Chapter 21 Mauricio
Mauricio
“I need you to burn his entire world to ash.”
I pace the cabin’s living room with my phone pressed to my ear, watching dawn paint the mountains gold while I coordinate the destruction of a man who’s had it coming for twenty-eight years. On the other end, David Kalinin’s rough laugh carries the weight of old debts and older friendships.
“Mauricio Barone calls in his favor after all these years,” David says in heavily accented English. “I wondered when you would. What unfortunate soul has earned your attention?”
“Sabino Picarelli. Eastern territories. Controls shipping routes through three major ports.” I tick off details with the precision of someone who’s spent months studying his enemy.
“I need his international connections severed. Every supply line disrupted. Every shipment intercepted or delayed. Make him radioactive to do business with.”
“The man who murdered his partners and stole their child?” David’s voice turns cold with recognition. “Da. Yes. This one deserves worse than business problems. This one deserves to watch everything he built crumble while he still breathes to see it.”
“Exactly. He’s also the reason I went to prison.” I glance toward the bedroom where Regina sleeps, exhausted from yesterday’s meeting with Borghese. “How long do you need?”
“For complete disruption? Forty-eight hours. My people already operate in those territories—they just need new instructions.” Papers rustle on his end. “But Mauricio, you understand this kind of pressure makes dangerous men do desperate things?”
“I’m counting on it.” Because a desperate Sabino is a sloppy Sabino, and sloppy men make mistakes I can exploit. “Call me when the first shipment gets seized.”
I disconnect and immediately dial Tiziano, who answers on the first ring, as if he’s been waiting for my call. Knowing him, he probably has been.
“Tell me you’re not calling to cancel our plans,” he says by way of greeting. “Simeone’s been insufferable waiting for you to give the word.”
“The word is given.” I move to the window, scanning the tree line with the paranoia that’s kept me alive this long.
“Start applying territorial pressure. Nothing overt—just make it clear that Sabino’s buffer zones are now contested territory.
Force him to split his resources defending borders while his international operations collapse. ”
“Music to my ears.” Tiziano’s satisfaction bleeds through the phone. “Simeone wants to know if you need additional security for Regina. He’s offered to send—”
“Tell him I appreciate it, but we’re covered.” David’s best men are already positioned around the property, invisible but present. “I need Simeone focused on the territorial play, not worrying about babysitting duty.”
“He worries because he cares, Mauricio. And because he knows what you sacrificed—”
“Don’t.” The word comes out sharper than intended. “We’re not doing the guilt tour this morning. Just execute the plan.”
I end the call before Tiziano can push, because talking about sacrifice requires examining choices I’d make again in a heartbeat. Fifteen years in prison bought Simeone the time to build his empire, and now that empire becomes the hammer we use to destroy Sabino.
Poetic justice tastes better than I imagined.
My phone buzzes with a text from Borghese:
First three arrests made. Lower-level money laundering operations. Picarelli will hear about it within the hour.
I stare at the message for a long moment before responding.
Borghese is good at her job—competent, driven, methodical in building her case.
But she’s also federal law enforcement, which means she operates within systems that can be compromised, manipulated, bought.
I’ve seen too many “airtight” cases fall apart because someone got paid off or evidence mysteriously disappeared.
Regina and I handed her the ledgers, the financial records, the documentation that could put Sabino away for life. And maybe Borghese will succeed. Maybe her eight years of preparation will result in handcuffs and a conviction that sticks.
But I didn’t survive fifteen years in prison by trusting maybe.
I fire back:
Keep climbing the ladder. I need him scared but not panicked yet.
What I don’t tell her is that while she builds her legal case, I’m constructing something more permanent.
Something that doesn’t rely on judges who can be bribed or juries who can be threatened.
Borghese gets to play hero with her federal prosecutors and tactical teams. I get to ensure that even if her case falls apart, Sabino Picarelli still ends up exactly where he deserves.
Six feet under, preferably. Or in pieces small enough that identification requires dental records.
The thought should probably bother me more than it does.
When I was younger, I might have hesitated at the cold calculation required to plan a man’s death.
But prison burns away hesitation the same way it burns away everything soft and unnecessary.
What’s left is the truth I’ve always known—some men don’t deserve the mercy of legal systems and second chances.
Sabino murdered Regina’s parents. Raised her as property. Used her as a bargaining chip for twenty-eight years. The ledgers she handed Borghese document dozens of other crimes—murders, trafficking, extortion—each one representing lives destroyed by a man who thinks power makes him untouchable.
Let Borghese have her arrests and her headlines. I’ll settle for making sure he never threatens Regina again.
My phone rings—David, already reporting progress. “First shipment seized at Port Elizabeth. Thirty million in product, confiscated by very motivated customs officials who received anonymous tips about container contents.”
“Motivated by your generous contributions to their retirement funds?” I ask dryly.
“Everyone deserves financial security, my friend.” His laugh carries genuine amusement. “Second shipment rerouted to wrong destination—will take weeks to locate and recover. Third one? Let’s just say there was an unfortunate fire at the warehouse. Total loss.”
“You work fast.”
“I work thorough,” he corrects. “And I remember that Sabino Picarelli once tried to move into territory that wasn’t his. Cost me good men before we pushed him back. This? This is old debt collecting interest.”
I file that information away for later examination. Sabino’s made more enemies than even I realized, which means his empire was always more fragile than it appeared. We’re not destroying something solid—we’re exposing the rot that’s been hidden under expensive suits and reputation.
“Keep the pressure consistent,” I tell David. “I want him bleeding from every direction.”
“Consider it done.”
“You’re plotting without me.”
Regina’s voice makes me turn, and the sight of her leaning against the bedroom doorframe in my shirt—just my shirt, hanging to mid-thigh and revealing miles of bare leg—derails every strategic thought in my head.
“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” I manage, though my voice has dropped to something rougher.
“Hard to sleep when I can hear you orchestrating someone’s destruction in the next room.” She moves toward me with that dangerous grace that makes me forget she’s not supposed to be the one thing I can’t plan around. “David Kalinin?”
“You were listening.”
“I was strategizing.” She takes the phone from my hand, scrolling through my recent calls with the efficiency of someone used to gathering intelligence.
“David for international pressure, Tiziano for territorial squeeze, Borghese for legal assault. You’re attacking him from four directions simultaneously. ”
“Five.” I catch her wrist, pulling her close enough that bergamot and vanilla wrap around me like temptation. “You’re going to systematically freeze his hidden accounts. The ones you told me about—the emergency funds he thinks no one knows exist.”
Her smile turns predatory. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
“I need you on the computer within the hour.” My hands find her hips, thumbs tracing circles through the expensive cotton that now smells like me. “Can you do it without being traced?”
“Please.” She rises on her toes, lips brushing my jaw. “I’ve been planning this particular revenge since I was sixteen and figured out his password scheme. He’ll wake up tomorrow morning and find himself suddenly, catastrophically poor.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Your girl wants coffee before committing financial terrorism.” But she’s not pulling away, and neither am I, and suddenly the strategic planning feels less urgent than mapping the curve of her neck with my mouth.
Her fingers thread through my hair, nails scraping lightly against my scalp in a way that makes strategic thinking nearly impossible. “Mauricio.”
“Mmm?”
“What aren’t you telling Borghese?”
The question cuts through the haze of want, sharp enough that I pull back to meet her eyes. Green depths study me with the intelligence that first made me realize she was dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with her father’s name.
“What makes you think I’m not telling her everything?” I hedge, because admitting I’m planning murder to a woman who’s already sacrificed so much feels like another weight she shouldn’t have to carry.
“Because I know you.” Her hand cups my face, thumb tracing the scar that runs from temple to jaw. “You’re coordinating with her, feeding her information, letting her make her arrests. But you don’t trust her to finish this. Not really.”
There’s no point lying to someone who reads me like I’m written in her native language. “The legal system is fragile. Cases fall apart. Evidence gets suppressed. Witnesses disappear or change their stories when the price is right.”
“So you’re building a backup plan.” It’s not a question. “Something that doesn’t rely on judges and juries.”