Page 37 of The Assassin’s Captive (The Roma Syndicate #5)
LORENZO
T he carbonara disappears from our plates as I walk Serena through the new reality of her existence. She listens carefully, asking sharp questions that prove she understands the gravity of what she's accepted.
"Emilio wants you moved to a secure property within the week," I tell her, refilling her wine glass. "The apartment near the Forum is compromised. Too many people know about it now."
She nods, swirling the red wine in her glass. "Where?"
"There are three options. A penthouse in Parioli with panoramic views and elevator access directly to an underground garage.
A villa in the Appia Antica with extensive grounds and multiple escape routes.
Or a converted palazzo near the Spanish Steps with historical significance and modern security systems."
"You've been planning this."
"I've been planning contingencies since the day I found out you're his blood.
" I cut another piece of the bread I'd warmed in the oven.
"The penthouse offers urban anonymity. The villa provides isolation and defensibility.
The palazzo gives you prestige and sends a message about your status in the family. "
She considers this, legal mind working through implications I can see forming behind her dark eyes. "What would you choose?"
"The villa. Harder to approach undetected, easier to secure completely." I pause, meeting her gaze. "But you're not me. You might prefer the accessibility of the city."
"No. You're right about the villa." She takes a sip of wine. "What about staff?"
"Emilio is reassigning three of his most trusted people.
A housekeeper who's been with the family for fifteen years, a driver with military background, and a cook who understands dietary restrictions and security protocols.
" I tick off each position on my fingers.
"All of them have been vetted multiple times.
All of them understand the consequences of betrayal. "
The fire crackles in the next room, sending warm light dancing across the dining room walls.
Outside, the rain continues its steady rhythm against the windows.
The domestic normalcy of the scene contrasts sharply with the conversation we're having, but that's the nature of this life—violence and tenderness existing in the same space.
"What about my current cases?"
"You'll need to transfer active litigation to other attorneys. Emilio expects a clean break from your previous professional identity." I watch her face carefully. "That includes the cases against organized crime figures."
Her jaw tightens slightly. "All of them?"
"All of them. You can't prosecute the people you'll now be expected to defend."
She's quiet for a long moment, processing the full scope of what she's giving up. The career she built, the reputation she earned, the sense of purpose that drove her to law school in the first place. It's not a small sacrifice.
"The work I'll do for the family," she says finally. "Will it be legitimate defense work?"
I choose my words carefully. "You'll be expected to provide the best possible legal representation within the bounds of professional ethics. Emilio values your reputation for integrity. He won't ask you to compromise it in ways that could expose the family to greater scrutiny."
"That's not really an answer."
"It's the only answer I can give you." I lean back in my chair. "The situations you'll face won't always have clean solutions. You'll need to find ways to serve your clients' interests while maintaining your professional standing."
She understands what I'm not saying. Gray areas. Ethical flexibility. The kind of moral compromises that come with defending people who operate outside the law.
"And you? What changes for you?"
"Nothing. Everything." I drain my wine glass and set it down carefully.
"I'll still take orders from Emilio, but now those orders will center around your protection.
I'll still handle problems that require permanent solutions, but I'll need to consider how those solutions affect your safety and reputation. "
A knock at the front door interrupts the conversation. Three sharp raps, then a pause. Not Emilio's signal, not Victor's, not anyone from the family. I'm on my feet before the sound fades, hand moving instinctively toward the gun under my jacket.
"Stay here," I tell Serena.
She nods, understanding immediately that the warm bubble of safety we've created tonight has just been punctured.
I approach the front door carefully, checking the security monitor first. The screen shows a man in his fifties, gray hair dampened by rain, wearing a cheap suit and the kind of shoes that come from government salaries.
Detective Silvano Petrini, my neighbor from three houses down.
The retired cop who likes to play nosy neighbor as if he himself is the sole member of the neighborhood watch committee.
I unlock the door but leave the security chain engaged, opening it just wide enough to see his face clearly.
"Petrini. It's late."
"Lorenzo." He nods, water dripping from his hair. "Sorry to bother you, but I wanted to check on you after what happened a few days ago."
"What happened a few days ago?" I'm playing dumb, but it's really none of his business, and I'd hate to have to kill him when I just told Serena my job was to protect her. He's not a threat, just an annoyance.
"The break-in. I saw the police cars, the ambulance." His eyes try to peer past me into the house. "Nasty business, from what I could tell."
I keep my expression neutral. "I wasn't home."
"No? That's fortunate. The crime scene crew was here for hours. Multiple fatalities, according to the radio chatter."
The rain picks up, sending water cascading off the roof in heavy streams. Petrini shifts from foot to foot, clearly hoping I'll invite him inside. I don't.
"Property crime is getting worse in this neighborhood," I say. "I'll need to upgrade my security system."
"Good idea. You can never be too careful." He pauses, studying my face. "The repair crew did excellent work, though. You'd never know anything happened."
There was no repair crew. Emilio's people cleaned the scene and removed all evidence within hours of the shooting. The fact that Petrini knows this tells me he's been watching my house more closely than any retired detective should.
"Insurance covers most of it."
"Insurance. Right." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Well, I'm glad you're safe. These criminals, they're getting bolder every year. Someone should keep an eye on them."
The subtext is clear. He's watching me, and he wants me to know it. The question is whether he's working for someone or just indulging retired cop curiosity.
"I appreciate the concern," I tell him, "but I can take care of myself."
"I'm sure you can." He steps back from the door, rainwater streaming down his face. "Good night, Lorenzo."
"Good night."
I close the door and engage all three locks, mind already working through the implications of Petrini's visit.
He knows about the shooting at my house.
He knows cleanup crews removed evidence.
He knows I wasn't home when it happened, which means he's been tracking my movements carefully enough to notice my absence.
When I return to the dining room, Serena is standing by the window, peering through a gap in the curtains.
"Who was it?"
"Silvano Petrini. Retired detective, lives down the street." I move to stand beside her. "He wanted to discuss the break-in that didn't happen and the repair work that wasn't done."
She lets the curtain fall back into place. "He knows."
"He suspects. Big difference." I take her hand, leading her away from the window. "But it means we'll need to be more careful here. No more late-night arrivals, no more obvious security details."
"Is he dangerous?"
"Everyone is dangerous until proven otherwise." I start clearing dishes from the table. "But Petrini is more likely to be a nuisance than a threat. Retired cops get bored. They start seeing conspiracies everywhere."
Serena helps me carry plates to the kitchen. "And if he's more than bored?"
"Then I'll handle it."
She knows what that means. The knowledge settles between us, another reminder of the life she's chosen. I watch her face for signs of regret or second thoughts but find only acceptance.
"What else do I need to know about the new arrangements?"
"Public appearances will be carefully orchestrated.
Emilio wants you visible but protected. Restaurant reservations, theater tickets, gallery openings—all of it designed to establish your new identity.
" I rinse plates and load them into the dishwasher.
"You'll need to be seen as sophisticated, educated, worthy of the Costa name. "
"Performance art."
"In a way, yes. The performance matters as much as the reality."
She leans against the counter, arms crossed. "And us? How do we handle our relationship in public?"
The question I've been dreading. In this world, personal attachments are weaknesses that enemies exploit. Caring about someone makes you vulnerable in ways that can get both of you killed.
"Carefully," I tell her. "Very carefully."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer that keeps us alive." I close the dishwasher and turn to face her. "Public displays of affection make you a target. They tell everyone exactly how to hurt you, and hurting you is the fastest way to weaken Emilio's position."
She processes this, understanding dawning in her eyes. "So we pretend we're nothing to each other."
"We are professional associates. Bodyguard and client. Nothing more, nothing less."
"And in private?"
"In private, we're everything."
The answer seems to satisfy her. She pushes away from the counter and moves toward the hallway. "I need a shower. The day feels like it's clinging to my skin."