Page 31 of The Assassin’s Captive (The Roma Syndicate #5)

LORENZO

T he entrance to the club doesn't announce itself.

Between two wine bars on a narrow street in Trastevere, a single door sits beneath peeling paint and weathered stone.

No sign, no indication of what waits beyond the threshold.

I guide Serena forward with my hand at the small of her back, feeling the tension coiled in her shoulders as she takes in the unremarkable facade.

Two men flank the entrance. They nod at me without speaking, their eyes tracking Serena's movement as we pass.

She doesn't flinch under their scrutiny, but I catch the slight adjustment in her posture—the way she draws herself taller, sharper.

Even here, walking into the belly of Rome's most dangerous organization, she refuses to show weakness.

The interior swallows us in burgundy velvet and amber light.

Crystal chandeliers hang from coffered ceilings, their glow reflecting off polished floors.

The main room hums with quiet conversation—men in expensive suits conducting business over aged whiskey and Cuban cigars.

Their voices drop as we move through, not out of respect but recognition.

They know who I am. They know why I'm here.

I lead Serena past the main floor, through a corridor lined with mahogany panels and oil portraits of long-dead Romans.

Velvet doors punctuate the hallway at regular intervals, each one hiding negotiations that could topple governments or end lives.

The air grows heavier with each step, thick with the scents of leather and power.

At the end of the corridor, I stop before the final door. My fingers brush the brass handle, but I don't turn it immediately. Instead, I lean close to Serena's ear, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Remember what I told you. Answer his questions. Don't volunteer information he doesn't ask for. And whatever happens, don't challenge him directly."

She turns her head slightly, her dark eyes meeting mine. "I'm not afraid of him, Lorenzo."

"You should be."

I push open the door.

The corner chamber feels smaller than the rest of the club, more intimate.

Rich wood paneling climbs the walls, broken only by narrow windows that offer glimpses of the cobblestone street below.

A Persian rug covers most of the floor, its deep reds and golds muted by age.

Two leather chairs sit across from each other in the center of the room, positioned carefully.

Emilio Costa stands near the far window, his back to us.

He's smaller than most men expect—average height, lean build, with silver hair combed back from a weathered face.

But power radiates from him, filling every corner of the space.

When he turns to face us, his pale blue eyes assess Serena with clinical detachment.

"Lorenzo." He acknowledges me with a slight nod, then focuses entirely on her. "Serena Barone."

She doesn't respond immediately. Instead, she studies him the way she might examine evidence in a courtroom— methodically, searching for weaknesses. Her chin lifts slightly, but she keeps her expression neutral.

"Mr. Costa."

He moves to a small table near the window, where a crystal decanter has been prepared. Three glasses sit beside it, but he pours only two measures of whiskey. The liquid catches the light as he lifts one glass, swirling it gently.

"Sit." He gestures to one of the chairs.

Serena crosses the room without hurrying and settles into the chair with fluid grace, her spine straight, hands folded in her lap, every movement controlled.

Emilio takes the chair across from her, leaving me standing near the door. The arrangement feels intentional—an interview, not a family reunion. He sips his whiskey, studying her over the rim of the glass.

"You've built quite a career for yourself," he says finally. "Criminal prosecution. High-profile cases. I'm told you specialize in corruption within the judicial system."

"I prosecute criminals. The system they operate within is irrelevant to me."

"Is it?" He sets his glass on the small table between them. "Tell me about the Bianchi case. The one that made your reputation."

Serena's expression doesn't change, but I catch the slight tightening around her eyes. The Bianchi case had taken down three judges and a dozen court clerks in a money-laundering scheme. It had also put her on the radar of every criminal organization in Rome.

"I followed the evidence. The evidence led to convictions."

"Twelve convictions. Including Judge Marchetti himself." Emilio leans back in his chair. "That takes skill. And patience. How long did you spend building that case?"

"Eighteen months."

"And during those eighteen months, how many people did you trust with sensitive information?"

I watch Serena weigh the question, recognizing the trap hidden within it. Emilio isn't asking about her methods—he's mapping her network, identifying potential leaks.

"My team was small. Three investigators, one paralegal, and my immediate supervisor."

"Names?"

"Antonio Ricci supervised the case. Marco Tessari handled document analysis. Elena Conti and Francesco Moretti conducted interviews."

Emilio nods as if filing away each name for future reference. "And the paralegal?"

"Sofia Amadeo."

"You trust these people?"

Serena's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "They're professionals. They did their jobs."

"That's not what I asked."

The air in the room grows thicker, charged with unspoken threat. Serena meets Emilio's gaze without wavering, but I see the calculation behind her eyes—the lawyer's mind working through implications and possibilities.

"Trust is earned through consistent action over time. I trusted them with the case. Whether I trust them with my life is a different question entirely."

Emilio's mouth curves in what might be approval. "Good answer. Now tell me about your current caseload."

"I'm not currently assigned to any active cases."

"Because of your forced absence." He pauses, letting the words hang between them. "But before that. What were you working on?"

Serena glances at me briefly, then back to Emilio. "I was reviewing evidence in the Santangelo investigation. Financial crimes. Corporate fraud."

"And?"

"The evidence suggested connections to organized crime. I was preparing recommendations for expanded investigation."

"Whose organized crime?"

He's baiting her, and it makes my gut twist. I know Emilio already has the answer—he wouldn't ask without knowing what he'd hear. But he wants to see how she responds, whether she'll lie or deflect.

"Multiple families. The evidence pointed to a network rather than a single organization."

"Including the Costas?"

Serena's hands remain steady in her lap, but I catch the slight increase in her breathing. "The investigation was preliminary. I hadn't reached conclusions about specific families."

"But you had suspicions."

"I had questions."

Emilio leans forward slightly, his pale eyes never leaving her face. "What questions?"

"About shell companies. About judges who consistently ruled in favor of certain defendants. About patterns in case assignments and evidence handling."

"And what answers did you find?"

"I found enough to know the corruption went deeper than individual judges. The system itself had been compromised."

Serena has essentially confirmed that she was building a case that could have destroyed half of Rome's criminal infrastructure—including Emilio's operations.

"You know what your blood means now," Emilio says, shifting the conversation without warning.

Serena's composure finally cracks, for a moment. Her breath catches, and her fingers tighten against each other. But she recovers quickly, her mask sliding back into place.

"I know what the DNA test revealed."

"And what does that mean to you?"

"It means my adoption records weren't as sealed as my parents believed. It means someone I never met left me a legacy I never asked for." She pauses, her voice growing steadier. "But it doesn't change who I am or what I believe."

"Doesn't it?" Emilio's voice carries an edge of amusement. "You're a Costa, Serena. That blood carries certain obligations."

"I didn't choose this family."

"None of us did. But we honor it nonetheless."

Serena's dark eyes flash with the first real emotion she's shown since entering the room. "Honor? You call what you do honorable?"

The temperature in the room drops ten degrees. I tense, ready to intervene if necessary, but Emilio simply raises his hand—a small gesture that somehow manages to be both dismissive and threatening.

"I call it necessary. Rome's legitimate authorities are either corrupt or ineffective. We provide structure. Order. Protection for those who can't protect themselves."

"You provide violence. Extortion. Fear."

"I provide stability in an unstable world." His voice remains calm, conversational. "But I'm not here to debate philosophy with you. I'm here to discuss your future."

"My future is my own."

"Is it?" Emilio reaches into his jacket and withdraws a photograph. He places it on the table between them, face up. "This was taken three weeks ago."

I can't see the image from where I stand, but I watch Serena's face go pale. Her lips part slightly, and her breathing becomes shallow.

"Where did you get this?"

"That's not important. What's important is what it represents. You've been watched, Serena. Studied. Evaluated. Long before Lorenzo was sent to find you."

She looks up from the photograph, her composure cracking further. "Why?"

"Because knowledge is power. And you possess knowledge that certain people find valuable."

"I don't know anything that?—"