Page 38 of The Assassin’s Captive (The Roma Syndicate #5)
I watch her go, admiring the way she moves through my house with increasing familiarity. Our house now . The possessive thought sends satisfaction coursing through my chest.
While she showers, I secure the house completely. Check all locks, arm the alarm system, verify that motion sensors are functioning properly. The encounter with Petrini has put me on edge, made me hyperaware of every shadow and sound.
The shower runs for nearly twenty minutes. When Serena emerges, she's wearing one of my shirts and nothing else. The cotton hangs loosely on her smaller frame, the hem reaching mid-thigh. Her dark hair is damp and loose around her shoulders, and she smells like my soap.
"Better?"
"Much." She settles onto the couch next to me, tucking her legs beneath her. "Now, about this villa. What kind of house are we talking about?"
"Seventeenth-century, completely renovated. Twelve rooms, six bathrooms, modern kitchen, library, home office with secure communications." I shift to face her more directly. "Swimming pool, tennis court, gardens that extend to a private olive grove."
"Sounds excessive."
"It is excessive. That's the point." I reach over to tuck a strand of damp hair behind her ear. "Emilio wants your lifestyle to reflect your new status. Understated wealth sends the wrong message."
"And you'll live there too?"
"I'll maintain my own residence for appearances, but yes. I'll spend most of my time there."
She nods, seeming to accept this arrangement. "What about work? Will I have office space?"
"Full legal suite on the ground floor. Reception area, conference room, private office, law library. Everything you need to maintain a legitimate practice while handling family business."
"Legitimate practice."
"You'll need regular clients to maintain professional credibility. Corporate law, estate planning, civil litigation. The kind of work that pays well and doesn't attract unwanted attention."
The fire has burned down to glowing embers, sending soft light across the room. Rain continues against the windows, but the sound has become soothing rather than ominous.
"Lorenzo." She turns to face me completely, legs folded beneath her. "What we have—this thing between us. Is it real, or is it just proximity and adrenaline?"
I've been asking myself the same thing for weeks, trying to separate genuine emotion from the heightened circumstances that brought us together.
"It's real," I tell her. "More real than anything I've ever felt."
"How do you know?"
"Because when I think about losing you, I can't breathe." It feels out of place to be this raw and honest with her, but I'm enjoying the fact that I have this space to be real. "Because when I see other men look at you, I want to kill them. Because you make me want to be better than I am."
She reaches over to take my hand, threading our fingers together. "Good. Because I feel the same way."
"Even knowing what I do for a living?"
"Especially knowing what you do for a living." Her thumb traces across my knuckles. "You're dangerous, Lorenzo. But you're dangerous for me, not to me. There's a difference."
There is a difference, and the fact that she understands it means everything.
I stand and move to the bookshelf beside the fireplace, retrieving a small velvet box from behind a leather-bound copy of Machiavelli. When I return to the couch, Serena is watching me with curious eyes.
"What's that?"
Instead of answering, I open the box. Inside, nestled in white silk, sits a platinum ring set with a single emerald-cut diamond. The stone is flawless, nearly two carats, surrounded by smaller diamonds that catch the firelight.
"Lorenzo—"
"In public, we're professional associates," I tell her, taking the ring from its box. "In private, we're everything. But what we really are, what we'll always be, is public knowledge waiting to happen."
I take her left hand, holding it steady as I slide the ring onto her finger. It fits perfectly, which doesn't surprise me. I've been planning this moment my whole life. I just didn't know it was Serena who was the one I was waiting for.
"People will notice this ring. They'll ask questions, make assumptions. By the time they figure out what it means, it'll be too late to use the knowledge against us."
She stares at the diamond, watching light dance through the faceted stone. "Is this a proposal?"
"It's the closest thing you'll get from a man like me."
The answer makes her laugh, and the sound fills the room with warmth. "Most women get flowers and romantic speeches."
"Most women don't fall in love with killers."
"True." She holds up her hand, admiring the way the ring looks on her finger. "It's beautiful."
"You'll marry me."
It's not a question, not a request. It's a statement of fact, delivered with the same certainty I use when discussing weather or the time of day.
"Will I?"
"Yes. When it's safe, when the timing is right, when Emilio decides it serves the family's interests." I lean closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "But mostly because you belong to me now, and I don't share."
She studies my face, looking for something I hope she finds. "What if I say no?"
"You won't."
"You're very sure of yourself."
"I'm sure of us."
Her free hand comes up to cup my cheek, thumb tracing the scar that runs down to my jaw. "You know I'm going to make your life complicated, right? I don't follow orders well. I ask too many questions. I have opinions about everything."
"I'm counting on it."
She grins and launches herself at me, knocking me backward against the couch cushions. Her fingers find my ribs, and suddenly, she's tickling me with ruthless efficiency. I try to maintain composure, but laughter escapes despite my best efforts.
"Serena—stop?—"
"Say please."
"I don't say please."
Her fingers dig deeper, finding spots that make me gasp and squirm beneath her. "Everyone says please eventually."
"Never."
"We'll see about that."
The tickling intensifies, and I find myself laughing harder than I have in years. She's relentless, strategic, clearly enjoying the fact that she's found a weapon against me that doesn't require violence.
"Please," I finally gasp out. "Please stop."
She sits back on my chest, victorious. "There. Was that so hard?"
I flip her beneath me before she can react, pinning her wrists above her head. She's still giggling, hair spread across the couch cushions, ring catching the last light from the dying fire.
"You're going to be trouble," I tell her.
"The best kind of trouble."
I lean down to kiss her, tasting laughter and wine and promises on her lips.
"Mine," I whisper against her mouth.
"Yours," she agrees. "Forever."
I don’t let her up. My weight pins her to the cushions, my hands still holding her wrists in place.
Her laughter softens into breathless anticipation, her pupils blown wide as I drag my gaze over her face.
She knows what’s coming, and the faint hitch in her breath tells me she wants it as much as I do.
“You think you can win with tickles?” My voice is low, rough around the edges. “That’s not how this works.”
She bites her lip, defiant even with her hands trapped above her head. “Maybe I like winning.”
I press my hips into hers, letting her feel exactly how much she’s losing. “There’s no winning against me, Serena. Not here.”
Color rises in her cheeks, and she arches against me, testing the strength of my grip. I don’t give her an inch. My free hand slides down, slow and possessive, over the shirt she stole from me, finding bare skin underneath. She gasps when my palm cups her thigh, spreading it wider under my hold.
“You’re mine now,” I remind her, leaning close so my breath ghosts over her ear. “And tonight, I’m going to make sure you never forget it.”
Her breath comes faster, her chest lifting against mine, the thin cotton of my shirt doing nothing to hide how hard her nipples have gone.
I drag my mouth down her neck, biting just hard enough to make her gasp, just hard enough to mark her.
My hand moves higher, gripping her jaw and tilting her head where I want it.
“Open your legs for me.” The order leaves no room for argument.
She hesitates only long enough to test me, then obeys. I settle between her thighs, pushing the hem of the shirt higher until I see every inch of her. My fingers trace up the inside of her leg slowly, and she trembles under the touch, eyes locked on mine, waiting to see how far I’ll go.
“You tease me, you make me beg,” I murmur against her mouth, my hand cupping her heat, fingers spreading her open. She whimpers, her hips lifting into my touch, needy already. “But when I say please, it’s because I’ve decided to. When you say it, it’s because I make you.”
She moans as I slide one finger into her, my other hand keeping her wrists pinned above her head.
I keep my hand locked around her wrists, forcing them higher against the couch cushion until she can’t move at all.
My body stays fully dressed, my weight pressing her down, reminding her whose control she’s under.
My free hand works between her thighs, pumping slowly, dragging wet sounds from her that make my cock strain against my slacks.
“You’re already soaked for me,” I growl against her ear, my teeth grazing her skin. “And I haven’t even given you half of what I plan to.”
Her hips roll, desperate for more, but I hold her still, my pace maddeningly slow. “Please,” she breathes, the word shaky, unsteady.
“That’s better,” I rasp, curling my finger inside her while my thumb circles her clit firmly. “Say it again. Louder.”
“Please, Lorenzo.”
I claim her mouth with a hard kiss, swallowing her moan as I add another finger, stretching her while keeping my own body untouched, untouched but hard as stone. My slacks dig painfully into me, but I don’t move to ease it. This is hers to endure first, mine to take later.