Chapter 24 Mauricio
Mauricio
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
Regina’s question cuts through the silence as we pull up to Simeone’s estate that’s all wrought iron gates and old money that speaks of empires built on blood and loyalty.
I can feel her tension radiating in the enclosed space of the car, her fingers drumming against her thigh in a rhythm that betrays nerves she won’t voice.
“Meeting my best friend and his wife?” I glance at her, taking in the careful composure she’s wearing like armor. “Considering we’re about to disappear to another country, it seems like the polite thing to do.”
“I killed my father two days ago.” Her voice drops to something raw. “I’m not exactly in the right headspace for meeting new people.”
“Simeone’s seen worse.” I kill the engine, reaching over to still her restless fingers with mine. “Trust me, fratello mio has witnessed enough darkness that your recent life choices won’t even register as shocking.”
“That’s somehow not as comforting as you think it is.”
I laugh despite the weight of the conversation we’re about to have—the one where I turn down everything I thought I wanted in favor of something I didn’t know I needed. “Come on. Let’s get this over with before you talk yourself out of it.”
The front door opens before we reach it, and Simeone fills the doorframe with that commanding presence that has only grew with years. Silver hair catching afternoon light, dark eyes assessing us both with the tactical precision of a man who’s survived by reading people accurately.
“Mauricio.” His embrace is brief, hard, loaded with everything we won’t say in front of witnesses.
When he pulls back, his attention shifts to Regina with interest that’s carefully measured—assessing the woman who’s claimed his best friend’s loyalty.
“And you must be Regina. The woman who brought down Sabino Picarelli’s empire in less than a month. ”
“Regina Picarelli.” She extends her hand with the poise of someone who’s attended a thousand business meetings with monsters, her posture professional rather than warm. “Thank you for your assistance with the operation. Mauricio speaks highly of you.”
“Does he?” Simeone’s handshake is brief, respectful but distant. “That’s surprising. He usually prefers to complain about how I’ve gone soft with domestication.”
“I’m standing right here,” I point out, following them into an interior that screams domestic bliss—family photos on walls, toys scattered across expensive rugs, the lingering scent of something baking that makes the house feel lived-in rather than just inhabited.
“And we’re talking about you, not to you.” A petite woman appears from the kitchen, dark hair pulled back, eyes that are sharp with intelligence and warmth in equal measure. “I’m Loriana. The wife who apparently makes Simeone insufferably domestic.”
“Regina.” The introduction is polite and measured. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.” Loriana’s assessment is quick but thorough—the kind of evaluation one woman gives another when measuring whether she’s a threat or potential ally. “Can I get you coffee? Wine? Something stronger, considering the week you’ve had?”
“Coffee’s fine, thank you.” Regina settles onto the couch with the careful posture of someone who’s learned to navigate uncomfortable social situations with grace.
“I’ll take wine if you’re offering,” I add, watching the dynamics play out with interest.
Loriana disappears back into the kitchen, leaving the three of us in loaded silence. Simeone gestures to chairs arranged around a coffee table.
“So.” Simeone settles into his chair with the ease of a man completely comfortable in his domain. “Detective Borghese called me this morning. Said the Picarelli case is closed, organization dismantled, and you two are in the clear.”
“That’s the official story.” I sink into leather that’s too comfortable, watching my best friend’s face for reactions. “Reality’s a bit more complicated.”
“Reality usually is.” Simeone’s gaze flicks between us, calculating. “But the outcome is what matters. Sabino’s dead, his empire’s destroyed, and you’re both alive. I’d call that a successful operation.”
“Successful.” Regina’s voice carries something sharp beneath the professional tone. “Yes, that’s one way to describe it.”
Simeone’s expression shifts slightly—recognition of pain beneath composure. “I didn’t mean to diminish what it cost you, Miss Picarelli. Killing family, even family that doesn’t deserve the title, leaves marks that don’t fade easily.”
“Regina is fine.” The correction is gentle. “And I appreciate the acknowledgment. Not everyone understands that justified doesn’t mean easy.”
Loriana returns with coffee and wine, setting them on the table with practiced ease. She hands Regina a cup prepared black—somehow intuiting the preference—and passes me a generous pour of red.
“To surviving,” Loriana says, raising her own glass. “Whatever that looks like.”
We drink to that—a toast that feels less celebratory and more like acknowledgment of shared experience. The wine is excellent, smooth and complex, probably from Simeone’s private collection.
“So.” Simeone sets his glass down with decisive finality. “Let’s talk about what comes next.”
Here it is. The conversation I’ve been dreading and anticipating in equal measure.
“I’m offering you full partnership in the Codella organization,” Simeone continues, leaning forward with intensity that demands attention.
“Not as my lieutenant or enforcer or the man who owes me. As my equal. Fifty-fifty split on everything—territories, operations, legitimate businesses, all of it.”
The offer settles between us like a grenade with the pin pulled. Everything I thought I wanted when I was rotting in prison, counting days and planning revenge. Power, position, purpose within an organization that’s become family.
“It’s a generous offer,” I say carefully, feeling Regina’s attention sharpen beside me.
“It’s what you’re owed.” Simeone’s voice carries conviction. “Fifteen years you gave me, Mauricio. Fifteen years in a cage while I built this empire on the foundation of your sacrifice. You deserve to reap the benefits.”
“I appreciate it.” And I do, genuinely. But appreciation doesn’t change what I’ve realized over the past month. “But I’m going to have to decline.”
The silence that follows is heavy with surprise and something that might be hurt. Simeone’s expression shifts through several emotions before settling on careful neutrality.
“You’re turning down a full partnership in one of the most powerful organizations on the East Coast?” His voice carries disbelief. “Why?”
“Because it’s yours, not mine.” I meet his gaze directly, needing him to understand. “You built this, Simeone. You spent twenty years turning the Codella name into something that commands respect and fear. I didn’t earn that. I just... survived long enough to witness it.”
“You earned it by keeping your mouth shut when lesser men would have talked.” Simeone’s frustration bleeds through professional composure. “You earned it by protecting me, by sacrificing your freedom so I could build something worth protecting. That counts for more than you think.”
“Maybe.” I glance at Regina, drawing strength from her steady presence. “But I don’t want to inherit or take over something built on someone else’s foundation. I want to build something new. Something that’s mine—ours—from the ground up.”
Understanding dawns across Simeone’s features, followed by resignation that looks like acceptance. “You’re leaving.”
“We’re leaving.” Regina’s voice is calm, certain. “For Sicily. At least for a while. We need distance from everything that’s happened, space to figure out what comes next.”
“Sicily.” Simeone’s expression shifts into something I can’t quite read. He stands abruptly, moving to a desk in the corner and pulling out paperwork that looks suspiciously prepared. “That’s... actually perfect.”
He returns with documents, spreading them across the coffee table. “I have a house there. Cefalù, on the northern coast. My family’s ancestral home before we immigrated. It’s been sitting empty for years except for a caretaker who maintains it.”
I stare at the papers—property deeds, transfer documents, all official and binding. “Simeone, that’s—”
“The least I can do.” His interruption is firm. “You won’t take partnership in my empire? Fine. But you’ll take this. A place to start fresh, to build whatever comes next. No strings, no obligations, just... a gift from a brother who owes you more than he can ever repay.”
“That’s incredibly generous,” Regina says quietly, speaking for the first time since the offer was made. “But we can’t accept something so valuable—”
“Yes, you can. And you will.” Simeone’s attention shifts to her, his expression softening slightly. “I don’t know you well, Regina. But Mauricio chose you, which means you’re worth knowing. And if he’s building a new life, he deserves to start with more than just determination and a dream.”
He pulls out something else—a black credit card that catches light like promise. “This too. Account in a name that can’t be traced, loaded with your share of every operation we’ve run since the day you went to prison.”
“My share?”
“I’ve been setting aside your percentage for fifteen years.” Simeone’s voice roughens with emotion he’s too proud to show. “Every job, every deal, every profit—I put aside what would have been yours if you’d been free to claim it. It’s grown considerably.”
I take the card with hands that aren’t quite steady, feeling the weight of loyalty that spans decades. “How much?”
“Enough that you’ll never have to work again if you don’t want to.” Simeone’s smile is sad, proud. “Enough to build whatever life you choose in Sicily without worrying about money or resources or starting from nothing.”
“Simeone...” I don’t have words for what this means, for the magnitude of a gesture that speaks of brotherhood deeper than blood.