Page 18 of The Assassin’s Captive (The Roma Syndicate #5)

LORENZO

It's not one of my men. They know better than to approach without clearance, and this person moves wrong—too hesitant, too exposed.

I zoom in on the feed and catch the glint of metal in his hand—a blade, held amateurly but determined.

My blood goes cold as I watch him test the fence, searching for weak points in my security.

I abandon the coffee and move quickly through the house, pulling my Glock from the kitchen drawer and checking the chamber.

It settles in my palm as I slip through the back door and into the garden.

The morning air carries the scent of damp earth after last night's rain, but I focus on the intruder's position relative to my approach route.

The narrow alley runs between my property and the vacant house next door, providing cover as I move along the edge of the garden beds.

My boots don't make a sound on the damp stone pathway while I track his movements through the gaps in the fence.

He's alone, which makes this either amateur hour or a very confident professional.

Given his posture and the way he fumbles through his reconnaissance, I'm betting on amateur.

I reach the corner of the property and pause, listening.

The man's breathing comes harsh and uneven, and he keeps shifting his position without purpose.

Definitely not trained. Probably not sent by anyone who values competence over desperation.

But desperation makes people dangerous in unpredictable ways, and I can't afford unpredictable right now.

I round the fence line and spot him clearly for the first time.

Mid-thirties, thin build, wearing clothes that have seen better weeks.

The knife in his hand trembles as he tries to work it between the fence posts, and his eyes dart constantly between the house and the surrounding trees.

He's terrified but committed, which tells me someone put him up to this.

Someone who doesn't care if he comes back.

I move fast across the open ground, closing the distance before he can register my approach.

His head snaps up as my shadow falls across him, and the knife swings wildly in my direction.

I catch his wrist and twist hard, forcing him to drop the blade while my other hand drives him face-first into the fence.

The chain link rattles under the impact, and he grunts in pain.

"Who sent you?" I keep my voice low and controlled while I pin him against the metal mesh. His face presses into the links, and blood wells from the small cuts the wire leaves on his cheek.

"Nobody sent me," he gasps. "I was just looking around."

I drive my knee into his lower back, and he cries out. "Try again. People don't scout armed properties for fun."

His breathing turns ragged, and I can smell the anxiety sweat soaking through his shirt. "Please, I don't know anything. Someone told me there might be money here, that's all."

"Someone who?" I increase the pressure on his wrist, and he whimpers.

"I don't know his name. Guy at a bar, said this place looked empty, said there might be electronics or whatever. I needed the money, okay? My girlfriend's pregnant, and we're broke, and I thought maybe?—"

I spin him around and slam him into the fence again, this time facing me.

His eyes are wide and desperate, and tears mix with the blood on his cheek.

He's telling the truth, which makes this worse.

Random criminals don't just stumble onto my location unless someone's been talking, and that means my security has been compromised in ways I haven't identified yet.

"What did this man look like?" I keep the Glock low but visible, letting him see what happens if his answers disappoint me.

"I don't know, maybe forty, dark hair, expensive suit. He was buying drinks for everyone, asking questions about the neighborhood. Said he was looking for investment properties."

My stomach drops. Someone's been surveilling the area, gathering intelligence about which houses stay empty and which ones might be worth investigating.

Professional reconnaissance disguised as casual conversation, and this amateur got caught in the middle of it.

Now he's here, bleeding on my fence because someone wanted to test my defenses.

I grab him by the shirt and drag him away from the fence, toward the tree line where the cameras won't catch what happens next.

He stumbles and tries to pull free, but I maintain my grip and keep him moving.

His protests get louder, turning to shouts as we reach the shadows, and I know I need to end this quickly before?—

"Hey!"

The sharp voice sounds from behind me with an authoritative edge.

I turn and see a man crossing the yard from the house next door, moving quickly but not running.

He's late fifties, gray hair, wearing bed clothes that suggest morning coffee rather than morning confrontation.

His house robe is open but his posture screams law enforcement, even retired, and his eyes take in the scene like he has decades of experience reading situations correctly.

His name is Silvano Petrini—the new neighbor I've been monitoring since he moved in two weeks ago.

He's a former detective in Rome Metropolitan Police, twenty-eight years of service before retirement.

Clean record, clean pension, supposedly clean reasons for relocating to this quiet neighborhood.

But clean doesn't mean uninvolved, and his timing here feels too convenient to be coincidental.

"Let him go," Petrini says, continuing his approach with his hands visible but ready. "Whatever he did, it's not worth this."

I keep my grip on the prowler but shift my position to face the new threat. "This is private property. Your involvement isn't required."

"My involvement started when I heard someone screaming for help." His voice carries calm authority, but I'm not really interested in responding to that. "You're Lorenzo Santoro, right? I'm Silvano Petrini, your new neighbor. I think we should discuss this situation before it escalates further."

The fact that he knows my name sends ice through my veins. I've been careful about maintaining anonymity in this location, but he's done his homework. Either he's very good at casual surveillance or he had reasons to research me before we ever met. Neither possibility makes me comfortable.

"There's nothing to discuss," I tell him. "This man was trespassing on my property, armed. I'm within my rights to detain him until the police arrive."

"Are you planning to call the police?" Petrini asks, and his tone suggests he already knows the answer. "Because if you are, I'm happy to wait while you make that call. If you're not, then we have a different kind of problem."

The prowler takes advantage of my divided attention and tries to break free. I tighten my grip and drive my elbow into his ribs, doubling him over. He gasps and stops struggling, but Petrini steps closer with a darkening expression.

"That's enough," he says. "You've made your point. Now let him go, and we can all walk away from this."

"Walk away to where?" I keep my voice level but let the threat show through. "He came here for a reason. Someone sent him to probe my security, and I need to know who."

"Maybe," Petrini acknowledges, "but beating him unconscious on your lawn isn't going to get you better answers. It's just going to create problems you don't want to deal with."

He's right, and I hate that he's right. The prowler is barely conscious now, slumping against my grip and bleeding more freely from his facial cuts.

If I continue this interrogation, he'll end up hospitalized or dead, and either outcome will bring official attention I can't afford.

Especially not while Serena's in my house, sleeping off the stress of learning her entire identity has been a lie.

But letting him go means whoever sent him will know their probe succeeded. They'll have confirmation that this location is occupied, defended, and worth further investigation. My home becomes a target instead of a refuge, and everything I've built here starts falling apart.

"You saw him first," I tell Petrini. "Armed, trespassing, attempting to breach security. You know what that usually means in this neighborhood."

"I know what it means everywhere," he replies. "But I also know the difference between defending property and committing assault. Right now, you're dancing across that line."

The prowler's knees buckle, and I have to support his full weight to keep him upright. Blood drips from his chin onto the grass, and his breathing sounds wet and labored. Petrini watches this development and shakes his head.

"Lorenzo…" he says, "let him go, or I make some phone calls that complicate your morning significantly."

I study his face, looking for tells that might reveal his real agenda.

Former cops don't usually insert themselves into neighborhood disputes unless they have ulterior motives, and his calm confidence suggests he's dealt with situations like this before.

But his body language reads genuine concern rather than calculated interference, which makes this harder to navigate.

The prowler groans and tries to speak, but only blood comes out.

I've pushed him past the point of useful interrogation, and keeping him here longer will only create evidence I'll need to dispose of later.

Petrini knows this as well as I do, which is why he's applying pressure now instead of waiting for me to finish.

"Fine," I say and release my grip. The prowler collapses to his knees, then scrambles away on his hands and knees toward the tree line. He disappears into the underbrush within seconds, leaving only blood droplets on the grass to mark his presence.

Petrini watches him go, then turns back to me. "Smart choice. Now we can have a civilized conversation about boundaries and expectations."

"There's nothing to discuss," I repeat, but I know that's no longer true. He's seen too much, knows too much, and positioned himself too conveniently to be dismissed as a harmless retiree. My entire operation just became exponentially more complicated.

"I think there is," he says. "Because I've been watching this neighborhood for two weeks now, and certain patterns have become clear. Patterns that suggest my quiet retirement might not be as quiet as I hoped."

I study his expression, looking for clues about how much he actually knows versus how much he's guessing. But his poker face is excellent, honed by decades of interrogating suspects and witnesses who didn't want to reveal their secrets.

"What patterns?" I ask.

"Late-night arrivals. Unusual security measures. Visitors who don't look like family or friends." He pauses. "And now prowlers who think your house might be worth robbing, which suggests someone's been asking questions about your routines."

The accuracy of his observations confirms my worst fears.

He's been conducting systematic surveillance, not casual neighborly interest. He knows my schedule, my security setup, and probably my vehicle registrations.

Which means he also knows that someone else has been watching, gathering intelligence for reasons that brought an armed amateur to my fence this morning.

"Retired cops usually mind their own business," I tell him.

"Retired cops usually don't end up living next door to active crime scenes," he replies. "But here we are, so I guess we both need to adapt." His hands open casually before he crosses his arms over his barrel chest and smirks.

My home isn't safe anymore, but abandoning it means relocating Serena during the most dangerous phase of her protection.

Moving her now would expose us both to surveillance and potential interception, but staying here means operating under the scrutiny of a man who could complicate everything I'm trying to accomplish.

"What do you want?" I ask.

"Peace and quiet," he says. "No more screaming. No more blood on the grass. No more reasons for me to wonder if I should be making official reports about my observations."

"And in exchange?"

"I mind my own business, you mind yours, and we both pretend this morning never happened." He glances toward the house, then back to me. "But if this kind of thing becomes a pattern, we'll need to revisit our arrangement."

I nod, understanding the terms of our unofficial détente.

He won't report what he's seen, but he'll be watching for signs that my activities are escalating beyond what he considers acceptable.

It's a temporary solution at best, but it buys me time to figure out how to handle both the immediate threats and the longer-term problems his presence creates.

"Understood," I tell him.

"Good." He turns to go, then pauses. "One more thing.

Whatever brought that man here this morning, it wasn't random.

Someone's testing your defenses, which means they're planning something bigger.

You might want to consider whether this location is worth defending or if relocation might be the smarter play. "

He walks back to his house without waiting for a response, leaving me alone in the garden with blood on the grass and the growing certainty that everything I've built here is starting to unravel.

I holster the Glock and return to the house, my mind already working through contingency plans and worst-case scenarios.

Serena's still asleep when I check on her, curled on her side with her hair spread across the pillow.

She looks younger when she's not conscious, less guarded, and I find myself lingering in the doorway longer than necessary.

The morning light reveals the bruises on her throat from our encounter two nights ago, fading now but still visible.

She doesn't know about the prowler or Petrini, doesn't know that our temporary safety is evaporating faster than I can reinforce it.

But she will, because I can't protect her from threats I haven't fully identified yet.

And now, with a retired cop watching my every move, the options for dealing with those threats have become significantly more limited.

I close the door quietly and return to the kitchen where my coffee has gone cold and the security feeds continue their silent surveillance of a perimeter that no longer feels secure.

The morning that started with routine checks has evolved into a fundamental shift in how I'll need to operate going forward.

No more bodies. No more violence that can't be explained. No more assumptions that this house represents sanctuary rather than exposure.

Everything just got much harder.