Page 36 of The Assassin’s Captive (The Roma Syndicate #5)
SERENA
L orenzo's house feels different tonight.
The familiar rooms that once seemed cold now carry a warmth I can't quite identify.
Maybe it's the way he moves through the space, no longer the careful stranger who kept professional distance.
Maybe it's the knowledge that this place—his sanctuary—is about to become mine too.
I stand in the living room while he builds a fire in the stone fireplace. The flames catch quickly, sending golden light dancing across the walls. Outside, rain patters against the windows, turning the glass into rivers of distorted light from the street lamps.
"Hungry?" he asks, straightening from the hearth. Soot streaks his hands, and he wipes them on a towel before tossing it aside.
I realize I haven't eaten since lunch. The events at the club, Emilio's offer, the weight of the decision I made—everything consumed my attention completely. Now, with safety settled around me and Lorenzo's presence filling the room, hunger returns with surprising force.
"Starving."
He nods toward the kitchen. "Come on. I'll cook."
The kitchen is larger than my entire apartment was.
Marble countertops, professional-grade appliances, windows that overlook a small garden behind the house where the privacy fence secludes his space from the neighborhood.
Lorenzo moves through the space, pulling ingredients from the refrigerator and setting them on the counter.
"Pasta?" he suggests. "I make a decent carbonara."
"You cook?"
"I live alone. The alternative is takeout every night." He fills a pot with water and sets it on the stove. "Besides, cooking is methodical. I find it relaxing."
I watch him work, fascinated by this domestic side of him I've never seen. His movements are precise as he whisks eggs and grates cheese, but there's something almost meditative about the process. The tension that usually carries itself in his shoulders has eased.
"Tell me about the life," I say, settling onto one of the bar stools that face the kitchen island. "What should I expect?"
He pauses in his whisking. "It's not the life you had planned."
"I gathered that much."
He sets the bowl aside and turns to face me fully. "You'll have money. More than you know what to do with. A house that makes this one look modest. Cars, clothes, access to places most people only read about in magazines."
"Material things."
"Yes. But also influence. When you speak, people will listen—not because of who you are, but because of whose name you carry. Judges will take your calls. Prosecutors will consider deals they wouldn't offer anyone else. Doors will open before you even approach them."
The water on the stove begins to bubble. Lorenzo adds salt and slides pasta into the pot, stirring once before setting a timer.
"And the costs?"
"Freedom." He doesn't hesitate. "Everything you do reflects on the family. Every choice you make, every person you associate with, every case you take—it all gets scrutinized. You'll be watched, protected, but also controlled."
I absorb this, turning it over in my mind. "By Emilio?"
"By everyone. The family has expectations. Enemies who will look for weaknesses. Allies who need reassurance of your loyalty." He moves to the stove, checking the pasta. "Your life becomes public property in ways you can't imagine."
"And you? What's your role in all this?"
He drains the pasta and adds it to a pan with crispy pancetta. The rich smell fills the kitchen, comforting my senses. "I keep you alive. I keep you safe. I eliminate threats before they become problems."
"That's not what I meant."
He knows it isn't. I can see it in the way his shoulders tense slightly, the way he focuses too intently on combining pasta with egg mixture. When he finally looks at me, his eyes carry something raw and vulnerable.
"What did you mean?"
"I meant what are you to me? Bodyguard? Warden? Something else?" A smile plays at my lips but I keep it hidden. When we started this, he was more of a captor. Now I want so much more. I know psychologists would call that Stockholm syndrome, but I feel safe. I don’t need their opinions, anyway.
The timer goes off, but he ignores it. Instead, he turns off the heat and comes around the island to stand in front of me. Close enough that I can smell his cologne, see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes.
"What do you want me to be?"
The question is loaded with possibility and danger in equal measure. Danger because I'm risking my heart on someone I know damn well could destroy it. But I find myself answering with complete honesty.
"I want you to be mine."
Lorenzo's eyes search my face, looking for doubt or hesitation. He won't find either.
"Serena." My name comes out rough, almost broken.
He acts like he hasn't already told me he loves me, as if that moment of tenderness in the hotel room didn’t happen.
It seems to me there is still so much hesitation inside his thoughts until he says, "If Emilio hadn't given you to me tonight," he says, voice barely above a whisper, "I would have taken you anyway. "
His confession fills my heart to the point I think my chest might explode. "What do you mean?"
"I mean I would have grabbed you after that meeting and driven until we ran out of road. Left Rome, left Italy, disappeared somewhere they couldn't find us." His thumb traces across my cheekbone. "Because I love you, and I can't watch you belong to anyone else."
The kitchen spins around me. I wrap my arms around him to steady myself because hearing him say those words without my demanding them feels foreign. But I love hearing them.
"Lorenzo—"
"I know what I am," he continues, stepping closer until there's no space left between us. "I know what I've done, what I do for a living. I know you deserve better than a man who kills for money. But I can't let you go."
"You love me."
"More than I knew was possible." His other hand comes up to frame my face completely. "You belong to me now. Not to Emilio, not to the family, not to anyone else. Mine."
The possessiveness in his voice sends heat racing through my veins. There's something primal and honest about his claim that calls to a part of me I didn't know existed.
"And if I don't want to belong to you?" I ask, smirking at him.
"Too late…" He leans his forehead against mine. "But you need to understand what that means. It means I'll kill anyone who threatens you. It means I'll burn down Rome before I let anyone take you from me. It means you're stuck with a man who doesn't know how to love gently."
I close my eyes, breathing in his scent, letting his words wash over me. When I open them again, I see fear mixed with the love in his expression. Fear that I'll reject him, that I'll decide he's too dangerous, too damaged, too much.
"Good," I tell him. "I don't want gentle."
The smile that spreads across his face transforms him completely. Gone is the cold professional, replaced by a man who looks like he's been handed everything he ever wanted.
He kisses me then, reverently, like he's afraid I might disappear. I melt into him, letting myself feel everything I've been scared of for weeks. The attraction, the connection, the sense that this dangerous man is somehow exactly what I need.
When we break apart, Lorenzo rests his forehead against mine again, eyes closed.
"The carbonara is getting cold," he murmurs.
I laugh, surprising both of us. "Then we should eat it."
He nods but doesn't move away immediately. "After dinner, we need to talk about logistics. New security protocols, safe houses, communication procedures."
"After dinner," I agree. "But right now, I just want to eat pasta with the man I love."
The words slip out before I can stop them, but I don't regret them. Lorenzo's eyes snap open, hope and disbelief warring in their depths.
"You love me?"
"Yes." The admission feels like jumping off a cliff. "I love you."
He kisses me again, harder this time, full of relief and joy and promises I can feel in the way his hands shake against my face. When we finally separate, we're both smiling.
"Come on," he says, taking my hand. "Let's eat."
He serves the carbonara on simple white plates, adding fresh pepper and more cheese. We sit at his small dining table, the fire crackling in the next room, rain still pattering against the windows. The pasta is perfect—creamy and rich, with just enough bite from the pepper.
"This is incredible," I tell him after the first bite.
"My mother's recipe." The admission comes out quietly. "One of the few things I remember about her."
I reach across the table to cover his hand with mine. "Tell me about her."
"Beautiful. Kind. Too good for the life she got stuck with." He turns his hand palm up, threading our fingers together. "She died when I was eight. Cancer."
"I'm sorry."
"It was a long time ago." He squeezes my hand. "But she would have loved you. Strong women always impressed her."
We eat in comfortable quiet after that, the intimacy of shared food and honest conversation settling around us. Lorenzo's house feels warm and safe.
"What happens tomorrow?" I ask as he refills my wine glass.
"Tomorrow, we start building your new life. New identity documents, security briefings, introduction to key family members." He pauses, considering. "It won't be easy. There will be people who resent your position, who see you as an outsider trying to claim power you haven't earned."
"And you'll be there?"
"Every step." He lifts his wine glass in a toast. "To new beginnings."
I clink my glass against his. "To belonging to each other."
"To belonging to each other," he echoes, and the promise in his voice makes me believe that whatever comes next, we'll face it together.