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

LORENZO

I arrive at her building fifteen minutes early and park across the street where I can watch the entrance.

The evening air carries the scent of jasmine from the courtyard gardens, and the golden light of Rome at sunset makes everything look deceptively peaceful.

I've changed into a navy suit, nothing too formal but expensive enough to suggest success in whatever profession she imagines I practice.

At exactly eight o'clock, she emerges from the building.

She wears a black dress that hugs her curves without being obvious about it, and her hair falls loose around her shoulders instead of the severe twist I'm used to seeing.

The transformation is striking—she looks younger, more approachable, but no less intelligent.

When she spots my car, she walks over with confident strides.

"You're punctual," she says as she slides into the passenger seat.

"I try to be." I pull away from the curb, navigating through the narrow streets toward the center of the city. "How was your day?"

"Long. Court can be exhausting, especially when you're waiting for a verdict." She settles back in her seat, and I notice she's wearing a subtle perfume that makes me want to lean closer. "What about you? What is it you do, exactly?"

"Consulting," I say, keeping my answer vague. "I help people solve problems."

"What kind of problems?"

"The complicated kind."

She laughs, a genuine sound that surprises me. "You're very mysterious, you know that?"

"I prefer to think of myself as private."

"There's a difference?"

"Private means I don't share personal information easily. Mysterious implies I'm hiding something." She's very perceptive and just as intelligent as Emilio said she is.

"And are you? Hiding something?"

I glance at her, noting the way she watches my face as I consider the question. She's testing me, looking for tells, reading my reactions the way she would study a witness on the stand.

"Everyone's hiding something," I say finally. "The question is whether it's worth knowing."

We drive in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the city passing by outside the windows. I've chosen a rooftop bar in Trastevere—upscale but not flashy—with views that will keep her distracted and enough ambient noise to cover our conversation.

"Tell me about your family," I say as we cross the Tiber.

"Not much to tell. My parents are academics. Literature professors. They raised me to believe in the power of words and the importance of truth." She pauses. "What about yours?"

"Also not much to tell. My father died when I was young. My mother didn't remarry." The lies come easily, practiced over years of maintaining false identities. "I learned early that you can't depend on anyone but yourself."

"That sounds lonely."

"It can be. But it also makes you strong."

She turns to look at me more directly. "Is that why you're still single?"

"What makes you think I'm single?"

"No ring. No photos in your wallet when you paid for drinks at the opera house. No mention of anyone waiting for you at home."

I'm impressed by her observation skills, though I shouldn't be surprised. She's a prosecutor. Reading people is part of her job.

"You're very perceptive," I say.

"It's a professional requirement. So, are you? Single?"

"Yes."

"By choice?" She's leaning in, and this feels very much like an interrogation.

"By circumstance. My work doesn't leave much time for relationships."

"What kind of consulting requires that level of dedication?"

I'm spared from answering by our arrival at the bar. The building is a converted palazzo, its rooftop terrace offering panoramic views of the city. I valet the car and guide her to the elevator, my hand resting lightly on her lower back.

The bar is exactly as I remember—dim lighting, comfortable seating areas, and clientele who mind their own business. I choose a corner table where we can see the entire space but remain relatively private. The waiter brings us menus, and I order a bottle of Brunello without asking what she prefers.

"You like to make decisions," she observes.

"I like to take charge when I know what I'm doing."

"And you know what you're doing with me?"

The question carries multiple layers of meaning, and I consider my response carefully. "I know what I want."

"Which is?"

"To understand you better."

She smiles, but there's something calculating in her expression. "Most people find my work boring. Financial crimes, money laundering, corporate fraud. It's not exactly dinner conversation."

"I find it fascinating. The way you trace money through shell companies, connect seemingly unrelated transactions, build cases that can take down entire organizations." I lean forward slightly. "It takes a special kind of mind to see those patterns."

"You seem to know a lot about what I do."

"I told you, I follow your work. The banking consortium case last year was particularly impressive. The way you unraveled their offshore structure was elegant." I've almost memorized the file Emilio gave me so I can come across as an interested potential paramour.

She takes a sip of wine, and I notice she's already finished half her glass. "That case nearly destroyed me. Two years of investigation, and they still managed to avoid serious jail time."

"But you exposed them. Made it impossible for them to operate the same way again."

"For now. There are always more where they came from."

The conversation flows easily from there.

She tells me about the pressures of prosecuting powerful people, the way evidence can disappear and witnesses can be intimidated.

I share carefully edited stories about dealing with difficult clients, the challenge of maintaining ethical standards in a corrupt system.

She orders another glass of wine, and then another. Not enough to impair her judgment, but enough to relax her natural caution. I watch her shoulders drop, notice the way she leans closer when she talks, how her laugh comes more easily.

"Do you ever worry about the people you prosecute?" I ask. "About how they might respond to your investigations?"

"You mean do I worry about retaliation?" She considers the question. "Sometimes. But I can't let fear dictate my decisions. If I did, I'd never prosecute anyone dangerous."

"That's admirable. And dangerous."

"Probably. But someone has to do it."

I check my watch discretely. We've been here for two hours, and I'm conscious of how exposed we are. The longer we stay, the more likely someone will notice us together, remember seeing the prosecutor with a man they can't identify.

"Excuse me," she says, standing. "I need to use the restroom."

I watch her walk away, noting the slight sway in her hips, the way the wine has loosened her usual rigid posture.

While she's gone, I signal the waiter for another bottle and scan the bar for any faces that might pose a problem.

The crowd is mostly tourists and young professionals, no one who would recognize either of us.

When she returns, she sits closer than before, her knee almost touching mine. The wine has brought color to her cheeks, and she's smiling more openly.

"You're very good at deflecting questions," she says. "Every time I ask about your work, you change the subject."

"Maybe my work isn't as interesting as yours."

"Or maybe you're hiding something after all."

I meet her gaze directly. "Would that bother you?"

"It would make me more curious."

"Curiosity can be dangerous."

"So can mystery."

The tension between us is palpable now, charged with possibilities. I lean closer, close enough to smell her perfume, to see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes.

"Maybe we should continue this conversation somewhere more private," I suggest.

She doesn't hesitate. "I'd like that."

I pay the check quickly, and we make our way to the elevator. In the confined space, I'm acutely aware of her presence beside me, the way she stands close enough that our arms brush when the elevator moves.

The drive to my secondary property takes fifteen minutes through Rome's evening traffic. It's a small house in Parioli, clean and anonymous, furnished with expensive but impersonal pieces. I use it for meetings that require privacy, though I've never brought a woman here before.

"This is nice," she says as we enter. "Very modern."

"I like clean lines. Less distracting."

"Distracting from what?"

"From what's important."

She moves to the window, looking out at the quiet street. "And what's important to you?"

I join her at the window, standing close enough that I can feel the warmth of her body. "Right now? This conversation."

She turns to face me, and I see something shift in her expression. The professional mask slips, revealing something more vulnerable underneath.

"Can I get you another drink?" I ask.

"Please."

I move to the bar cart and pour two glasses of whiskey, expensive single malt that I keep for occasions that require a certain level of sophistication. She accepts the glass and settles onto the edge of the couch, crossing her legs in a way that makes her dress ride up slightly.

I sit beside her, close but not touching, and raise my glass. "To beautiful beginnings."

She smirks at the toast but taps her glass against mine. "That's very presumptuous of you."

"Is it?"

"You're assuming this is a beginning."

"What would you call it?"

"A conversation. Between two people who don't really know each other," Serena purrs, but there's a hint of seduction in her tone.

"Yet."

She takes a sip of whiskey and studies my face over the rim of her glass.

"Tell me about the first time you killed someone," she says suddenly.

The question catches me off guard, and I feel my expression harden involuntarily. "What makes you think I've killed anyone?"

"You have the look of someone who's seen violence. Who's been part of it."

"And what look is that?"

"The way you move. The way you watch people. The way you seem to take note of every exit in a room." She leans forward. "I've spent years studying criminals. I know what violence looks like."

For a moment, I consider telling her the truth. About my father, about Emilio, about the man I became in the service of the Costa family. But the moment passes, and I fall back on deflection.

"You have an active imagination," I say.

"Do I?"

Instead of answering, I reach up and touch her face, my fingers tracing the line of her jaw. She doesn't pull away, doesn't flinch. Instead, she leans into the touch, her eyes closing briefly.

"You're not going to answer me, are you?" she whispers.

"Not tonight."

"When?"

"When you're ready to hear the answer."

She opens her eyes, and in them I see curiosity warring with desire. The prosecutor in her wants to push, to demand answers. But the woman wants something else entirely.

I lean in slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wants to. She doesn't move, doesn't speak, just watches me with those dark eyes until our lips meet.

The kiss is gentle at first, testing, exploring. But when she responds, when her hand comes up to touch the back of my neck, it deepens. There's heat in it, hunger, and something that feels dangerously close to need.

When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. Her lipstick is smudged, her hair mussed, and she looks more beautiful than I've ever seen her.

"This is complicated," she says.

"The best things usually are."

She laughs, a sound that's part amusement, part nervousness. "I should go home."

"Should you?"

"I should. But I don't want to."

"Then stay."

She looks at me for a long moment, and I can see her making the decision. When she leans in to kiss me again, I know she's chosen to stay. At least for now.

What happens next will change everything between us. But in this moment, with her mouth soft against mine and her hands tangled in my hair, I'm not thinking about assignments or consequences.

I'm thinking about how dangerous it is to want something you're not supposed to have.

And how impossible it is to stop.