Page 33 of The Assassin’s Captive (The Roma Syndicate #5)

SERENA

T he terrace feels like a cage. Small, narrow, with iron railings that look decorative but serve as bars.

I grip the cold metal until my knuckles turn white, staring down at the cobblestone street below where tourists wander between wine bars, oblivious to the conversation happening twenty feet above their heads.

My chest feels tight. Not from fear—I've moved beyond fear into something more dangerous.

Rage burns through my veins, hot and clean.

Emilio Costa thinks he can offer me a choice between servitude and death.

He thinks my blood makes me his property, his weapon, his tool to legitimize decades of violence and corruption.

He's wrong.

The door behind me opens, but I don't turn around. I know Lorenzo's footsteps by now—always with an underlying tension that never fully disappears.

"Serena."

"Don't." I keep my voice level, but my grip on the railing tightens. "Whatever you're about to say, don't."

"You need to hear this."

"I need to get out of here." I finally turn to face him, and the concern in his hazel eyes almost undoes me. "I need to get as far away from this place, this family, this entire situation as possible."

Lorenzo steps closer, but carefully. He's learned to read my moods, to recognize when I'm close to breaking. "It's not that simple anymore."

"It never was simple. But now it's impossible." I gesture toward the door that leads back to Emilio's private chamber. "He wants me to become everything I've spent my career fighting against. He wants me to use my knowledge of the legal system to help him avoid consequences for his crimes."

"He wants you alive."

I sober, eyebrows rising slowly as the words sink in. I study Lorenzo's face, searching for the meaning beneath his careful expression.

"And the alternative is death. Yes, I understood that part of his threat."

"It wasn't a threat, Serena. It was a warning."

Lorenzo moves to the railing beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. He's always warm, always steady. Even in the middle of chaos, he remains centered in a way I've never been able to master.

"Someone has been watching you for months. Long before I was sent to find you. The photograph Emilio showed you?—"

"Was taken three months ago. I remember." The memory makes my stomach clench. "I was walking back from court after the Bianchi hearing. I remember that day because it was raining, and I'd forgotten my umbrella."

"You were being hunted, Serena. Studied. They know your routines, your habits, your vulnerabilities. And now they know about your connection to the Costa family."

I turn to face him fully, searching his expression for any hint of deception. "Who are they?"

"We don't know yet. But they have resources. Professional surveillance. The ability to move through Rome without detection." His jaw tightens. "And they want you dead."

"Because of what I know about the corruption cases."

"Because of what you represent." Lorenzo's hand covers mine on the railing, warm and solid.

"You're a Costa who can't be bought or intimidated.

You understand both sides of the system—legal and criminal.

You're dangerous to anyone who profits from keeping those two worlds separate.

And they'd have come for you even if Emilio hadn't sent me. "

The weight of his words settles over me. I've spent my career believing that justice could triumph over corruption through legal channels. But standing here, with the blood of Rome's most powerful crime family running through my veins, I'm beginning to understand how naive that belief was.

"So my choices are to become Emilio's weapon or become a target."

"Your choices are to accept protection from the one man in Rome powerful enough to keep you alive or to die within the week."

The brutal honesty in his voice cuts through my anger. Lorenzo doesn't sugarcoat reality. He presents it exactly as it is, without sentiment or false hope.

"And what about us?" The question slips out before I can stop it. "What happens to whatever this is between us if I become part of his organization?"

Lorenzo's grip on my hand tightens. "Emilio didn't say no."

"What?"

"When I told him about us. About what's happening between us." His hazel eyes hold mine steadily. "He didn't forbid it. He didn't order me to stay away from you."

"That's not exactly a blessing."

"From Emilio Costa, it's as close to approval as you'll ever get." Lorenzo's thumb traces across my knuckles, a gentle gesture that contrasts with the violence that defines his life. "He could have ended this with a word, could have transferred me to another assignment, another city. He didn't."

I want to believe him, want to believe that something real can exist between us despite the circumstances that brought us together. But the rational part of my mind—the prosecutor who's spent years navigating the complexities of criminal law—knows better.

"This isn't a relationship, Lorenzo. This is Stockholm syndrome with decent conversation."

His expression doesn't change, but I see the slight tightening around his eyes. "Is that what you think this is?"

"I think I was kidnapped by a man whose job is to kill people who inconvenience his boss.

I think I've been held captive for weeks, isolated from everyone I trust, forced to depend on you for survival.

" The words taste bitter in my mouth, but they need to be said. "I think my judgment is compromised."

"And I think you're lying to yourself."

The quiet conviction in his voice stops me cold. Lorenzo steps closer, his free hand coming up to cup my face. His palm is warm against my cheek, rough from years of violence but gentle in its touch.

"You want to know what I think?" His voice drops to barely above a whisper. "I think you're terrified of admitting that you care about me. Because caring makes you vulnerable. And you've spent your entire adult life avoiding vulnerability."

"Lorenzo—"

"I think you'd rather believe this is some psychological manipulation than accept that you chose to trust me. That you chose to let me touch you. That you chose to?—"

The first gunshot cuts through his words like a blade.

The sound echoes off the stone buildings with a sharp and unmistakable crack. Then another. And another. Lorenzo's entire body goes rigid, his hand dropping from my face to the weapon concealed beneath his jacket.

"Get down."

He doesn't wait for me to comply. His arm circles my waist, pulling me down behind the low stone wall that borders the terrace. The rough stone scrapes against my palms as I brace myself, my heart hammering against my ribs.

More gunfire erupts from the street below. Not random shots—coordinated, professional. Multiple weapons firing in sequence, creating overlapping fields of coverage.

"Stay down." Lorenzo's voice has transformed completely. Gone is the man who was touching my face moments ago. In his place is the assassin, cold and focused and deadly. "Don't move. Don't look up. Don't do anything unless I tell you to."

Through the stone balusters, I can see muzzle flashes in the darkness across the street. Men in dark clothing moving together in sync like they're trained military, advancing on the club from multiple angles. This isn't a random attack. It's a coordinated assault.

Lorenzo speaks rapidly into a device I hadn't noticed him carrying. "Perimeter breach. Multiple shooters. Serena's position compromised."

Voices shout from inside the club, Costa's men mobilizing, taking defensive positions. I hear the sound of furniture being overturned, the crash of glass as windows are shot out.

"How many?" I whisper.

"At least six. Probably more." Lorenzo's eyes scan the street below, tracking movement I can't see. "Professional. Well-equipped. They've been planning this."

An explosion rocks the building. Not close enough to damage the terrace, but powerful enough to shake the stone beneath us. Car alarms begin wailing in the distance, and I can smell smoke in the night air.

"The parking garage," Lorenzo says grimly. "They're cutting off escape routes."

Through the chaos, I hear a scream. High-pitched, agonized. Someone has been hit.

Lorenzo tenses beside me, his hand moving to his weapon. "We need to move. Now."

"Where?"

"Inside. This terrace is too exposed."

He's right. We're trapped on a narrow stone ledge with minimal cover, perfect targets for anyone with a clear shot from the surrounding buildings. But the idea of running back into the club, toward the gunfire, goes against every instinct I have.

"Serena." Lorenzo's voice cuts through my paralysis. "Trust me."

I meet his eyes and see absolute certainty there. No doubt. No fear. Complete confidence in his ability to keep me alive.

"Okay."

He moves first, rising from behind the stone wall in a fluid motion. His weapon appears in his hand as if materialized from thin air, and he fires twice at targets I can't see. Return fire chips stone from the railing where my head had been moments before.

"Move," his voice booms, and I don't think. I run.

Lorenzo stays between me and the street, his body shielding mine as we cross the exposed terrace. Another burst of gunfire shatters the windows of the club, sending glass cascading onto the cobblestones below.

The door to the club is reinforced steel disguised as wood. Lorenzo yanks it open and shoves me through, following immediately behind. The sound of gunfire becomes muffled but doesn't stop.

Inside, chaos reigns. Costa's men have overturned tables and positioned themselves at windows, returning fire at the attackers in the street. The air is thick with smoke and the acrid smell of gunpowder.

"Lorenzo!" Emilio's voice cuts through the noise. He's positioned behind an overturned bar, a pistol in his hand. "How many?"