Page 16 of The Assassin’s Captive (The Roma Syndicate #5)

LORENZO

D awn filters through the blackout curtains, painting thin lines of gold across the marble floor. I wake gradually, consciousness returning in layers. The scent of her hair against my chest. The steady rhythm of her breathing. The weight of her arm draped across my ribs.

Serena sleeps curled against me, her face peaceful in the morning light.

No tension in her jaw. No wariness in her closed eyes.

She looks younger this way, vulnerable in a manner she would never allow while awake.

Her dark hair lies tangled under us, and I find myself studying the delicate curve of her ear, the way her lashes rest against her cheekbones.

I should move. Should extract myself from this tangle of limbs and return to the business of keeping her contained.

But I remain still, memorizing details I have no right to notice.

The faint freckle on her shoulder. The way her fingers curl loosely against my chest. The soft exhale that escapes her lips when she shifts deeper into sleep.

This is dangerous territory. I do not linger in beds. I do not watch women sleep. I do not allow myself the luxury of tenderness, even in stolen moments before the world intrudes.

But Serena is different. She has been different since the moment she walked into that opera house, chin raised, eyes blazing defiance.

She should be afraid of me by now. Should understand exactly what I am capable of.

Instead, she seduced me last night. Drew me into a game I thought I understood but found myself losing the moment her mouth touched mine.

And now, hours later, after fucking her twice more, she owns a part of my soul I know I won't get back.

Her eyes open slowly, dark brown depths focusing on my face. Most people flinch when they wake to find me watching them. Serena simply studies me in return, with a clear and assessing gaze.

"Good morning," she says, her voice husky from sleep.

"Morning."

She stretches against me, the movement sending heat spiraling through my chest. I force myself to remain impassive, to give her nothing she can use against me.

But she is already sitting up, the sheet falling away from her bare torso.

She makes no move to cover herself, and I realize this too is calculated. Everything about her is calculated.

"Last night was—" she begins.

"Last night was nothing." My words are a grumble but she doesn’t flinch. "Don't mistake sex for salvation."

Her expression does not change, but I catch the flicker of disappointment before she masks it. "Of course not. I was simply going to say it was informative."

"Was it?"

She slides out of bed, not self-conscious in her nudity. I watch her gather her clothing from the floor, wrinkled from our urgency last night. "You're not as controlled as you pretend to be. That's useful to know."

The observation hits closer to truth than I care to admit. I sit up, running a hand through my hair. "Control is relative. I had you exactly where I wanted you."

"Did you?" She pulls the shirt over her head, smoothing the fabric down her torso. "Because from where I was lying, it seemed mutual."

I stand, retrieving my clothes from where they landed scattered across the floor. The conversation is veering into territory I do not wish to explore. Not when the taste of her still lingers on my tongue. Not when I can still feel the way she came apart in my arms.

"What do you want, Serena?"

She perches on the edge of the bed, watching me dress. "Information. The same thing you want from me."

"I already told you?—"

"You told me nothing." Her voice sharpens. "You brought me here. You've kept me here. But you haven't told me why. Not really."

I button my shirt, considering how much truth she can handle. How much truth I can afford to give her. "The why doesn't concern you."

"It concerns me entirely." She stands, crossing to the window. The morning light catches in her hair, turning it to burnished copper. "I'm a lawyer, Lorenzo. I understand leverage. I understand negotiation. So tell me what this is really about."

I could lie, could spin her another story about protection and safety. But she is too intelligent for deception, and I am tired of pretending this is anything other than what it is.

"You're leverage," I say finally. "For Costa, against the other families. Against anyone who might use your connection to Emilio."

She turns from the window. "And if I cooperate? If I tell you everything you want to know?"

"Then maybe you live long enough to see how this plays out."

The brutal honesty lands between us. I watch her absorb it, process it, file it away behind those sharp eyes. Most people would crumble under the weight of such a statement. Serena simply nods.

"I see. And if I don't cooperate?"

I don't answer immediately. Can't answer immediately.

Because the truth is I have not decided what happens if she refuses.

The original order was clear. Extract information, then eliminate the threat.

But Costa's blood changes everything. Serena knows things about our enemies, not just about us.

We keep her silent and her knowledge secret from the public eye, but her value as an asset outweighs her danger as an enemy.

For now.

"The outside world isn't safe for you anymore," I say instead. "Here, I can control the variables. Out there, you're exposed."

"To what?"

"To everyone who wants a piece of Emilio Costa's newly discovered daughter."

The words hit her visibly. She sinks back onto the bed, color draining from her face. Different expressions flash across her face—shock, disbelief, anger, then knowing. It chills her and she stills, but her only protest is, “No…” breathed softly on a panicked breath.

“I don’t lie, Kukolka . I have proof if you need it.” I stand stoically, waiting for her natural reaction to surface, but she swallows it with eyes flicking around.

"How many people know?" she asks, switching to her calculating, controlled tone.

"Too many. The hospital staff who ran the DNA test. The lab technicians who processed it. Costa himself, obviously. His inner circle. It's only a matter of time before the information spreads."

She buries her face in her hands, and for the first time since I brought her here, she looks genuinely defeated. The sight should satisfy me. Should confirm that I have finally broken through her defenses. Instead, it sits uneasily in my chest.

"What does he want from me?" she asks, her voice muffled.

"I don't know yet."

She lifts her head, searching my face. "You don't know, or you won't tell me?"

"I don't know. I'm waiting for orders."

The admission tastes bitter on my tongue. I have spent twenty years following Emilio's commands without question. Without hesitation. But this situation feels different. Unstable. And I find myself reluctant to act without understanding the full scope of his intentions.

"So you're keeping me here until someone tells you what to do next."

"Yes."

She stares at me for a long moment, reading truths I haven't spoken aloud. "This isn't protection."

"No."

"This is containment."

I meet her gaze steadily. "Yes."

The honesty seems to surprise her. She expected lies, deflection, pretty words to soften the reality of her situation. But I respect her intelligence too much for platitudes. She deserves to understand exactly where she stands.

My phone buzzes from the nightstand. Costa's name appears on the screen, and I feel Serena tense beside me. I answer on the second ring.

"Emilio."

"We have a problem." His voice carries the edge it gets when someone has overstepped. "There's a journalist sniffing around the girl's disappearance. Irene Bellandi. She's asking questions about the Costa connection."

I close my eyes, processing what this new development means. "How much does she know?"

"Enough to be dangerous. She's been calling the prosecutor's office, the hospital, anyone who might have information. If she publishes before the trial concludes, it could derail everything."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Handle it. Quietly. Make her understand that some stories aren't worth telling."

The line goes dead. I set the phone aside, already running through options. Bellandi has a reputation for tenacity. She will not be easily discouraged. But everyone has pressure points. Everyone has vulnerabilities that can be exploited.

"Bad news?" Serena asks.

I turn to find her watching me intently. "A journalist is investigating your disappearance. Someone you used to trust."

Color drains from her face again. "Irene."

"You know her."

"She's done stories on some of my cases. She's good at what she does. Thorough." Panic creeps into her voice. "If she connects me to Costa?—"

"She won't." I stand, reaching for my jacket. "I'm going to make sure of that."

"What are you going to do?"

The question comes out sharp, worried. As though she cares what happens to her journalist friend. The concern in her voice irritates me, but I remind myself that Serena isn't from my world, no matter what her DNA says about her.

"What I have to do."

"Lorenzo—"

"Victor will be here while I'm gone," I continue, cutting off her protest. "Don't try to leave. Don't try to call anyone. Don't test me."

She stands, moving closer. "You don't have to hurt her. Irene's not the enemy here."

"Anyone who threatens this situation is the enemy."

"She's just doing her job."

"And I'm doing mine."

I see her flinch at my cold words, see the hope die in her eyes. For a moment last night, I allowed her to believe there might be something human beneath the killer. But daylight brings clarity. Brings responsibility.

I am not her savior. I am her keeper. And the sooner she accepts that reality, the safer we will both be.

I head for the door, pausing at the threshold. "Stay alive while I'm gone. It would complicate things if you didn't."

She doesn't respond, but I feel her watching me leave, feel the weight of her disappointment following me down the hallway.

Thirty minutes later, I meet Victor at the car. He slides into the driver's seat with a neutral expression. We have worked together long enough that words are unnecessary. He knows what needs to be done.

"The journalist works out of an office near the Pantheon," he says, starting the engine. "She lives alone. No security. No protection."

"Good."

We drive through Rome's morning traffic, past tourists and commuters who go about their daily lives unaware of the violence that moves through their city.

I stare out the window, letting my mind empty.

Preparing for Irene Bellandi, who has made herself a threat.

She has chosen to dig into matters that do not concern her.

The consequences of those choices are not my responsibility.

But as we pull up outside her building, I find myself thinking of Serena's expression when I told her what I planned to do. The fear in her voice when she realized I might hurt someone she knows personally.

I push the thoughts aside, focus on the task at hand. Bellandi will listen to reason, or she will face the alternatives. Either way, she will understand that some stories come at too high a price.

I check my weapon, adjust my jacket, and step out into the morning sun. Time to send a message.