Chapter 12 Regina
Regina
“Tell me, cara mia, do you bleed easily?”
Lorenzo Di Noto’s question cuts through the dinner conversation like a blade, and my fork freezes halfway to my mouth. Across the table, Father continues his discussion about shipping routes with Lorenzo’s father, as if his future son-in-law hadn’t just asked me about bleeding.
“I’m sorry?” I force my voice to stay level, that perfect blend of confusion and polite interest I’ve perfected over twenty-eight years.
“Your skin.” Lorenzo’s eyes trace over me with proprietary interest that makes my stomach turn. “It’s so pale, so delicate. I’m wondering if it bruises easily. Marks are so much more satisfying when they show clearly, don’t you think?”
The implication lands like ice water. Giordano, standing near the door in his usual position, goes rigid—tension rippling through his shoulders in a way only I would notice after years of reading his micro-expressions.
“I’m not particularly prone to bruising,” I manage, reaching for my wine glass with a hand that trembles slightly. “Though I suppose everyone has different thresholds.”
“We’ll find out soon enough.” Lorenzo’s smile doesn’t reach his cold eyes. “Three weeks until the wedding. Then I’ll have plenty of time to explore exactly what your thresholds are.”
Father laughs—actually laughs—like his future son-in-law discussing how to hurt me is a charming part of dinner conversation. “My daughter is tougher than she looks, Lorenzo. You may be surprised.”
“I certainly hope so.” Lorenzo leans back in his chair, swirling his wine with deliberate leisure. “My previous wives were disappointingly fragile. Car accidents, both of them. Such a shame when women can’t handle the pressures of being married to powerful men.”
The words are casual, throwaway, designed to sound like an unfortunate coincidence. But the gleam in his eyes when he watches my reaction tells me everything I need to know—he’s warning me and bragging, even.
Two dead wives. Both accidents.
My mouth goes dry.
“Tragic losses,” Father says, and he actually sounds sympathetic. “But Regina is different. Strong. She understands what’s expected.”
“Does she?” Lorenzo’s gaze pins me like a butterfly to a board. “Tell me, Regina—do you understand what’s expected of a Di Noto wife?”
Every instinct screams to throw my wine in his face, to tell him exactly where he can shove his expectations. Instead, I arrange my expression into something demure and compliant.
“I understand that marriage is about partnership and respect.” The lie tastes like ash. “About building something together.”
“How sweet.” But his tone drips condescension. “Sabino, you’ve raised her to be charmingly naive. Don’t worry—I’ll educate her properly after the wedding.”
Giordano takes a step forward before catching himself, jaw so tight I’m surprised his teeth don’t crack. Our eyes meet across the room, and I see murder written in his gray gaze.
“If you’ll excuse me.” I stand with practiced grace, needing to escape before I do something that gets us both killed. “I need to use the powder room.”
“Don’t be long, cara.” Lorenzo’s hand catches my wrist as I pass, grip just slightly too tight to be casual. “I don’t like it when my possessions wander.”
I’m not your possession yet, I want to scream. Instead, I smile that hollow smile I’ve perfected and extract myself with the kind of careful politeness that hides how badly I want to claw his eyes out.
The hallway is blessedly empty. I make it three steps before Giordano materializes beside me, his presence a comfort and a danger simultaneously.
“Don’t.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “Whatever you’re thinking—don’t. We’re being watched.”
“He killed his previous wives.” The words come out strangled. “That’s what he was telling me, wasn’t he? That marriage won’t be imprisonment—it will be a death sentence.”
“Regina—”
“How long have you known?” I turn to face him fully, not caring about the cameras that might be recording this. “How long have you known Lorenzo Di Noto murders his wives, and Father’s giving me to him anyway?”
“Two days.” Guilt flashes across his features.
“I’ve been investigating since your father announced the engagement.
Both wives died within a year of marriage—one drove off a cliff, and the other into a tree.
Officially ruled accidents, but the circumstances were suspicious enough that I kept digging. ”
“And you were going to tell me when?” Anger spikes through the fear.
“Tonight, after dinner. I wanted to be certain first.” He glances toward the dining room, lowering his voice even further. “Regina, we need to get you out. Now. Not in three weeks—now.”
“How?” The question comes out desperate. “Father’s tripled my security. I can’t go anywhere without armed guards. He’s tracking my phone, my car, probably my goddamn shoes at this point.”
“Then we create a distraction—”
“Mr. Caselli.” Father’s voice cuts through our whispered conversation like a knife. “Is there a problem?”
We both turn to find Sabino standing in the hallway, expression pleasant but eyes cold with suspicion.
“Miss Picarelli felt unwell,” Giordano says smoothly, his mask sliding into place with practiced ease. “I was ensuring she had what she needed.”
“How thoughtful.” But Father’s gaze moves between us with calculating interest. “Regina, perhaps you should retire for the evening. We wouldn’t want you feeling poorly so close to the wedding.”
It’s not a suggestion.
“Of course, Father.” I force myself to kiss his cheek, skin crawling with revulsion. “Thank you for understanding.”
“Always, figlia mia.” His hand rests on my shoulder—heavy, possessive, threatening. “Sleep well. Tomorrow we have dress fittings, and I want you looking your best.”
I escape to my room before the tears can fall, before the panic clawing at my throat can break free. My security detail follows—two armed men who position themselves outside my door with the efficiency of prison guards.
Because that’s what this is. A prison. And in three weeks, I’ll be transferred to a different cell with a warden who enjoys watching his prisoners bleed.
My phone buzzes with a message on the encrypted app—the one Father doesn’t know exists because I’ve been so careful, so paranoid.
Status update? Haven’t heard from you in 48 hours. - M.B.
Mauricio. Just seeing his initials makes something in my chest unclench slightly. I lock my bathroom door—the one place I’m reasonably certain cameras don’t reach—and type with shaking fingers.
Situation deteriorating rapidly. Need to see you. Tonight if possible.
His response comes within seconds.
Too risky. Security’s been doubled around you.
I don’t care about risk anymore. Lorenzo Di Noto killed his previous wives. Father knows. He’s giving me to a murderer.
The typing indicator appears, disappears, appears again. Finally:
Meet me at the usual place. 2 AM. Can you get away?
I stare at the message, calculating impossibilities. Two guards outside my door. Tracking on my phone and car. Probably motion sensors on the windows. Father’s paranoia has turned my bedroom into Fort Knox.
But staying means dying.
I’ll find a way.
Be careful. If you’re caught…
I’m already dead if I stay. At least this way I’m choosing how I die.
I delete the conversation, clear the app’s cache, and stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. The woman looking back is pale, haunted, wearing a blue dress. She looks like someone who’s been performing her entire life and just realized the show’s about to kill her.
Time to write a different ending.
The sleeping pills were easy to obtain—Dr. Muni prescribed them months ago for “anxiety,” which wasn’t technically a lie. Crushing them into powder was simple. Getting close enough to my guards’ coffee without raising suspicion took more creativity.
“Gentlemen.” I emerge from my room at 11 PM wearing silk pajamas and carrying a tray with three cups that I made in my room’s small kitchenette. “I couldn’t sleep and made coffee. Thought you might want some since you’re stuck babysitting me all night.”
The guards exchange glances—suspicious but tempted. They’ve been on duty since six, and Father doesn’t allow breaks until shift change at six AM.
“That’s very kind, Miss Picarelli,” the older one says carefully. “But we’re not supposed to accept anything—”
“From prisoners?” I finish his sentence with a smile sharp enough to draw blood. “That’s what I am now, isn’t it? A prisoner in my own home, being prepared for transfer to a different facility.”
The honesty catches them off guard. These men aren’t stupid—they know exactly what kind of man Lorenzo Di Noto is, what my future holds.
“Miss Picarelli—”
“Please.” I soften my voice, let genuine desperation show. “Just take the coffee. It’s the only thing I can control right now—making something for someone else. Let me have this small rebellion.”
The younger guard reaches for a cup. “Thank you, miss.”
His partner follows suit, and I return to my room with my own untainted coffee, counting down minutes with my heart hammering against my ribs.
Twenty minutes later, I hear the first guard’s breathing go heavy. Thirty minutes, and soft snoring filters under my door.
I wait ten more minutes to be certain, then crack the door open. Both guards slumped in their chairs, coffee cups still clutched in slack hands.
Moving quickly, I change into dark jeans and a leather jacket—clothes that won’t catch light or make noise. My emergency bag is already packed and hidden in my closet: cash, fake IDs Giordano helped me obtain two weeks ago, copies of every piece of intelligence I’ve gathered.
The window is the easy part—I disabled the motion sensor days ago, a small act of rebellion Father never noticed because he trusted his technology more than his instincts.
Getting down three stories without breaking my neck is harder.