Page 19 of The Assassin's Captive
I nod, manufacturing relief. "Thank you. May I see her?"
"Of course. Third floor, turn right off the elevators. I'm sure the doctors will want to speak to you so we can give this poor girl a name." Her soft smile leaves me feeling unsettled. I turntoward the direction of the elevators and move quietly toward my target.
When the elevator doors open on the third floor, I step into a hallway lined with abstract paintings and potted fake orchids. Room 314 sits at the end, its door partially closed.
I pause outside, listening, and hear no voices or movements inside. The corridor remains empty except for the distant sound of wheels against linoleum—a nurse making rounds somewhere else in the wing. And somewhere down the hall I hear a phone ringing, but it's not coming from inside Serena's room.
I push the door open and step inside. She lies motionless in the hospital bed, connected to machines that monitor every breath, every heartbeat. The steady beeping fills the room with mechanical rhythm. Her dark hair spills across the white pillow, and purple bruises shade her left cheek and temple. A bandage covers a cut on her forehead.
But she's alive. Whole…
I close the door behind me and approach the bed. Her face, even marked by the accident, retains its sharp intelligence, or maybe that's me projecting what I know about her onto her quiet form. Her breathing is even and controlled. She looks smaller here, vulnerable in ways I never witnessed during our confrontation at my house.
The medical chart hangs from a clipboard at the foot of her bed. I lift it carefully, scanning through pages of technical notes and vital signs. Admission notes detail her arrival—unconscious, no identification, blood alcohol negative, no signs of assault. The attending physician noted defensive wounds on her wrists—evidence of our sex the night before she whacked me over the head with that bottle and escaped. It says defensive wounds, but I still remember the whimpers of pleasure I pulled from her lips.
I flip through more pages, reading diagnostic reports and treatment plans. Standard hospital documentation—blood pressure readings, neurological assessments, medication schedules. The attending physician has ordered regular monitoring for increased intracranial pressure, though the initial CT scan showed no brain swelling.
Then I find a lab report, stamped with yesterday's date containing blood panel results, routine for all unconscious patients. Most of the numbers mean nothing to me—white blood cell counts, protein levels, standard medical terminology that fills pages with clinical observations.
But at the bottom of the page, a note in red ink stops my breath.
DNA profile flagged against national database. Direct familial match identified: Subject Emilio Costa, case file EC-2019-047.
Then in the same handwriting as the doctor's scribbled name it says,It was his car???
The paper trembles in my hands. I read the line again, certain I've misunderstood. But the science doesn't lie. The laboratory has confirmed what should be impossible.
Serena is Emilio's blood.
A direct familial match.
My mind races through the implications. This woman who has spent months building cases against Emilio's organization, systematically targeting the financial networks that fund his operations, carries his DNA. But how? Pressing my eyes closed, I think back to her file given to me by Emilio. It said she was adopted, so did he know this? Does Emilio understand just how dangerous Serena Barone really is?
My eyes pop open and I look at the bottom of the report for signatures. Only two names appear, Dr. Ignatius Ruggeri, attending physician, and Roberto Silva, laboratory technician. No one else has accessed this information. The timestamp showsthe results were generated late yesterday evening, after normal administrative hours.
My hands move without conscious thought, tearing the page from the clipboard. The paper rips cleanly along the perforation, and I fold it twice before sliding it into my jacket pocket. Without this evidence, the connection disappears, becomes a clerical error, a misfiled sample, a computer glitch. The cleanup will be simple. I'll send Victor to remove the lab tech and the doctor, and that will be that. It will all look like an accident.
I return the chart to its place and look down at her again.
Emilio Costa's daughter. The prosecutor who threatens his empire is his own blood.
The irony cuts deep.
I wonder, does she know? Did she choose to target the Costa syndicate because of buried knowledge about her parentage? Or is this the cruelest coincidence—fate putting a father's child in his crosshairs without either of them knowing?
I study her face for answers that won't come while she sleeps. Her features carry similarities to Emilio's that I never noticed before—the strong jaw, the sharp cheekbones, the way her eyebrows arch even in unconsciousness. Family resemblance becomes obvious once you know what to look for, and I'm a fool for not seeing it sooner.
The machines continue their steady chorus around me, marking time while I recalculate everything. My orders were clear. Extract information about her legal strategies, then eliminate the threat she poses. But those orders become complicated the moment Emilio learns she's his daughter. He will rescind them, I'm positive of it.
Hospital records can be altered, but not permanently erased. Too many systems, too many backups, too many people with access. The truth will surface eventually—within days, not weeks. When it does, everything changes.
Emilio will want her alive, will want her brought to him, protected maybe—brought into the family. The daughter he never knew existed becomes his legacy, his continuation right alongside Victor.
She shifts slightly in her sleep, and I step back from the bed. Her eyelids flutter but don't open. The concussion keeps her deep under, probably for several more hours according to the medical notes.
Several more hours before she wakes up to a world that has fundamentally altered around her.
The door opens behind me, and I turn to see Dr. Ruggeri entering with a clipboard. He's tall, grey-haired, wearing the confident bearing that comes with decades of medical practice.
