Page 13 of The Assassin’s Captive (The Roma Syndicate #5)
SERENA
T he morning news drones from the television screen while I sit on Lorenzo's leather sofa, searching for any mention of my name.
Hospital spokespeople discuss budget concerns and staff shortages.
Politicians argue about judicial reforms that will never pass.
Traffic reports detail accidents on highways I travel daily to reach my office.
But nothing about a missing prosecutor. No alerts about a woman who disappeared from a private hospital. No press conferences demanding answers about where I am or who took me.
The absence of coverage tells me more than any news story could.
My disappearance has been managed, controlled, erased from public awareness by someone who has connections in the right places.
Whoever orchestrated my removal from that hospital bed has the power to make people disappear without questions.
Lorenzo enters the living room carrying a tray with coffee and pastries from the kitchen.
He's dressed in dark slacks and a white shirt that fits his broad shoulders with tailored perfection.
His movements remain economical, controlled, but there's tension in his jaw that wasn't there when he served me wine in that dinky apartment that was so plain.
I should've known it wasn't his home. It was probably some sort of safe house.
He sets the tray on the glass coffee table and pours two cups of espresso without asking if I want any.
The coffee smells rich and complex, probably expensive enough to feed a family for a week.
Everything in this house speaks to wealth and taste, to a man who has resources most people can only dream about.
"You need to eat," he says, settling into the chair across from me. His hazel eyes study my face with the same intensity I remember from our confrontation four days ago.
I ignore the food and focus on the television screen, flipping through channels, hoping to find some way to escape my current reality. Local news, national broadcasts, international coverage—all of it devoid of any reference to my existence.
"They're not looking for me," I say without taking my eyes from the screen.
"No."
His confirmation carries no surprise, no attempt to soften the truth. Lorenzo doesn't deal in comforting lies or false reassurances.
"Why?"
"Because the right people have been told not to look."
I set down the remote and face him directly, studying the man who sits in his expensive chair.
He acts like a king, like he's accustomed to controlling every aspect of his environment.
The photograph I found last night burns in my memory—Lorenzo with his arm around Emilio Costa, their easy familiarity speaking to years of partnership.
"Who told them?"
Lorenzo reaches for his coffee cup, taking a sip before answering. "People who have more influence than you do."
The casual dismissal ignites anger that I've been holding back since waking up in his bedroom. I stand and pace to the windows that overlook his perfectly manicured grounds, needing movement to channel the frustration building in my chest. Though, the pain still throbs in my head—no thanks to the pain meds that doctor gave me. I could use a drink, but I don’t want my senses dimmed.
"I'm a prosecutor for the Roman judicial system. I have colleagues, supervisors, friends who will notice when I don't show up for work."
"Your office received a call yesterday morning. Family emergency requiring extended leave. Your cases will be reassigned."
I turn to stare at him, my hands forming fists at my sides. "You can't simply erase someone from their life."
"I didn't. But people with more resources than me did."
The admission confirms what I already suspected but hoped wasn't true. Lorenzo isn't acting alone in this kidnapping. He's following orders from someone with enough power to manipulate hospital records, silence news organizations, and convince my office that I've voluntarily disappeared.
"Why did you take me from the hospital?"
"Because leaving you there would have gotten you killed." His eyebrows rise in annoyance, like he's already sick of my questions, but I have so many more coming. I don’t have to stay here.
"By whom?"
Lorenzo sets down his coffee cup and leans forward in his chair, his expression becoming more serious than I've seen since he carried me out of that medical facility.
"By people who don't care about collateral damage when they want information."
"What information?"
"The legal cases you've been building. The financial networks you've been tracking. The evidence you've gathered that threatens organizations more dangerous than you understand."
I walk back to the sofa and sit facing him, my mind racing through the implications of his words. The Costa syndicate has been the focus of my work for months, but I've been careful to keep my investigations compartmentalized, hidden behind layers of legal procedures and bureaucratic delays.
"You work for Costa," I say, making it a statement rather than a question.
Lorenzo doesn't deny it. His silence confirms what the photograph already revealed. He belongs to the same organization I've been trying to dismantle through legal channels.
"Then why protect me? Why not turn me over to your boss and let him handle the problem?"
"Because I'm under strict orders to keep you here. And he made me your last line of defense." His jaw drops open as his tongue works one of his teeth, then he closes it and narrows his eyes at me.
The words carry weight I don't understand, implications that extend beyond the simple dynamics of captor and prisoner. There's something in his voice that suggests complications he isn't ready to explain.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting today."
Lorenzo stands and collects the untouched food from the coffee table without giving me a second chance to eat anything. I don’t want it anyway, but the conversation is over whether I want it to be or not.
"I'm going to shower," he says, pausing at the doorway. "Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."
His footsteps fade up the staircase, followed by the sound of running water from the master bathroom. I wait several minutes to ensure he's occupied before moving toward the hallway that leads to other parts of the house.
The office sits behind a heavy wooden door that would intimidate most people from attempting entry.
But growing up with two academic parents who frequently locked themselves away with important research taught me skills that most lawyers never develop.
The lock yields to pressure applied with a paper clip I find in a document tucked in the drawer of a side table and the bent spring of an ink pen I disassemble for this purpose—techniques learned from a childhood spent trying to access forbidden books and interesting documents.
Lorenzo's office reflects the same expensive taste as the rest of his house—leather furniture, built-in bookcases, expensive artwork. But the desk draws my attention immediately, its surface covered with files and photographs that make my blood run cold.
Pictures of me leaving my apartment building. Images of me entering the courthouse where I work. Surveillance photos taken from distances that required professional equipment and planning.
I flip through the files with growing horror, finding maps of my daily routes, copies of my credit card statements, detailed notes about my schedule and habits. This isn't casual observation. This is comprehensive surveillance that has been ongoing for months.
One folder contains information about my adoptive parents, including their home address, work schedules, and financial records.
Another holds copies of legal documents I've never seen before—sealed adoption papers, birth certificates with names I don't recognize, court orders that reference cases from thirty years ago.
The sound of water stops upstairs, but I can't tear myself away from the evidence spread across his desk. This man, and the people he works for, have been watching me, studying me, gathering information about every aspect of my life while I remained completely unaware of his existence.
Footsteps descend the staircase, moving with purpose toward the office. I don't have time to return the files to their original positions or lock the door behind me.
Lorenzo appears in the doorway, his hair still damp from the shower, wearing fresh clothes that emphasize the powerful build of his shoulders and chest. His expression remains calm as he takes in the scene—me standing behind his desk, surrounded by evidence of surveillance that spans months.
He steps into the room and closes the door behind himself quietly but his expression darkens to an inky glare. "Find what you were looking for?"
His voice carries no anger, no surprise at discovering his privacy violated. If anything, he seems almost relieved that the pretense of ignorance is finally over.
"You've been watching me." The accusation comes out as a whisper, my voice failing under the weight of betrayal and violation.
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"Eight months."
The timeline makes my stomach clench. Eight months ago, I was working on preliminary research for the Costa investigation, gathering financial records and building the foundation for legal action that wouldn't begin for weeks.
"You knew I was investigating your organization."
"From the beginning."
Lorenzo moves toward the desk with the same controlled movements I've come to associate with him, but there's no menace in his approach. He seems almost tired, as if maintaining secrets has become exhausting.
"Then why didn't you stop me? Why not eliminate the threat before I could cause damage?"
"Because eliminating you wasn't my decision to make."
He reaches across the desk and closes the files I've been examining, his movements gentle despite the tension crackling between us.
"But it is now," he continues, meeting my eyes with an intensity that makes my breath catch. "You have a choice. Tell me what you've discovered in your investigation, share the evidence you've gathered, and help me understand what threats you pose to my family."
"And if I refuse?"
Lorenzo's expression doesn't change, but there's something in his voice that chills me to the bone as he says, "Then you stay locked in this house until someone less merciful than me comes to ask the same questions."