Page 8 of The Assassin’s Captive (The Roma Syndicate #5)

LORENZO

I wake before dawn, my internal clock as reliable as any alarm.

The apartment is quiet except for the soft sound of her breathing beside me.

Serena lies on her side, dark hair fanned across the pillow, one hand tucked beneath her cheek.

In sleep, she looks younger, the sharp edges of her wariness smoothed away.

I watch her for a moment, memorizing the curve of her shoulder, the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks.

The rational part of my brain catalogs this as a mistake—bringing her here, touching her, letting her under my skin.

But the rest of me wants to reach out, to trace the line of her spine, to wake her with my mouth on hers.

I don't.

Instead, I slip from the bed, careful not to disturb the mattress.

My clothes are scattered across the floor, reminders of how quickly things escalated between us.

I dress in the dim sunlight already filtering through the curtains this morning.

It's time to put my orders to action, though I already feel the way my body wants to resist what I'm supposed to do and linger in the chemistry between us.

The night replays itself in fragments as I move through the apartment.

Her laugh over drinks, the way she looked at me when I mentioned the opera.

The heat in her eyes when I kissed her. The sounds she made when I touched her.

I file each memory away under things I don't get to have, things that were never meant to be mine.

Because that's what this was—a moment stolen from a life that doesn't belong to me. A glimpse of what normal might feel like if I were someone else. If she were someone else. If we existed in a world where my hands weren't stained with blood and her job wasn't to prosecute men like me.

I retrieve my Glock from the kitchen counter where I left it, checking the magazine before sliding it into the holster at my back.

My phone sits beside where the gun was, the screen dark.

No missed calls from Emilio. No urgent messages.

The world outside this apartment has continued without me, but it won't wait much longer.

The coffee maker gurgles to life as I set it to brew. The familiar ritual grounds me, brings me back to the present. Back to what needs to happen next.

I need answers. About the sealed court filings. About her sources. About how much she knows and who she's shared it with. The questions I should have asked last night instead of losing myself in her touch. The interrogation that should have taken place before I allowed myself to want her.

Emilio's voice echoes in my head. Extract everything she knows, then eliminate her.

The coffee finishes brewing, and I pour myself a cup, black and bitter.

I take a seat at the kitchen table, positioning myself where I can see the bedroom doorway as I sip my bitter brew.

The morning light grows stronger as the sun continues to rise, painting the apartment walls with the expert touch of a master artist.

I hear her stir before I see her—a soft murmur, the rustle of sheets. She appears in the doorway moments later, wrapped in one of my shirts, her hair tousled from sleep. She blinks against the light, disoriented.

"Good morning," she says, her voice husky. She runs a hand through her hair, and the gesture is so natural, so intimate, that my chest tightens.

"Morning." I gesture to the coffee maker. "There's more if you want it."

She nods, padding across the kitchen to pour herself a cup. I watch her move, the way the shirt falls to mid-thigh, the way she adds cream to her coffee with care not to pour too much. When she turns back to me, there's a softness in her expression that makes me want to reach for her.

Instead, I stay seated, my hands wrapped around my mug.

"Sleep well?" I ask.

"Better than I have in weeks." She settles into the chair across from me, curling her legs beneath her. "Your bed is comfortable."

"Good." I take a sip of coffee, using the motion to buy myself time. "I wanted to talk to you about your work."

Her brow furrows. "My work?"

"The cases you're building. The ones targeting organized crime.

" I keep my voice neutral and conversational.

It's not easy to shift into interrogation mode when she's so goddamn sexy, but it's my job.

I can't think about the taste of her moisture on my tongue or the feel of her tits crushed against my chest. "Specifically, the sealed court filings you've been accessing. "

She tilts her head, studying me. "That's an interesting topic for pillow talk."

"I'm curious about your methods. How you gather information. Who your sources are."

"Lorenzo." She sets down her coffee cup, and I can see the wheels turning in her mind. "Why are you asking me this?"

"Professional interest."

"In what? Legal strategy?" Her laugh is a sharp sound and I can tell she's steeling herself for my pressure. It's dawning on her slowly, but when the sun is up, you can't hide it. "I don't think so."

I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table. "The Costa syndicate—how much do you know about their operations?"

The question snakes its way into her mind and I watch her face change. The sleepy softness disappears, replaced by the sharp intelligence I saw in her eyes at the restaurant. She's putting pieces together, connecting dots I hoped would take a bit longer to materialize.

"This is about work," she says slowly. "This whole thing… Last night."

"Answer the question, Serena."

"I don't think I will." She stands, the chair scraping against the floor. "I think I need to go."

"Sit down," I bark as she turns to go, leaving her coffee on the table.

"Excuse me?" she snaps, turning over her shoulder, but she stops.

"I said sit down." I don't raise my voice, but something in my tone makes her freeze. "We're not finished talking."

She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see the exact second she realizes who I am—what I am. The color drains from her face, but she doesn't sit.

"The sealed files," I continue. "The ones from the financial crimes division. You've been accessing them regularly. What did you find?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Serena is flustered, eyes darting around the room like she's looking for a fast exit. She won't find one.

"Don't lie to me." I stand, and she takes an automatic step back. "Money laundering. Shell companies. Offshore accounts. You've been building a case, piece by piece. Who's helping you?"

"I want to leave. Now."

"That's not going to happen," I tell her, stepping closer to her.

She moves toward the kitchen doorway, and I intercept her, not touching her but blocking her path. The shirt she's wearing—my shirt—suddenly feels like a costume, a prop in a play we're both trying to pretend isn't happening.

"Move," she says, and there's a tremor in her voice now.

"Answer my questions first."

"I don't have to tell you anything."

"Actually, you do." I take a step closer, and she holds her ground. "The sources outside the justice system. The ones feeding you information. Names, Serena. I need to know what you know."

"Go to hell."

"The financial records you've been tracking. Which banks? Which accounts?"

She tries to move around me, but I shift to block her again. We're close now, close enough that I can smell the lingering scent of her perfume mixed with sleep and sex. Close enough to see the pulse hammering in her throat, the veins bulging above her temples.

"You're scaring me," she whispers.

I shouldn't be surprised by her admission.

Of course I'm scaring her. I was never meant to be anything other than terrifying.

That was the plan. It was how Emilio ordered me to get in…

But the woman who came apart in my arms last night, who looked at me with heat and hunger, is staring at me now with terror in her eyes.

"I need to use the bathroom," she says, her voice carefully controlled.

I study her face, looking for deception, for signs that she's planning something. But she looks pale, shaken. Human.

"Fine. But don't try anything stupid."

She nods, moving past me toward the hallway. I watch her go, my hand unconsciously moving to the gun at my back.

I should have done this differently. Should have asked the questions before I let myself get distracted by her mouth, her skin, the way she said my name. Should have remembered that she's not just a woman—she's a target.

My phone buzzes against the table, and I reach for it, expecting Emilio. Instead, it's a text from Victor.

Victor: 7:23 AM: Any word from the boss? Haven't heard from you since yesterday.

I start to type a response, my attention divided between the phone and the hallway where Serena disappeared. The apartment feels different now, charged with the tension created by the job I'm supposed to be doing.

The bathroom door clicks shut, and I hear the sound of running water. I finish typing my message to Victor, telling him everything is under control. A lie, but a necessary one.

I'm scrolling through my other messages when I hear her moving around in the bathroom. The sound of the cabinet opening. The soft thud of something being set down. Normal sounds that shouldn't set off alarms in my head.

But they do.

I'm halfway to standing when I hear her footsteps in the hallway. Soft, careful. Too careful.

I start to turn, my hand reaching for my weapon, but I'm too late. The impact comes from behind, sharp and brutal, connecting with the base of my skull. The phone flies from my hand, clattering across the floor as pain explodes through my head.

My vision blurs, and I stagger forward, reaching for the table to steady myself. But my legs won't hold me. The kitchen tilts sideways, and I'm falling, the floor rushing up to meet me.

The last thing I see before the darkness takes me is my phone, the screen cracked but still glowing, Victor's message still displayed.

Then nothing.