Page 4 of The Assassin’s Captive (The Roma Syndicate #5)

SERENA

T he courtroom holds its breath as I deliver my final words to the jury. Three weeks of testimony, evidence, and legal maneuvering have led to this moment—the last chance to convince twelve strangers that Marco Antonelli murdered his business partner in cold blood.

"The defense wants you to believe this was a crime of passion," I say, my voice carrying across the packed courtroom. "That Marco Antonelli acted in a moment of rage, that his actions were somehow understandable given the circumstances. But the evidence tells a different story."

I move closer to the jury box, letting my gaze sweep across their faces.

Some lean forward, engaged. Others look tired, ready for this to be over.

The elderly woman in the front row—Mrs. Rossi, according to my notes—has been the most attentive throughout the trial.

She'll be key to reaching a unanimous verdict.

"The evidence shows premeditation. Planning. A deliberate decision to end Roberto Calvani's life because he threatened to expose the money laundering operation that had made both men rich." I pause, letting the words sink in. "This wasn't passion. This was business."

The defense attorney, a silver-haired man named Giuseppe Torretti, sits motionless at his table.

He knows he's lost. The evidence is overwhelming—financial records, witness testimony, even security footage from the restaurant where Antonelli and Calvani had their final meeting.

But he's done his job, planted enough doubt to make the jury think twice.

"Marco Antonelli made a choice," I continue. "He chose money over morality. He chose murder over justice. And now you must choose whether he faces the consequences of that decision."

I return to my table, gathering my notes with steady hands. The exhaustion I've carried for weeks threatens to overwhelm me, but I push it down. The jury needs to see confidence, not weakness.

Judge Marchetti dismisses the jury for deliberation, and his voice echoes through the marble-walled courtroom.

I pack my briefcase methodically, each document returned to its proper place.

Organization is control, and control is what keeps me functioning when cases like this consume every waking moment.

"Excellent closing," says Maria Conti, the lead prosecutor on the case. She's ten years older than me, with the kind of weathered confidence that comes from sending dozens of criminals to prison. "The jury was hanging on every word."

"We'll see," I reply, though I share her optimism. The evidence is solid, and Antonelli's arrogance during cross-examination didn't help his cause. Still, juries are unpredictable, and I've learned not to celebrate until the verdict is read.

The courtroom doors open, and I brace myself for what awaits outside. High-profile cases always draw media attention, and this one has had reporters camped outside the courthouse for days. The combination of murder, money laundering, and Rome's business elite makes for irresistible headlines.

The hallway buzzes with activity—lawyers heading to other courtrooms, clerks carrying stacks of files, security guards maintaining order. I spot the familiar faces of the press corps gathered near the main entrance, cameras and microphones ready.

"Ms. Barone!" A young woman with a press badge waves me over. "Alessandra Ricci from Corriere della Sera . Can you comment on the trial?"

I stop, knowing that ignoring the media entirely would only fuel speculation. Better to give them something brief and professional.

"The prosecution presented a thorough case," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "We're confident the jury will reach the right verdict based on the evidence."

"Are you concerned about the defense's claims of prosecutorial misconduct?" asks another reporter, a man I recognize from previous trials.

"The defense made their arguments, and the jury heard them," I reply. "Our case stands on its merits. I won't comment further while deliberations are ongoing."

More questions follow, but I deflect them with practiced ease. The key is to appear accessible without revealing anything substantive. After five minutes, I excuse myself and walk toward the courthouse steps.

The afternoon sun feels harsh against my skin after hours under fluorescent lights. I fish my sunglasses from my purse and slip them on, creating a barrier between myself and the world. The steps are crowded with people—lawyers, defendants, family members waiting for their own cases to conclude.

"Serena!"

I turn to find Antonio Ricci jogging toward me, his tie loosened and his hair slightly mussed. He's one of the junior prosecutors who worked the Antonelli case, bright and eager but still learning the finer points of courtroom strategy.

"Great work in there," he says, slightly out of breath. "The way you handled the cross-examination of the accountant was masterful."

"Thank you," I say, continuing down the steps. Antonio falls into step beside me, and I sense he's building up to something.

"Listen, a few of us from the DPP's office are going to Osteria del Borgo for drinks. You know, to decompress after all this." He gestures vaguely toward the courthouse. "Maria's coming, and so is Francesco from the financial crimes unit. You should join us."

The invitation is tempting. These people understand the pressure, the long hours, the emotional toll of prosecuting violent criminals. A few drinks and shop talk might help me unwind.

But my mind drifts to the man from the opera house.

Our conversation is tonight, and I find myself looking forward to it in ways I don't fully understand.

There's something about him that intrigues me—his knowledge of my work, his careful way of speaking, the intensity in his eyes when he looked at me.

"I appreciate the invitation," I say, "but I have plans tonight."

"Oh, come on," Antonio persists. "One drink. We've all been working non-stop on this case. You deserve to celebrate."

"I'm not celebrating until we have a verdict." I stop at the bottom of the courthouse steps, where the crowd thins out. "Besides, I need to catch up on my other cases. The Bianchi trial starts next week."

Antonio's expression shifts slightly. The Bianchi money laundering case is even more complex than the Antonelli case, involving shell companies, offshore accounts, and connections to several prominent Rome families.

It's the kind of case that can make or break a prosecutor's career.

And after that I have the possibility of gathering a 416-bis case on the Costa organization.

Too much to worry about to waste time on drinks with co-workers.

"Right, of course," he says. "Well, if you change your mind, we'll be there until late."

I watch him walk away, then head toward my car. The parking garage is cool and dim, a welcome relief from the heat outside, and I find my car alone in the far corner where I parked it before court.

The drive home takes twenty minutes through Rome's afternoon traffic. I navigate the narrow streets automatically, my mind already shifting away from the courtroom and toward the evening ahead. I need to shower, change clothes, maybe have a glass of wine to help me relax.

But first, I need to admit something to myself. I'm nervous about having drinks with that enigmatic man.

It's been months since I've had dinner with a man who wasn't a colleague or a witness.

My last relationship ended badly—a fellow prosecutor who couldn't handle the demands of my career, who wanted me to be available whenever he needed me but who was never there when I needed him.

Since then, I've focused entirely on work, telling myself it's better to be alone than to compromise.

But this man from the opera house is different. He seems to understand my work, to appreciate the complexities of what I do. And there's something magnetic about him, something that makes me want to know more despite every rational instinct telling me to stay away.

I've tried to research him, of course. It's what I do—gather information, build profiles, understand the people I'm dealing with.

But my usual methods have turned up nothing.

No social media presence, no professional directory listings, no newspaper mentions.

It's as if he doesn't exist in any digital form.

The absence of information should concern me more than it does. In my experience, people who can't be found online are usually hiding something. But instead of making me cautious, it makes me curious. Who is he? What does he do? And why does he know so much about my work?

My apartment building comes into view, a modest structure near the Roman Forum that I chose for its proximity to the city center. I park in the underground garage and take the elevator to the fourth floor, my briefcase heavy in my hand.

The apartment is quiet, exactly as I left it this morning. I drop my keys on the kitchen counter and pour myself a glass of Barolo, letting the wine warm in my hands before taking the first sip. The flavor is rich and complex, with hints of cherry and tobacco that match my mood.

I carry the glass to my bedroom and begin the ritual of shedding my professional armor.

The tailored suit goes on a hanger, the heels returned to their proper place in the closet.

I catch sight of myself in the mirror—tired eyes, tense shoulders, the slight lines around my mouth that have appeared over the past year.

The shower is hot and therapeutic, washing away the stress of the courtroom and the weight of the case.

I let the water run over my shoulders, feeling the tension slowly dissolve.

Tonight, I'll be someone different. Not the prosecutor, not the woman who spends her days fighting crime and corruption. I'll be myself.

When I emerge from the shower, wrapped in a soft robe, I pour another glass of wine and settle into my favorite chair by the window. The view looks out over the ancient streets of Rome, where history layers upon history in an endless palimpsest of human ambition and folly.

My phone buzzes with a text message, and for a moment, my pulse quickens. But it's only Maria, checking in about the trial.

Maria: 6:45 PM: Any word from the jury yet?

I type back quickly.

Serena: 6:46 PM: Nothing yet. Could be days.

Maria: 6:47 PM: Get some rest. You've earned it.

I set the phone aside and return to my wine.

The evening light is fading, casting long shadows across my living room.

In a few short hours, I'll learn more about the mysterious man from the opera house.

I'll ask him direct questions, push past his careful deflections, find out what he really wants from me.

But for now, I'm content to sit in my quiet apartment, sipping wine and thinking about the conversation to come.

There's a flutter of anticipation in my chest, a feeling I haven't experienced in months.

It's dangerous, this curiosity about a man I barely know.

But sometimes, the most dangerous choices are the ones that feel most alive.

The wine is making me philosophical, and I know I should eat something, prepare for another long day tomorrow. But I remain in my chair, watching the lights of Rome flicker to life outside my window, thinking about hazel eyes and careful smiles and the way his voice made my pulse quicken.

The night can't come soon enough.