Page 10 of The Assassin’s Captive (The Roma Syndicate #5)

LORENZO

T he private hospital sits forty kilometers outside Rome, surrounded by cypress trees and sprawling manicured lawns.

I park the rental sedan in the visitor lot and check my watch.

It's been three days since Serena disappeared from my house.

Three days since Emilio's phone rang with questions about his registered vehicle wrapped around a guardrail on Via Cassia.

"Handle it," he told me, "quietly." Based on the tone of his voice, I knew then, and I know now, what he meant.

This entire thing has gotten too loud for the Costa name.

Three days of a public prosecutor going missing while working on a case connected to us and now being tied to his car means trouble.

I walk through the hospital's polished lobby with a tightness in my chest and an understanding of what I have to do—make it look like an accident. But how I'll accomplish that, I'm not sure. The minute they ran his plate, the entire situation was fucked.

At the reception desk, a nurse in crisp whites looks up from her computer screen. Her badge reads Gretchen . I lean forward, letting concern crease my features as if I'm a very worried loved one of some very sick patient.

"I'm looking for information about a woman brought in three days ago," I say, keeping my voice steady. "Car accident on Via Cassia. My cousin was supposed to meet her that evening, and when she didn't show…" I let the sentence trail off, allowing her to fill in the gaps.

Gretchen's expression softens. "What's your name, sir?"

"Marco Tessari," I tell her. The false identity rolls off my tongue without effort.

Years of practice have made deception second nature, and setting up her other mysterious follower to take the fall for this will help at least slow the investigation.

My eyes flick up to the camera overhead, and I can only pray my face doesn't show up in some database somewhere for facial recognition.

She types into her system, frowning at the screen. "There was a woman brought in from that location. Listed as unknown—no identification found at the scene. She's in room 314, but I have to warn you, she hasn't regained consciousness since admission."

My chest tightens, though I keep my face neutral.

"Is she… will she recover?" Feigning worry is easy. Keeping my heart steady after learning maybe I don’t have to kill her right away, after all, isn't quite as easy.

If they don't know who she is, it means my job is less conspicuous but more complicated.

I still need to find out everything she knows—but now my face is definitely connected to her in public ways.

"The doctors are optimistic. No major internal injuries, thankfully. Some bruising and a concussion, but her vitals are stable." Gretchen glances around the empty lobby, then lowers her voice. "Between you and me, she's lucky to be alive. The car was completely destroyed."

I nod, manufacturing relief. "Thank you. May I see her?"

"Of course. Third floor, turn right off the elevators. I'm sure the doctors will want to speak to you so we can give this poor girl a name." Her soft smile leaves me feeling unsettled. I turn toward the direction of the elevators and move quietly toward my target.

When the elevator doors open on the third floor, I step into a hallway lined with abstract paintings and potted fake orchids. Room 314 sits at the end, its door partially closed.

I pause outside, listening, and hear no voices or movements inside. The corridor remains empty except for the distant sound of wheels against linoleum—a nurse making rounds somewhere else in the wing. And somewhere down the hall I hear a phone ringing, but it's not coming from inside Serena's room.

I push the door open and step inside. She lies motionless in the hospital bed, connected to machines that monitor every breath, every heartbeat.

The steady beeping fills the room with mechanical rhythm.

Her dark hair spills across the white pillow, and purple bruises shade her left cheek and temple. A bandage covers a cut on her forehead.

But she's alive. Whole…

I close the door behind me and approach the bed.

Her face, even marked by the accident, retains its sharp intelligence, or maybe that's me projecting what I know about her onto her quiet form.

Her breathing is even and controlled. She looks smaller here, vulnerable in ways I never witnessed during our confrontation at my house.

The medical chart hangs from a clipboard at the foot of her bed.

I lift it carefully, scanning through pages of technical notes and vital signs.

Admission notes detail her arrival—unconscious, no identification, blood alcohol negative, no signs of assault.

The attending physician noted defensive wounds on her wrists—evidence of our sex the night before she whacked me over the head with that bottle and escaped.

It says defensive wounds, but I still remember the whimpers of pleasure I pulled from her lips.

I flip through more pages, reading diagnostic reports and treatment plans.

Standard hospital documentation— blood pressure readings, neurological assessments, medication schedules.

The attending physician has ordered regular monitoring for increased intracranial pressure, though the initial CT scan showed no brain swelling.

Then I find a lab report, stamped with yesterday's date containing blood panel results, routine for all unconscious patients. Most of the numbers mean nothing to me—white blood cell counts, protein levels, standard medical terminology that fills pages with clinical observations.

But at the bottom of the page, a note in red ink stops my breath.

DNA profile flagged against national database. Direct familial match identified: Subject Emilio Costa, case file EC-2019-047 .

Then in the same handwriting as the doctor's scribbled name it says, It was his car???

The paper trembles in my hands. I read the line again, certain I've misunderstood. But the science doesn't lie. The laboratory has confirmed what should be impossible.

Serena is Emilio's blood.

A direct familial match.

My mind races through the implications. This woman who has spent months building cases against Emilio's organization, systematically targeting the financial networks that fund his operations, carries his DNA.

But how? Pressing my eyes closed, I think back to her file given to me by Emilio.

It said she was adopted, so did he know this?

Does Emilio understand just how dangerous Serena Barone really is?

My eyes pop open and I look at the bottom of the report for signatures.

Only two names appear, Dr. Ignatius Ruggeri, attending physician, and Roberto Silva, laboratory technician.

No one else has accessed this information.

The timestamp shows the results were generated late yesterday evening, after normal administrative hours.

My hands move without conscious thought, tearing the page from the clipboard.

The paper rips cleanly along the perforation, and I fold it twice before sliding it into my jacket pocket.

Without this evidence, the connection disappears, becomes a clerical error, a misfiled sample, a computer glitch.

The cleanup will be simple. I'll send Victor to remove the lab tech and the doctor, and that will be that. It will all look like an accident.

I return the chart to its place and look down at her again.

Emilio Costa's daughter. The prosecutor who threatens his empire is his own blood.

The irony cuts deep.

I wonder, does she know? Did she choose to target the Costa syndicate because of buried knowledge about her parentage? Or is this the cruelest coincidence—fate putting a father's child in his crosshairs without either of them knowing?

I study her face for answers that won't come while she sleeps.

Her features carry similarities to Emilio's that I never noticed before—the strong jaw, the sharp cheekbones, the way her eyebrows arch even in unconsciousness.

Family resemblance becomes obvious once you know what to look for, and I'm a fool for not seeing it sooner.

The machines continue their steady chorus around me, marking time while I recalculate everything.

My orders were clear. Extract information about her legal strategies, then eliminate the threat she poses.

But those orders become complicated the moment Emilio learns she's his daughter.

He will rescind them, I'm positive of it.

Hospital records can be altered, but not permanently erased. Too many systems, too many backups, too many people with access. The truth will surface eventually—within days, not weeks. When it does, everything changes.

Emilio will want her alive, will want her brought to him, protected maybe—brought into the family. The daughter he never knew existed becomes his legacy, his continuation right alongside Victor.

She shifts slightly in her sleep, and I step back from the bed. Her eyelids flutter but don't open. The concussion keeps her deep under, probably for several more hours according to the medical notes.

Several more hours before she wakes up to a world that has fundamentally altered around her.

The door opens behind me, and I turn to see Dr. Ruggeri entering with a clipboard. He's tall, grey-haired, wearing the confident bearing that comes with decades of medical practice.

"Excuse me," he says with authority, "visiting hours ended twenty minutes ago."

I nod toward the bed. "I'm her cousin, Marco Tessari. The nurse downstairs said I could see her."

Dr. Ruggeri checks his watch, then looks at me with the measuring gaze doctors perfect over years of evaluating patients and families. "She's stable, but the head trauma requires careful monitoring. We're keeping her sedated until the swelling reduces."

"How much longer?"

"Difficult to say. Could be hours, could be another day. Brain injuries heal on their own timeline." He moves to check the monitors, recording numbers on his clipboard. "Are you her emergency contact? We've been trying to locate family since she arrived."

"We weren't close," I lie smoothly. "Haven't spoken in months before this happened. I don't know her current contacts."

Dr. Ruggeri nods, making a note. "When she wakes, we'll need to verify her identity. The police will want to speak with her about the accident."

My pulse quickens, but I keep my expression neutral. "Of course. I'll be here when she's ready."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible tonight. We limit overnight visitors to immediate family only." His tone allows no argument. "You can return during regular hours tomorrow."

I look down at her one more time. In a few hours, maybe less, she'll open her eyes. The concussion will fade, her memory will return, and she'll remember everything—the opera house, my home, our confrontation, her escape.

They'll tell her that the car she stole belongs to Emilio Costa. And when the police run their background checks, when they dig into her identity to piece together what happened, they'll find connections that lead back to the man who wants her dead.

Unless I get to her first.

"I understand," I tell Dr. Ruggeri. "I'll be back first thing tomorrow morning."

He escorts me to the elevator, and I ride down to the lobby already formulating a plan in my head. At the reception desk, Gretchen looks up with a sympathetic smile.

"How is she?"

"The doctor says she'll recover. Thank you for your help.

" I pause, as if remembering an afterthought.

"When she wakes up, could you call me? I'd like to be here when she's ready for visitors.

" That call will never come, because I intend to be here before she wakes and have her removed discretely, but I have to play the part.

Gretchen takes down my false phone number, and I walk back to the parking lot under the weight of what I know. The woman lying unconscious three floors above me is Emilio Costa's daughter.

The prosecutor I was ordered to break and erase has become the most valuable person in his world for so many reasons.

And I'm the only one who knows the truth.

Everything changes now.