Page 40 of The Assassin’s Captive (The Roma Syndicate #5)

EPILOGUE

SERENA

T he cathedral doors tower above me, their ancient wood carved with saints and sinners alike. How fitting. Sunlight filters through stained glass windows, throwing jeweled patterns across marble floors that have witnessed centuries of sacred vows and broken promises. Today, they will witness mine.

My fingers tighten around the bouquet of white roses—Lorenzo's choice, though he claimed it was tradition. I know better. He remembers the opera house, remembers "The Rose of Rome" who sang the night everything changed between us. The night he was supposed to kill me.

"Ready?" Victor's voice carries the warmth I've grown to expect from Lorenzo's cousin. He adjusts his charcoal suit jacket and offers me his arm. The man who once terrified me now stands as the closest thing to family I have on this side of the aisle.

I nod, unable to speak past the tightness in my throat. My dress flows around me in layers of ivory silk, the bodice fitted perfectly to my frame. It's beautiful, expensive, and paid for with blood money. The contradiction doesn't escape me.

The organist begins the processional, and the massive doors swing open.

A sea of faces turns toward me—some familiar, others strangers whose names I know from case files and surveillance reports.

Rome's elite, both legitimate and otherwise, have gathered to witness this union.

The Costa syndicate's attorney marrying their most feared enforcer.

A fairy tale written in violence and sealed with vows.

Victor guides me forward, his steps steady and sure.

I focus on breathing, on moving one foot in front of the other down the endless aisle.

Flowers line the pews—more white roses mixed with deep red dahlias that seem to bleed against the pristine marble.

Lorenzo's doing again. He has a poet's soul trapped in a killer's body.

My eyes find him at the altar, and everything else fades.

He stands perfectly still in a black tuxedo that transforms him from predator to prince, though the danger never fully leaves his posture.

His hazel eyes lock onto mine, and I see the man beneath the myth.

The one who chose me over duty, who risked everything to keep me alive when every instinct told him to complete his mission.

The scar down his right cheek catches the cathedral light, a permanent reminder of the violence that shaped him.

His hands rest at his sides, no longer adorned with the rings he wore as The Sin Eater.

Today, he wears only the simple platinum band I gave him during our private ceremony last month.

This public spectacle is for appearances, for politics, for the world that needs to see Emilio Costa's daughter wed his most loyal soldier.

But that quiet exchange of rings in Lorenzo's study, witnessed only by the flames in the fireplace and the weight of our shared truth—that was for us.

Victor places my hand in Lorenzo's, and the contact sends electricity up my arm. Even now, after months of learning each other's rhythms and scars, his touch undoes me. He lifts my fingers to his lips and presses a kiss to my knuckles, a gesture both tender and possessive.

The priest begins the ceremony in Latin, his voice echoing through the vaulted ceiling.

I understand every word—my years of legal study included enough ecclesiastical law to follow along.

The ancient language feels appropriate for this moment, binding us with words that have survived empires and outlasted kings.

"Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony?"

Lorenzo's voice is steady when he answers. "I will."

The same question comes to me, and I meet his eyes as I respond. "I will."

The words carry more weight than their traditional meaning. I will love you despite what you've done. I will stand beside you despite what I've become. I will choose this life, this love, this beautiful corruption, because the alternative is a world without you in it.

The priest continues through the ritual, but my attention drifts to the congregation.

Emilio sits in the front pew, resplendent in a navy suit that costs more than most people's annual salary.

His silver hair is perfectly styled, his expression one of paternal satisfaction.

To the outside world, he's a successful businessman watching his daughter marry well.

Only a select few know the true nature of his empire.

Behind him, I recognize faces from court documents and surveillance photos.

Judges who've taken bribes, politicians who've sold their souls, businessmen who launder money through legitimate enterprises.

They're all here to pay homage to the union, to show respect to their new princess and her dark prince.

My adoptive parents sit three rows back, looking overwhelmed by the grandeur.

Giuseppe wears his one good suit, the navy one he bought for my law school graduation.

Maria clutches her purse in her lap, her eyes wide as she takes in the cathedral's opulence.

They know some version of the truth now—that I'm Emilio's biological daughter, that my work has taken a different direction, that Lorenzo is a complicated man with a complicated past. They don't know the full extent of either our crimes or our love, and I pray they never will.

The rings come next, blessed by the priest and exchanged with promises that sound sacred even in this den of sinners.

Lorenzo slides the diamond-encrusted band onto my finger, his touch reverent despite the callused roughness of his hands.

These are the same fingers that have ended lives, that have pulled triggers and wielded knives in service to the family I now belong to.

They're also the hands that cup my face when nightmares wake me, that trace patterns on my skin in the dark hours before dawn.

I place his matching band on his finger, and he closes his eyes briefly as if savoring the moment. When he opens them again, I see the man who told me he'd never wanted anything he wasn't allowed to touch. Now I'm his, and he's mine, sanctified by God and witnessed by devils.

"You may kiss the bride."

Lorenzo's kiss is soft, reverent, nothing like the hungry claiming I expect.

He treats me like something precious, breakable, worth protecting.

The congregation erupts in applause, but I barely hear them.

There's only this moment, this man, this choice I've made to love him despite everything logical in my mind screaming otherwise.

We turn to face our guests as the priest announces us for the first time. "Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Lorenzo Santoro."

The name feels foreign on my tongue, though I've been practicing it for weeks. Serena Santoro, wife of Rome's most feared assassin, daughter of its most powerful Don, defender of the undefendable. The irony isn't lost on me.

The recessional begins, and we walk back down the aisle hand in hand.

Faces blur past us—some smiling, others calculating, all assessing what this union means for their own positions in Rome's intricate power structure.

Flower petals rain down from above, white rose petals mixed with red dahlia petals that look disturbingly similar to blood drops against my dress.

Outside the cathedral, photographers wait to capture images for the society pages.

Tomorrow's headlines will read of a fairy tale wedding, of old Roman families joining in matrimony, of tradition upheld in an increasingly modern world.

They'll print pictures of my dress, speculate about the guest list, and never mention the guns hidden beneath expensive suits or the crimes that paid for the champagne reception.

The receiving line forms quickly, a parade of well-wishers offering congratulations and calculating glances.

Business associates of Emilio's pump Lorenzo's hand and kiss my cheeks, their wives complimenting my dress while their eyes assess my worth.

Judges I've argued before nod respectfully, their expressions carefully neutral.

They know the game has changed, that the woman who once prosecuted their friends now stands on the other side of the courtroom.

"Beautiful ceremony," says Judge Torretti, the same man who accepted a briefcase full of cash to dismiss charges against three Costa lieutenants last month. "You look radiant, my dear."

I smile and thank him, the words automatic.

This is my life now—performing gracious acceptance while my soul wrestles with the compromises I've made.

Every freed criminal, every dismissed charge, every victory I win for monsters adds another shadow to my conscience.

But when Lorenzo's hand finds mine, when his thumb traces reassuring circles on my palm, I remember why I made this choice.

The crowd parts as Emilio approaches, his presence commanding instant attention.

He moves with the confidence of a man accustomed to being the most dangerous person in any room, though today he plays the role of proud father.

His smile is genuine as he takes my hands in his, the resemblance between us more apparent now that I know to look for it.

"My beautiful daughter," he says, loud enough for nearby guests to hear. "You honor our family today."

He kisses both my cheeks in a paternal and warm gesture. To the watching crowd, we're the picture of familial devotion. They can't see the steel beneath his affection, the reminder that I belong to this world now whether I chose it or had it chosen for me.

"Thank you, Papa," I reply, the word still foreign after months of practice. But it pleases him, and pleased fathers are generous fathers. Generous fathers keep their daughters' adoptive families safe and their husbands' consciences clear.

Emilio turns to Lorenzo, and the two men embrace briefly. There's genuine affection there, built over years of loyalty and trust. Lorenzo has been more son than employee to Emilio, and this marriage cements bonds that were already unbreakable.

"Take care of her," Emilio says, though we all know Lorenzo would die before letting harm come to me.

"Always," Lorenzo replies, and the promise carries the weight of a blood oath.

Emilio's expression shifts subtly, business replacing sentiment. He leans closer, his voice dropping to a level only Lorenzo and I can hear. "There's a situation developing with the Torrino family. Their youngest son was arrested last week on trafficking charges. The evidence is… substantial."

My heart sinks. The Torrino case made headlines across Italy—a twenty-three-year-old man caught with enough heroin to supply half of Rome.

The evidence included video surveillance, witness testimony, and physical proof that would make conviction a certainty.

It's exactly the type of case I once lived to prosecute.

"The family has requested our assistance," Emilio continues. "They're prepared to be quite generous for the right outcome."

He doesn't need to spell out what he's asking.

The Torrinos want their son free, and they're willing to pay handsomely for a legal miracle.

As the Costa family's attorney, I'm expected to provide that miracle regardless of guilt or innocence.

Justice is negotiable when you have enough money and the right connections.

"When do I start?" I ask, though the words taste bitter.

Emilio's smile widens. "Tomorrow. I've arranged for you to meet with the boy's current counsel. They'll brief you on the situation and transfer the case files."

He pauses, studying my face with the sharp intelligence that built his empire. "I trust you'll give this your best work, Serena. The family's reputation depends on it."

The threat is subtle but unmistakable. Failure isn't an option when the Costa name is attached to a case. I nod, accepting the assignment with the same professional grace I once reserved for prosecuting similar criminals.

"Of course. I'll review everything tonight and develop our strategy."

"Excellent." Emilio's hand settles on my shoulder. "You've adapted well to your new role, my dear. Your talents are perfectly suited to our needs."

He moves away to greet other guests, leaving Lorenzo and me standing in the shadow of the cathedral.

The weight of my new assignment settles over me, another compromise in an endless chain of moral concessions.

Tomorrow, I'll begin building a defense for a guilty man, using my skills to return a criminal to the streets.

"You don't have to do this," Lorenzo says quietly, reading the conflict in my expression.

I turn to face him, this man who gave up everything for me. He's still beautiful in the afternoon light, still dangerous despite the civilized setting. The scar on his cheek serves as a reminder of his violent past, but his eyes hold only gentleness when they look at me.

"Yes, I do," I reply, and we both know it's true. This is the price of our love—my conscience for his heart, my principles for his protection. "This is who I am now."

"This is who we are now," he corrects, taking my hand again. "We face it together."

The photographer calls for more pictures, and we pose beneath the cathedral's ancient arches. The camera captures our smiles, our joined hands, our apparent happiness. Tomorrow, these images will run in newspapers across Italy, cementing our public story while hiding our private truth.

As the reception begins and guests move toward the palazzo where champagne and celebration await, I allow myself one moment of pure honesty.

I love this man beyond reason, beyond morality, beyond the person I used to be.

I would commit any sin, defend any criminal, sacrifice any principle to keep him in my life.

The realization brings an odd peace. I've stopped pretending to be someone I'm not, stopped fighting the current that brought me here. I am Serena Santoro now, wife to an assassin, daughter to a Don, attorney to the damned.

And despite everything it cost me to get here, despite everything it will continue to cost, I'm exactly where I belong.

The cathedral bells ring as we walk toward our new life, their ancient bronze voices carrying our vows across the seven hills of Rome. In their echo, I hear both blessing and warning—the sound of a soul freely given, never to be reclaimed.

I don't look back.