Page 3 of The Assassin’s Captive (The Roma Syndicate #5)

LORENZO

T he prosecution office sits on Via Arenula, a narrow street that offers perfect sight lines from three different parking positions.

I've mapped them all—the spot near the pharmacy where I can watch the main entrance, the corner by the café that covers the side exit, and the alley across from the courthouse where most people park illegally and move on before the meter officers arrive.

I follow at a distance, keeping two blocks behind. The streets are busy enough that I can blend in with the foot traffic, another businessman heading to work. But I stay alert, scanning for anyone else who might be tracking her movements.

That's when I see a dark sedan parked across from the courthouse entrance.

The driver sits too still, his posture too focused.

He's been there since before Serena arrived, and he doesn't move when she disappears inside the building.

Most people would drive away, find another parking spot, go about their business.

This man settles in as if he has all day.

I circle the block and park where I can observe both the courthouse and the sedan.

The driver is middle-aged, wearing a brown jacket and cheap sunglasses.

He keeps checking his phone, but his attention always returns to the courthouse doors.

When other people enter and exit, he barely glances at them. He's waiting for someone specific.

Serena emerges three hours later, flanked by two other prosecutors.

They stand on the courthouse steps, deep in conversation about whatever case they're building.

The man in the sedan sits up straighter, and I see him lift what looks like a camera.

I memorize his license plate number and make a mental note to run it through my contacts later.

The afternoon brings a different routine. Serena leaves the prosecution office at 4:30 p.m. and walks toward the Pantheon. She stops at a small market, buying fruits and vegetables and a bottle of wine. I keep my distance, but I'm not the only one watching.

A man in a gray coat follows her through the market, staying one aisle behind.

He's good—better than the amateur in the sedan—but not good enough.

He moves when she moves, stops when she stops, and keeps his head down when she turns.

Professional surveillance, but not professional enough to avoid detection by someone who knows what to look for.

Serena pays for her groceries and heads toward the fountain. The man in the gray coat abandons his pretense of shopping and follows. I trail them both, using the crowd of tourists as cover.

At the fountain, Serena stops and pulls out her phone. The man in gray finds a bench twenty meters away and pretends to read a newspaper. I position myself near a gelato stand, close enough to intervene if necessary.

Emilio won't be happy if someone else beats us to the punch. If necessary, I will take her from the street and risk there being witnesses to avoid losing her. We need the details on what she knows.

She talks for maybe five minutes, then hangs up and continues toward her apartment. The man in gray waits thirty seconds before following. I count to ten and fall in behind him.

We make a strange procession through the winding streets near the Roman Forum—Serena in the lead, unaware of her shadows, the man in gray maintaining his distance, and me bringing up the rear.

The afternoon sun slants through the narrow alleys, creating pockets of shadow that make surveillance both easier and more dangerous.

Then Serena does something unexpected.

She stops outside the Ministry of Justice building and turns around.

Not casually, not as if she's forgotten something, but with the sudden sharpness of someone who's realized she's being watched.

Her eyes scan the street, moving from face to face, and for one terrible moment, her gaze lands directly on me.

I freeze. I'm parked across the street, partially hidden behind a delivery truck, but her stare feels like a physical touch. She's too far away for me to read her expression, but something in her posture suggests recognition. Or suspicion.

The man in gray has melted into a doorway, invisible now that she's alert. But I have nowhere to go, no way to disappear without starting my engine and driving away—a movement that would confirm her suspicions.

We stare at each other across the width of Via dei Cappuccini. She's perfectly still, her grocery bag hanging from one hand, her phone in the other. I can see her thinking, calculating, trying to decide if what she's seeing is real or paranoia.

Then she turns and walks into the Ministry building.

I sit in my car for ten minutes, waiting for her to emerge, but she doesn't. The man in gray has vanished completely. The street returns to its normal rhythm of pedestrians and traffic, but I can't shake the feeling that she'll retreat and that I've lost my shot.

I move on with the belief that she will protect herself more fully now that she knows someone is watching her, even if she fears it's me, and I head home, where I call Victor, Emilio's son and my equal in this family.

"I need you to run a plate," I say when he answers.

"Personal or professional?"

"Professional."

I give him the license number from the sedan. Victor has contacts in the traffic division, which means he has access to registration databases that would take me hours to hack. He owes me three favors from a situation last year that required both discretion and violence.

"Give me an hour," he says.

I spend the time reviewing what I know about Serena's current caseload.

The Bianchi trial is her highest-profile case—a money laundering operation that connects several Rome businesses to offshore accounts.

If someone wanted to monitor her progress, to know how much evidence she's gathered, that would be the logical target.

But there could be others. Her work touches dozens of criminal enterprises, and any one of them might have reason to keep tabs on her movements.

Victor calls back at eleven with my information, but I’m not pleased with what he says.

"Your sedan belongs to Marco Tessari," he says. "Registered address in Trastevere. But here's the interesting part—he's got a record. Assault, intimidation, witness tampering. All charges dropped or dismissed."

"Who does he work for?"

"No official employment records. But his bank account shows regular deposits from a consulting firm called Adriatic Solutions."

I know the name. Adriatic Solutions is a front company used by several Rome families to launder money and hire muscle. If Tessari is on their payroll, then someone with serious resources is interested in Serena's activities.

"Anything else?"

"Yeah. He's been arrested twice in the past year, both times for surveillance-related activities. Following people, taking photos. Always gets released within hours."

I hang up and stare at the ceiling of my apartment. Two different surveillance teams, possibly three if the man in gray was working independently. Serena is being watched by professionals, which means her cases have attracted attention from people who don't solve problems through legal channels.

This complicates my assignment. Emilio wants information about her current investigations, but he's not the only one interested in her work.

If I move too aggressively, if I expose myself, I could trigger a response from competing interests.

Not to mention the authorities who will only use it as proof that the case she's building is priority.

I need to be more careful, more patient.

But patience becomes harder the next day when I follow her to the courthouse and see Tessari's sedan parked in the same spot. He's bolder now, openly photographing people who enter and exit the building. When Serena emerges at lunchtime, he follows her to a small restaurant near the Tiber.

I watch from across the street as she sits alone at a corner table, reviewing documents while she eats.

Tessari parks where he can observe the restaurant entrance.

He makes no attempt to enter, doesn't try to get closer.

He's gathering intelligence, documenting her routine, building a profile of her habits.

The thought that someone else is hunting her triggers something protective in me that I don't want to examine. She's my target, my assignment. No one else should be watching her movements, cataloging her vulnerabilities.

When she finishes lunch and returns to the courthouse, I make a decision. I follow Tessari instead of Serena, staying three cars behind as he drives through the afternoon traffic. He doesn't go far—just to a parking garage in EUR where he meets with a thin man in an expensive suit.

They talk for five minutes, the thin man gesturing emphatically while Tessari nods and takes notes. Then the thin man hands him an envelope and walks away—probably his payment or instructions.

I memorize the thin man's face and license plate, then follow Tessari back toward the city center.

He parks outside Serena's apartment building and settles in for what looks like a long surveillance session, and I get out my tablet and do my own research.

After an hour, I begin connecting the dots and connecting Tessari back to a family that rivals the Costas in every way.

The pieces click into place. Someone connected to the Bianchi trial is having Serena surveilled, probably trying to determine how much evidence she's gathered, who her witnesses are, what her strategy might be.

This isn't about information anymore. This is about intimidation, about finding leverage that can be used to derail her prosecution.

And I have to get to her first before they follow through, because I know that envelope holds orders to either abduct her and extract information—much like my orders—or Tessari is supposed to kill her.

I stare at Tessari's sedan. Two hours until dark—plenty of time to make my own plans.