Page 2 of The Assassin’s Captive (The Roma Syndicate #5)

SERENA

T he velvet curtain rises on the first act of La Traviata , and I let myself sink into the plush red seat, my shoulders finally releasing the tension they've carried all week.

The Rome Opera House holds its breath as Rosaria's voice soars through the gilded theater, each note a temporary reprieve from the sealed motions and witness depositions that have consumed my last seventy-two hours.

I chose the middle section deliberately—close enough to see the emotion on the performers' faces, far enough back to avoid the socialites who frequent the front rows.

My black dress is simple, understated, the kind that won't draw attention when I slip out before the final bow.

Tonight isn't about networking or being seen.

Tonight is about silence and music and letting my mind reset before tomorrow's hearing.

The aria builds, and I close my eyes, letting Violetta's tragedy wash over me.

In the darkness behind my lids, I can almost forget about the anonymous tip that came in yesterday, the one suggesting corruption in the very court system I've spent my career fighting to clean.

I can almost forget about the feeling that someone has been watching my office building, the sense that my carefully constructed cases are being monitored by people who shouldn't know they exist.

Almost.

When the lights come up for intermission, I blink against the sudden brightness.

The audience stirs, conversations blooming across the theater as people stretch and move toward the lobby.

I remain seated, checking my phone for any urgent messages from my assistant, but there's nothing that can't wait until morning.

"You chose well."

The smooth voice comes from my right, and I turn to find a man in the seat beside me—a seat that was empty when I arrived.

He's tall even sitting down, with broad shoulders filling out his dark suit.

His beard is neatly trimmed, and his hazel eyes hold mine with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken.

"I'm sorry?" I keep my voice neutral, professional.

"The middle section. Best acoustics in the house." He gestures toward the stage. "Most people don't realize that the sound carries differently from here than it does in the expensive seats."

I study his face, searching for recognition.

He looks familiar in the way that Rome makes everyone familiar—the kind of face you might have passed on the street or seen in a café.

But there's something about the way he holds himself, the controlled stillness of his posture, that suggests he's not someone I would have forgotten meeting.

"You seem to know your way around opera houses," I say.

"I know my way around many things." His smile is brief, almost enigmatic. "Including your work, Ms. Barone."

The use of my name sends a chill down my spine. I didn't introduce myself. My ticket was purchased online, my seat assignment random. There's no reason he should know who I am unless he came here specifically to find me.

"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage," I say, turning to face him fully. "You know who I am, but I don't believe we've met."

"No, we haven't." He doesn't offer his name, and something in his tone suggests he won't. "But I follow your work. The financial crimes unit, your cases against the banking consortium last year. Impressive."

I feel my shoulders tense again. My work isn't the kind that generates headlines or public recognition.

The cases I build are methodical, careful, designed to stay out of the press until the moment they need to surface.

For someone to know the specifics of my caseload, they would need access to information that isn't public record.

"Thank you," I say carefully. "Though I have to admit, most people find financial crime law rather dry."

"Not when it's done with your particular skill." He leans slightly closer, and I catch the scent of expensive cologne mixed with something darker. "You have a talent for finding patterns others miss. For connecting dots that seem unconnected."

The compliment should flatter me, but instead it raises every instinct I've developed over years of prosecuting dangerous people. This man knows too much, speaks too carefully, watches me with the kind of attention that suggests he's cataloging every reaction.

"Are you in the legal profession?" I ask.

"In a manner of speaking." His answer reveals nothing. "I'm curious about your current projects. Word is you're working on something significant."

The lobby chimes sound, signaling the end of intermission. Around us, audience members begin returning to their seats, the gentle hum of conversation fading as people settle in for the second act. I use the distraction to consider my options.

I could excuse myself, claim I need to leave early, disappear into the crowd. But running would confirm that I have something to hide, something worth pursuing. And this man—whoever he is—has already demonstrated that he knows where to find me.

Better to stay, to listen, to try to understand what he wants.

"I'm afraid I can't discuss ongoing cases," I say as the lights begin to dim. "Professional ethics."

"Of course." He faces forward as the curtain rises again, but I can feel his presence beside me, the way he seems to fill the space between us. "Though I imagine the work can be isolating. All those late nights, all that research. It must be difficult to know whom to trust."

The words could be innocent concern, but they land with an edge that makes my chest tighten.

He's not wrong—the deeper I dig into Rome's financial underbelly, the more alone I feel.

The more I wonder which of my colleagues might be compromised, which judges might be influenced, which cases might be monitored by people who have no business knowing about them.

"I manage," I say.

"I'm sure you do." He's quiet for a moment, letting Violetta's voice fill the space between us. "Still, it might be nice to have someone to talk to. Someone who understands the complexities of your work."

I don't respond, but I find myself studying his profile in the dim light.

His features are sharp, angular, with a scar running down his right cheek that suggests a history of violence.

His hands rest calmly on his knees, but I notice the tattoos across his knuckles, the way his fingers flex into a fist then straighten.

This is not a man who works in law enforcement. This is not a man who works in any profession that operates within legal boundaries.

The second act unfolds, but I can't concentrate on the music.

Instead, I'm hyperaware of every movement the man beside me makes, every breath he takes.

When he shifts slightly in his seat, I feel the heat of his body through the space between us.

When he leans forward during a particularly dramatic moment, I catch the subtle tension in his shoulders.

By the time the curtain falls on the second act, I've made my decision.

"I should go," I say, reaching for my purse.

"So soon?" He turns to face me, and in the theater's dim lighting, his eyes seem almost predatory. "The final act is often the most revealing."

"I have an early morning."

"Of course." He stands when I do, and I realize how tall he actually is—easily six feet, with the kind of build that suggests both strength and control. "Perhaps we could continue this conversation over a drink? There's a quiet place nearby."

Every rational part of my mind screams no. This man is dangerous, connected to people I'm trying to prosecute, possibly here to gather intelligence or worse. But there's something about the way he's approached me—respectful, almost courtly—that intrigues me despite my better judgment.

"I don't think that's a good idea," I say.

"No, probably not." His smile is genuine this time, and it transforms his entire face. "But sometimes the most interesting conversations happen when we step outside our comfort zones."

I study him for a long moment, weighing risks against curiosity. If he wanted to harm me, he could have done so already. If he wanted information, he could have tried more aggressive approaches. Instead, he's been patient, even charming, treating me as an equal rather than a target.

"I appreciate the invitation," I finally say, "but tonight isn't good for me."

"I understand." He doesn't seem disappointed, which surprises me. "Perhaps another time, when your schedule is less demanding."

I hesitate, then hear myself say, "Next week. After my trials are finished."

The words come out before I can stop them, and I immediately regret the impulse. But part of me—the part that has spent too many nights alone with case files and coffee—is curious about this man who seems to know so much about my work.

"Next week," he repeats, and there's something in his tone that makes it sound almost like a promise. "I'll be in touch."

He doesn't ask for my number, doesn't suggest a specific time or place. Somehow, I know he'll find me when he's ready. The thought should terrify me, but instead, it sends a thrill through my chest that I don't want to examine too closely.

I make my way out of the theater, weaving through the crowd of people still discussing the performance. The night air is cool against my skin, and I pull my coat tighter as I walk toward my car. Behind me, I can feel his presence, though when I turn to look, he's nowhere to be seen.

By the time I reach my apartment, I've almost convinced myself that the encounter was innocent, that my paranoia is getting the better of me.

But as I unlock my door and step into the familiar darkness of my living room, I can't shake the feeling that I've just made a decision that will change everything.

I pour myself a glass of wine and settle into my chair by the window, looking out at the lights of Rome spread below. Somewhere in that maze of streets and shadows, he's out there, and next week, I'll see him again.

The thought both thrills and terrifies me, and I'm not sure which feeling is stronger.