Page 26 of The Assassin’s Captive (The Roma Syndicate #5)

SERENA

T he crash of breaking glass tears me from sleep.

I bolt upright in Lorenzo's bed, my heart hammering against my ribs as the sound rips through the house.

For a moment, I think I imagined it—a nightmare bleeding into the waking world.

But then I hear footsteps pounding up the stairwell, heavy boots taking the steps two at a time.

Someone is in the house and it doesn't sound like the way Lorenzo moves.

I roll out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cold floor as adrenaline floods my system. The bedroom door is still locked from the outside, but that won't matter if whoever broke in decides to come looking for me.

The footsteps reach the landing and stop.

I hear voices now—low, urgent whispers that carry the weight of violence.

My breath comes in short gasps as I press my ear to the door, trying to make out what they're saying.

It's so quiet I can't understand much, but their tone has me flicking the inside lock to add more security between me and them.

"—second floor. Check every room."

"What about the woman?"

"Alive if possible. Dead if necessary."

The words turn my blood to ice. They're here for me.

I scan the bedroom for anything that could serve as a weapon. Lorenzo's nightstand is empty except for a lamp and a book. The dresser holds only clothes. But his office is just down the hall, and if I can get there?—

The sound of the front door exploding inward cuts through my thoughts. Wood splinters and metal crashes as someone kicks it off its hinges. More footsteps now, at least three different sets, stomping through the house.

I grab the ceramic lamp from the nightstand and position myself behind the bedroom door. If they're coming for me, they'll have to get through this door first. And when they do?—

The footsteps stop directly outside my room.

The door handle turns slowly, testing the lock. When it doesn't give, there's a moment of silence. Then the entire door frame explodes as someone puts their shoulder into it, the lock tearing free from the wood in a shower of splinters.

But it's not an intruder who stumbles through the doorway.

It's Lorenzo.

Blood streaks his face and stains his shirt, and the Glock in his right hand is trained on the hallway behind him. His eyes find mine across the room, wild with adrenaline and something that looks almost like relief.

"Get back," he snarls, his voice raw. "Stay behind the bed and don't move until I tell you."

I scramble toward the far corner of the room as the first attacker appears in the doorway. He's tall and lean, dressed in black tactical gear, with a pistol raised in a two-handed grip. His finger is already on the trigger when Lorenzo moves.

The sucker punch catches the intruder completely off guard. Lorenzo's left fist connects with the man's jaw with a sound like a baseball bat hitting concrete. The attacker's head snaps back, his weapon spinning away across the floor as he crumples.

But the second man is already pushing through the doorway.

This one is faster, more experienced. He has his gun up and aimed before Lorenzo can react, but instead of firing, he launches himself forward with a curved blade in his free hand. The knife slices across Lorenzo's ribs, opening a line of red through his shirt.

Lorenzo grunts and staggers backward, blood blooming across the fabric. The attacker presses his advantage, raising the knife for another strike.

The lamp in my hands shatters against the bedroom wall with a sound like a gunshot. I grab the largest shard of ceramic—sharp as a razor and heavy enough to do damage—and launch myself at the attacker's back.

The improvised blade slides into the muscle of his thigh with surprising ease. Blood wells around the ceramic edge as he screams and spins toward me, his own knife forgotten. I drive my knee up into his solar plexus with every ounce of strength I possess, and he doubles over, gasping.

Lorenzo finishes it with a blow to the skull that drops the man like a stone.

Blood pools on the tiles under them and spreads out in puddles beneath their limp forms. The two attackers lie motionless, their weapons scattered across the floor. The house falls silent except for our ragged breathing and the distant sound of sirens growing closer.

"We have to go," Lorenzo says, pressing his hand to the wound on his side. Blood seeps between his fingers. "Now."

"You're hurt?—"

"I'll live." He moves to the window, peering through the curtains at the street below. "But we won't if we stay here. My neighbor probably heard the noise, and finding you in my house will raise questions I can't answer."

As if summoned by his words, I hear a voice from the alley below—older, authoritative, speaking rapidly into what sounds like a phone.

"Silvano," Lorenzo mutters. "He's calling the police."

We move fast. Lorenzo grabs a duffel bag from the closet and throws in clothes, weapons, and documents while I dress in whatever I can find.

The wound on his side is still bleeding, but he moves around like he can't even feel it, like adrenaline is fueling his actions.

Like he's forgotten that I am probably the one who put us all at risk by making that damn call.

The back stairwell is narrow and poorly lit, designed for servants and deliveries rather than residents. We descend in silence, Lorenzo leading with his gun drawn while I follow close behind. Every creak of the wooden steps sounds like thunder in the confined space.

The rear exit opens onto a service alley lined with dumpsters and delivery trucks. Lorenzo checks both directions before ushering me toward a black sedan parked near the far end. The engine starts immediately, and we're moving before I've even closed my door.

"Where are we going?" I ask as Lorenzo navigates through Rome's back streets, avoiding the main thoroughfares where police cars are already converging.

"Hotel. Somewhere they won't think to look."

Blood from the wound on his side has soaked through his shirt, and I can see him favoring his left arm as he drives. "You need medical attention."

"I need to get you somewhere safe first."

The hotel he chooses is unremarkable—a mid-range business establishment near the airport, the kind of place that caters to travelers who need a place to sleep during layovers or the shady sort of men who bring hookers for the bed only.

Lorenzo pays cash for a room on the third floor, using identification I'm certain is false.

The room is small and sterile, dominated by a queen bed and a single window that looks out onto the parking lot. Lorenzo collapses into the desk chair the moment the door closes, his face pale with blood loss.

"First aid kit," he says, nodding toward the bathroom. "Should be under the sink."

My hands shake as I retrieve the supplies and return to where he sits. The wound is worse than I thought—a deep gash that runs from his lowest rib to just above his hip. Blood has clotted around the edges, but it still seeps with each breath he takes.

"This needs stitches," I tell him, tearing open packages of gauze and antiseptic wipes.

"Just clean it and wrap it tight. I'll live."

I work as carefully as I can, cleaning the wound and applying pressure to stop the bleeding. Lorenzo doesn't flinch, even when the antiseptic must be burning like fire. He just stares at the wall and lets me work.

"The evidence," he says finally. "Everything we need to prove who's been selling court information—it's in the car."

I pause in my bandaging. "You got it?"

"All of it. Bank records, communication logs, payment transfers. Enough to prove you were set up." He meets my eyes. "As long as you stay with me, I can make sure Emilio doesn't have you killed for going after the Costa syndicate."

The words should be reassuring, but they raise new questions that chill me to the bone.

"And who's going to protect me from Emilio's enemies?" I ask, securing the bandage around his torso. "Because those men tonight—they weren't random burglars."

Lorenzo's expression darkens. "No. They weren't."

"They were following you to get to me, weren't they?"

He nods slowly. "Word is out. About who you are, about your connection to Emilio. Every rival family in Rome knows there's a Costa daughter walking around unprotected."

The full weight of what he's saying settles over me like a shroud. "How did they find out?"

"Hospital records. DNA tests. Someone leaked your identity—probably a nurse or lab technician looking to make easy money." Lorenzo shifts in his chair, wincing at the movement. "Once that information hit the street, you became the most valuable target in Rome."

I sink onto the edge of the bed, my legs suddenly unable to support me. "So, this is it? This is my life now? Running from one safe house to another while everyone tries to kill me or kidnap me?"

"Not everyone," Lorenzo says quietly. "Emilio's enemies will never leave you alone—that's true. But there is one person who can protect you from them."

"Who?"

"Emilio himself. If he finds you useful."

I don’t even want to consider his words, but I have to. I think about the man I've spent months building legal cases against, the crime boss whose organization I've dedicated my career to destroying. Now Lorenzo is suggesting I place my life in his hands.

"And if he doesn't find me useful?"

Lorenzo doesn't answer, but he doesn't need to. I can see the truth in his eyes.

"So my choices are to be hunted by his enemies or owned by him," I say. "Those are my only options?"

"Those have always been your only options," Lorenzo replies. "From the moment your DNA hit that database, from the moment Emilio learned he had a daughter. The only question was how long it would take you to realize it."

I stare at my hands, still stained with his blood and the blood of the men who came to kill me. One month ago, I was a prosecutor with a career and a life and a future. Now I'm a fugitive whose only protection comes from the man who was sent to murder me.

"What happens next?" I whisper.

Lorenzo leans back in his chair, exhaustion finally showing in the lines around his eyes. "Next, we see if Emilio thinks you're worth keeping alive."

Police are searching through the wreckage of Lorenzo's house, trying to piece together what happened. They'll find the blood, the broken door, the signs of violence.

But they won't find us.

And hopefully, no one else does either.