Page 14 of The Assassin’s Captive (The Roma Syndicate #5)

LORENZO

T he security technician finishes installing the last motion sensor along the property's eastern perimeter and packs his equipment into a reinforced case.

His work has transformed my home into a fortress over the past six hours—upgraded cameras with night vision capabilities, motion detectors that can distinguish between wildlife and human intrusion, access codes that change every twelve hours through an encrypted system.

I hand him an envelope containing twice his usual fee and escort him to the front gate. The man asks no questions about why someone would need military-grade surveillance for a residential property, which is exactly why I pay him enough to maintain that discretion.

After he drives away, I activate the new security grid from the control panel hidden behind a false wall in my office.

The system comes online with a soft hum, and multiple screens display feeds from every angle of the house and grounds.

Red dots indicate sensor placement throughout the olive groves and cypress trees that provide natural camouflage for anyone attempting approach.

My phone buzzes with a text from Victor Costa, confirming that he's positioned one of his most reliable men at the gate.

Dante Benedetti has worked security for the family for eight years without incident, which makes him trustworthy enough to guard something this valuable without asking questions about what he's protecting.

Victor: 11:30 AM: Dante's in position. I’ll send Rocco to take over at 5.

I type back my confirmation and scroll to another contact—Cristiano Laera, an information broker who sells intelligence to the highest bidder but maintains loyalty to those who pay him consistently.

If other families have heard whispers about Emilio's connection to a prosecutor, Cristiano will know within hours of the first conversation.

Lorenzo: 11:32 AM: Need you monitoring all channels. Any chatter about Costa family developments. Immediate alert if my name comes up.

Cristiano: 11:33 AM: Standard rates apply. What timeframe?

Lorenzo: 11:34 AM: Indefinite. Double rates for priority status.

Cristiano: 11:35 AM: Consider it done.

I pocket the phone and move to the living room windows that overlook the back terrace and gardens beyond.

Serena paces across the stone patio with restless energy that has been building since she discovered the surveillance files yesterday.

Her movements are sharp, agitated. She's acting like a caged animal looking for signs of weakness in its cage and she'll find none.

She stops at the edge of the terrace and stares across the tall privacy fence that separates my home from the neighborhood. From this distance, I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way she holds herself with rigid control that threatens to crack under pressure.

She sits on one of the wrought iron chairs, then stands again within seconds, unable to find comfort in stillness. The pacing resumes, back and forth across the same stretch of stone she's covered dozens of times since breakfast.

I understand her frustration. Serena is accustomed to action, to building cases and pursuing justice through legal channels that give her purpose and direction.

Being held in protective custody while forces she can't see or influence decide her fate goes against every instinct she's developed as a prosecutor.

But understanding doesn't change the reality of our situation.

She remains here until Emilio determines whether she's genuinely his daughter or an elaborate deception designed to infiltrate his organization.

The DNA evidence suggests the former, but Emilio didn't survive three decades in power by accepting convenient truths without exhaustive verification.

My phone rings with a call from the man himself. I answer on the second ring.

"Any developments?"

"The house is secure. Dante's watching the gate, and I have sources monitoring for intelligence leaks."

"Good. What about the woman?" His voice is clearer now, though more tense. He's been stone-cold sober now for 36 hours.

I watch Serena through the window as she continues her restless circuit of the terrace. "She's asking questions. Pressing for answers about why she's here and what we want from her."

"And you're telling her nothing."

"Nothing she doesn't already know."

Emilio's breathing changes, becoming more thoughtful. "She knows about your Costa connections?"

"She found photographs. Files. She understands who I work for, but not why that matters to her situation."

"Keep it that way until I finish my research. I'm having people look into her background, her adoption records, anything that might confirm or contradict the DNA results."

The line goes quiet while he considers something, then his voice returns with a decisive tone I've learned to recognize. "How long can you keep her contained without complications?"

"As long as necessary. But her office will start asking questions if she doesn't check in soon."

"I'll handle workplace concerns. Your job is to make sure she stays alive and isolated until I tell you otherwise."

The call ends, and I remain at the window watching Serena's increasingly agitated movements. She's stopped pacing and now stands with her hands pressed against the stone railing, her head tilted back toward the afternoon sun.

When she turns toward the house, her eyes find mine through the glass. Even at this distance, I can see the fury in her expression, the demand for answers that I can't provide without compromising both our positions.

She walks back into the house through the French doors that lead to the kitchen and approaches the living room where I wait.

This dance we're doing is a delicate one.

I can shut her down, but I like the game of it all.

Serena is interesting to me, like watching a colony of ants create a home between panes of glass.

She intrigues me in a way I should never allow myself to be intrigued by, especially given that she's the boss's daughter.

"Why haven't you killed me yet?"

The question slices through the afternoon with startling directness.

Serena doesn't waste time with pleasantries or build up to difficult conversations.

She attacks problems head-on. Of course she does.

She's used to being the most powerful person in a room, second only to the judge who convicts or acquits men she tries.

But here, she's under my thumb, and that amuses me and frightens her.

"Because you're too valuable alive."

"Valuable how?"

I move away from the window and settle into the leather chair that gives me clear sight lines to all entrances to the room. Old habits from years of living with constant threats to my safety.

"Every rival family in Rome would want to get their hands on you if they knew about your connection to Emilio Costa. You represent leverage that could be used against him in ways that no amount of money or territory could match."

Her expression doesn't change, but I see her processing the implications of what I've told her. She's smart enough to understand that being valuable as leverage also makes her dangerous as a target.

"So you're keeping me as insurance."

"I'm keeping you alive while Costa decides what to do with information that changes everything."

"What information?"

Her question makes me shift in my seat and I choose my words carefully. Telling her about the DNA results without Emilio's permission would violate direct orders, but she deserves to understand why her life has been turned upside down.

"Information that makes you more important to him than you could imagine."

Serena studies my face with the analytical intensity she probably brings to courtroom cross-examinations, searching for tells that might reveal what I'm not saying directly. "That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer I can give you right now."

Her hands clench into fists at her sides, and I see the moment when her control finally snaps. She walks to the bar cart near the fireplace and picks up a crystal tumbler, hefting its weight in her palm.

"I'm tired of cryptic responses and half-truths."

She hurls the glass against the stone fireplace, where it explodes into countless fragments that scatter across the Persian rug. The sound echoes through the house with violent force.

I don't flinch, don't move from my chair or react to the display of frustration that has been building since she woke up in my bedroom two days ago.

Instead, I wait for the echoes to fade before speaking again.

"Are you finished?"

Her chest rises and falls with rapid breathing, but she doesn't answer.

The broken glass glitters in the afternoon light filtering through the windows.

"Get used to this place," I tell her, my voice remaining level despite the tension crackling in the air between us.

"Because until Emilio gives me different orders, you're not going anywhere. "

"I won't tell you anything about my legal work. I won't betray the cases I've built or the evidence I've gathered."

Her defiance would be admirable if it weren't so misguided. She still thinks this is about extracting information from a prosecutor who threatens organized crime operations. She doesn't understand that her value has nothing to do with what she knows and everything to do with who she is.

"Then let me make your options clear," I say, standing from the chair and moving closer to where she stands surrounded by broken glass. "You can cooperate with me, answer the questions I need answered, and survive this situation with your life and reputation intact."

"Or?"

"Or you can keep fighting me, keep demanding answers I can't give you, and lose everything you've worked to build."

Her eyes narrow, but she doesn't retreat even though I now stand close enough to reach out and touch her.

"Are you threatening me?"

"I'm explaining consequences. If you force me to extract information through other methods, I'll destroy your legal career systematically and thoroughly.

Every case you've won will be reviewed for procedural violations.

Every judge you've worked with will receive anonymous tips about prosecutorial misconduct.

Your reputation will be shredded so completely that no law firm in Italy will hire you. "

The color drains from her face as she realizes the scope of what I'm describing. Professional destruction on that scale would take years to accomplish, but it can be done by someone with the right connections and unlimited resources.

"And if that doesn't motivate cooperation," I continue, "I'll turn my attention to the adoptive parents who raised you. Giuseppe and Maria Barone, both retired professors living on modest pensions in a quiet neighborhood near the Vatican."

Her breath catches, and I see real fear enter her eyes for the first time since I've known her.

"They have nothing to do with this."

"They have everything to do with this. They gave you the stability and education that made you into the prosecutor who now threatens my family. That makes them responsible for the problems you've created."

"If you hurt them?—"

"I won't have to hurt them. I'll simply make their lives so miserable that they'll wish I had. Tax audits that go on for years. Pension payments that get delayed by bureaucratic complications. Home inspections that find violations requiring expensive repairs they can't afford."

Serena's hands shake with rage, but I see the moment when she realizes the futility of fighting someone with resources she can't match. "What do you want to know?" The question comes out as a whisper, her voice hoarse with defeat.

"Everything. The cases you're building, the evidence you've gathered, the financial networks you've traced. I want to know who you're working with, what your timeline looks like, and how close you are to bringing charges."

She nods slowly, her eyes fixed on the broken glass at our feet.

"And in return?"

"In return, you stay alive long enough for Emilio Costa to decide what your life is worth."