Page 27 of The Assassin’s Captive (The Roma Syndicate #5)

SERENA

L orenzo sits at the hotel room window wearing nothing but his boxers, his back to me, shoulders rigid against the pale light.

The bandages wrapped around his ribs are a contrast, white against the dark ink that covers his skin, and they're dotted with blood that's seeped through.

He holds no weapon, watches no specific threat, yet every line of his body screams vigilance.

I study the curve of his spine, the way his head tilts toward sounds I cannot hear.

He guards nothing and everything—the street below, the door behind us, the fragile space we've carved from the chaos Emilio set in motion.

His fingers drum against his knee, the closest thing to restlessness I've ever seen from him.

The sheets tangle around my legs as I shift, and his shoulders tense at the sound. Always listening. Always ready. Even here, in this borrowed sanctuary, he can't let himself rest.

I rise from the bed. He doesn't turn, but I know he tracks my movement with every step I take toward him.

"Serena." My name comes out a rough warning aimed at keeping me away.

He's had a lot today, and he's feeling overwhelmed by it all, but I need to feel close to him.

It's terrifying, knowing those men came for me to kill me because of the knowledge I possess that could bury their organizations.

That they came for me because I hold the same DNA as a killer, even though I wasn't raised by him.

I don't step back. Instead, I move around him, settling into his lap carefully so I don't bump his wounds. His hands hover near my waist, not quite touching, not quite pushing me away. The bandages brush against my stomach, and I feel the rapid beat of his heart beneath the gauze.

"You need to stop." His voice carries an edge I recognize—the same tone he uses when he's trying to convince himself of something he doesn't believe. "This will only hurt you when you realize Emilio won't let me have you. Don't you realize that?"

The words should sting because he's doubling back, pulling away from what we both agreed was best for the two of us.

Those words should send me scrambling back to the safety of distance and denial.

Instead, they settle into the hollow space beneath my ribs, confirmation of what I already know.

What I've known since the moment I learned who I really am.

"I know." I frame his face with my hands, forcing him to meet my eyes. "And I don't care. You promised we were in this together, and I didn't know it at the time, but this isn't just an alliance, Lorenzo. I think I love you."

He tries to pull away, but I hold firm. My thumbs trace the sharp line of his cheekbones, the scar that cuts through his beard. He's beautiful in the way dangerous things are beautiful—hard edges and violence, devastating in their restraint.

"Serena—"

I kiss him before he can finish the thought, before he can build another wall between us.

This isn't the desperate collision of our first kiss, or the controlled burn of the nights that followed.

This is something else entirely. I am claiming him, this man who nearly took a bullet for me, who let another man slice through his skin just to save me.

He goes rigid beneath me, every muscle locked in resistance. But I don't let him retreat. I deepen the kiss, pour everything I can't say into the space between us. When his hands finally settle on my waist, when his grip tightens and pulls me closer, I know I've won.

"You're going to break us both," he whispers against my mouth, but his hands contradict his words, mapping the curve of my spine with reverent fingers.

"Then we break together."

My grip tightens. He hisses through his teeth, jaw clenched, eyes still locked on mine. His hands clench around my waist, bruising in their restraint, but he doesn’t stop me. He can’t.

“You bled for me,” I say, forcing him to hear it. “You kill for them. But this…” I guide him free of his boxers, thick and full in my palm. “This is mine.”

His breath drags unevenly. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I’m not asking.” I roll my hips against him, his swelling dick rubbing against my panties, and the friction draws a ragged breath from his throat. His head tilts back. His mouth parts. I shift forward and grind along the length of him. His eyes close for a second.

“Serena.” My name sounds strangled.

I press my body to his, mouths inches apart. “You keep telling me this ends in ruin. Then ruin me.”

I drag his boxers lower and push my panties aside. I don’t give him time to argue. I grip him at the base and slide him through my folds. My thighs shake with tension. I keep control. I rock again, and his cock slides slick against me.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters.

“I want to ride you until you forget who you work for.”

He breathes hard. “That won’t take long.”

I grind harder. I pin his thighs under mine and fuck him through the friction, through the pain written across his bandaged chest. His hands slam down on the arms of the chair. He holds on as I take more.

“Tell me you need it,” I say.

“I’ve needed it every time you looked at me like this.”

I rock forward again. The pressure builds where our bodies meet. Each grind drags another pulse from his cock, thick against the slick mess between my thighs. His fingers flex around the arms of the chair. He doesn’t touch me, but the restraint in his body says enough.

I reach between us and guide him to my entrance. The stretch burns, but I don’t stop. I take him in slowly, inch by inch, until I’m seated full in his lap. My breath catches. His jaw clenches.

“You’re going to break me,” he says.

“Then break," I tell him, "but I want to hear you say something to me…"

"What's that?" he asks, hips instinctively pumping upward without conscious thought. I smirk at him and he looks at me through hooded eyes.

"Tell me you love me, Lorenzo… Because it's written all over your face every time you look at me.

" His body stills, but I keep going, grinding and rolling my hips.

My body wraps around him like warm silk and I move one of his hands from the arm of the chair to my center, where I make his thumb press against my swollen nub.

For a moment he says nothing, wrestling to move the fabric of my panties more to the side so he can find the right spot, but I pause my thrusting to make sure he's heard me correctly.

"I said… I need you to tell me the truth, Lorenzo. Say you love me, because I know you do."

His thumb finally finds my clit, and I hiss out a breath as he begins rubbing.

He presses harder, slow circles over the spot that makes my thighs twitch. My breath snags. His cock pulses deep inside me.

“You think this is the time for confessions?” he says. “You’re sitting on me, soaked through, making a mess all over my lap.”

I grind harder, keeping his thumb right where I need it. “Exactly. No room to lie.”

He smirks, but I see the strain under it. His chest rises, tight against the bandages, every breath drawn with effort.

“You want three words,” he says. “Earn them.”

I brace my hands on his shoulders and ride him again with slow full thrusts. His head tips back for a second, and I catch the sound he tries to swallow.

“I’m already doing all the work.” My voice breaks on the end of the sentence, hips sliding down again. “You think I’ll beg?”

His hand fists in the back of my hair, tugging it gently to expose my neck. I think he'll bite me but he pulls me close, mouth at my ear. “I think you’re close.”

He’s right. My body locks around him, muscles drawn tight from the rhythm, the friction, the pressure of his cock sliding through me again and again while he sucks every sound out of me with his thumb.

“Say it,” I whisper. His hand leaves my hair and grabs my jaw, forcing my eyes to his.

“You want the truth?” he says. “Fine. I’d burn this whole city to the ground if it meant keeping you.”

It's good—it's a confession of his desire, of what he's willing to do. But it's not what I want.

“That’s not what I asked for,” I say, grinding down slowly.

His thumb presses harder at my clit. My body jumps. I ride through it, keeping him deep and aching and locked between my thighs.

“You think I don’t know what this is?” I say. “You think I haven’t seen it every time you touch me?” I'm baiting him, tempting him to let go and be real with me. Men like him don’t want to be vulnerable or weak. Words like "I'm sorry" or "I love you" don't come easily.

His hand shifts from my waist to my back, drawing me closer until our chests brush. He groans low in his throat, voice tight from pain or pressure—I can’t tell which. It doesn’t matter.

“You want the words,” he says. “Right now?”

“I’m not asking again," I tell him, then I pull back just enough to roll my hips. His cock drags through me, and the heat between us is messier now. My thighs shake. I brace against his chest and fuck him harder. He grits his teeth. His grip locks under my ass. His thumb never stops.

My climax hovers so sharp and blinding I almost give in, but I hold the edge with everything I have.

He looks up at me and his deep baritone rumbles out, clear as day. "I love you, Serena.”

"I want to believe you," I pant, so close to the edge I could detonate any second.

"I mean it," he whispers, and then he kisses me hard.

I break.

My head drops against his. My body seizes.

I ride him through it, thighs locked, gasping into his mouth.

My body convulses and twitches. I leave crescent shapes on his shoulder and the back of his neck, but it's worth it.

The satisfaction of hearing it, the way he said it too, like he knew I needed that little bit of reassurance.

Then I feel him come inside me, full and hot and thick, his hands still tight around me, his breath harsh against my skin. When I fail to continue, I feel his hips pumping upward until the pulsing and twitching is over, and his lips linger on mine.

"I mean it," he repeats, but he doesn't say the words again. I'd like to hear him say it again, but maybe it's something he can bring out for special occasions. I don't need those words to know how he feels.

"I mean it too," I whisper, and I kiss him again softly. I trace the lines of his tattoos, following ink that tells stories I'm only beginning to understand. "But I need you to promise me something," I say, not lifting my head to look at him.

His chest rises and falls beneath my chest, a careful rhythm that doesn't fool me. I know he's listening to every word, weighing every possibility.

"I'll be useful for Emilio." The admission tastes bitter, but I force it out. "I'll play whatever role he needs me to play, be whatever weapon he wants to wield. But only if you promise me three things."

"Serena—"

"You won't leave me alone with him." I lift my head now, pinning him with my stare. "You won't make me fend for myself in that world. And you will protect me, no matter what he asks of you. No matter what it costs."

Lorenzo's hands are still on my back. I watch him process the request, see the conflict play out in the tightness around his eyes. He's calculating odds, measuring risks, trying to find a way to promise me something he might not be able to deliver.

"You don't know what you're asking…" he says again, like somehow that's going to make this easier for me to walk into. He's my only defense against Emilio Costa and the violent empire I am connected to.

"I know exactly what I'm asking." I shift, bringing us face to face. "I'm asking you to choose me over him. I'm asking you to put me first, even when every instinct you have tells you to follow orders. I'm asking you to follow your heart, not your training."

He closes his eyes, and for a moment I think he'll refuse. That he'll remind me of his place in Emilio's hierarchy, of the loyalty that runs deeper than blood, of the consequences that come with defying a man who owns half of Rome.

When he opens them again, something has shifted. The careful mask he wears has cracked, revealing the man underneath—the one who pulled me from that hospital, who chose protection over execution, who holds me now as if I might disappear.

"I promise." The words come out broken, barely more than breath. "I promise you won't face him alone. I promise I won't abandon you to that world. And I promise I will protect you, no matter what it costs me."

"Even if it costs you everything?" I ask him again, still needing more reassurance.

Because if I'm doing this, if I'm going to walk willingly into the den of lions, I need the ally he promised me he'd be and not someone who will pull back at the first sign of trouble.

Not a double-crosser who can be bought by threats.

"Especially then."

I settle back against his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

Soon, we'll have to return to the world, to face Emilio and the future he's planning for us both.

But for now, we have this—the quiet space between one breath and the next, the warmth of skin against skin, the weight of promises that might destroy us both.

I don't know how to be useful to a man like Costa except to do as he says and hope it's enough. And I just pray he doesn't ask me to cross the same lines he has Lorenzo crossing. I can look the other way when a crime is committed, but I can't commit them myself.