”
I drain half the whiskey in one swallow, buying time to arrange thoughts that refuse to organize themselves logically.
“She’s smart, Simeone. Not just educated or well-trained—actually intelligent in ways that make her dangerous. She thinks strategically, sees patterns I miss, suggests alternatives I haven’t considered. Working with her is like—”
“Like working with an equal?” He finishes my sentence with unsettling accuracy. “Like finding someone who matches you intellectually?”
“Yes,” I admit reluctantly. “And that makes everything more complicated.”
“Because you’re attracted to her.”
It’s not a question. Simeone knows me too well to mistake my tone for anything except exactly what it is—a man wrestling with desire that threatens to compromise everything.
“I’m attracted to the enemy’s daughter.” I force myself to say it plainly. “To a woman I’m supposed to be using as an intelligence asset. To someone whose life is already complicated enough without me adding my fucked-up baggage to it.”
“Does she feel the same way?”
“I think so. Maybe. Probably.” I run a hand through my hair, frustration mounting. “She kissed me—almost kissed me—and I stopped it. Told her we couldn’t cross that line. That getting involved would compromise the mission and put her in more danger.”
“All of which is true.”
“I know it’s true.” I drain the rest of the whiskey. “But knowing something and feeling it are two different things. Every time I’m with her, every time she challenges me or looks at me with those green eyes that see too much—I want to say fuck the mission and find out what we could be.”
“But you don’t.”
“But I don’t.” I set the empty glass down harder than necessary. “Because I spent fifteen years learning discipline. Because getting distracted by attraction is how people die. Because she deserves better than me.”
Simeone is quiet for a long moment, and I can see him processing everything I’ve said—and more importantly, everything I haven’t said.
“You care about her,” he finally observes. “You actually care what happens to Regina Picarelli.”
“I care about not getting people killed.” But the deflection sounds weak even to my ears. “I care about maintaining operational security. I care about—”
“Mauricio.” He cuts through my bullshit with gentle firmness. “I know what you sound like when you’re lying. This is what you sound like when you’re lying to yourself.”
The accuracy of his read lands like a punch.
“Fine.” I meet his gaze directly. “Yes. I care about her. Happy?”
“Not particularly.” But there’s understanding in his voice.
“Because caring about someone in this life—our life—means accepting they might die for being associated with you. It means living with that fear every day. And it means sometimes making choices that hurt because keeping them safe matters more than keeping them close.”
“Speaking from experience?”
“Always.” His expression softens slightly.
“Loriana changed everything for me. Made me want things I never thought possible. But it also made me vulnerable in ways I’d never been before.
Every threat against the family is a threat against her.
Every decision I make has to factor in her safety and Alessandro’s.
Love—real love—is the most dangerous thing we can do. ”
“I’m not in love with Regina Picarelli,” I insist. “I barely know her. It’s an attraction. Desire. It’s been a long time since I’ve been with a woman. My body is simply reacting to that.”
“You know enough to risk approaching her. Enough to trust her intelligence. Enough to worry about her safety.” Simeone refills both our glasses. “The question is whether you know enough to walk away if that’s what protects her.”
“I don’t know if I can walk away.” The confession tastes like failure. “We need her intelligence to dismantle Sabino’s operations. And she needs our help to escape before he forces her into marriage. Walking away means abandoning her to a life she doesn’t want.”
“Then don’t walk away.” His advice surprises me. “But set boundaries. Make it clear what’s partnership and what’s personal attraction. Keep those lines visible even when they’re hard to maintain.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“It’s not simple—it’s necessary.” He echoes my earlier words to Regina.
“You haven’t been out of prison long, Mauricio.
You’re still learning to navigate a world that moved on without you.
Don’t add romantic complications to an already complicated situation until you’re certain you can handle them. ”
“And if I’m never certain?”
“Then you stay in the gray area between wanting and having.” His smile is tinged with sympathy. “Trust me—it’s better than the alternative.”
We drink in silence, two men who’ve sacrificed too much and want too little, trying to figure out how to survive in a world that doesn’t forgive weakness.
After I finish yet another glass, I look up to find Simeone watching me with knowing eyes.
“What?” I ask defensively.
“Nothing.” But his smile suggests otherwise. “Just recognizing the look of a man who’s already more involved than he wants to admit.”
“Shut up.”
“Never.” He refills our glasses, then raises his in mock salute. “Welcome back to the world of the living, fratello. Try not to let it kill you.”
I return the gesture, drinking to survival and complications and women with green eyes who make me want things I’ve learned not to want.
Outside, the estate lights paint everything in false security. Inside, my chest is tight with something that might be fear or anticipation or both.