Page 34 of The Assassin's Captive
"What are you going to do?"
The question comes out sharp, worried. As though she cares what happens to her journalist friend. The concern in her voice irritates me, but I remind myself that Serena isn't from my world, no matter what her DNA says about her.
"What I have to do."
"Lorenzo—"
"Victor will be here while I'm gone," I continue, cutting off her protest. "Don't try to leave. Don't try to call anyone. Don't test me."
She stands, moving closer. "You don't have to hurt her. Irene's not the enemy here."
"Anyone who threatens this situation is the enemy."
"She's just doing her job."
"And I'm doing mine."
I see her flinch at my cold words, see the hope die in her eyes. For a moment last night, I allowed her to believe there might be something human beneath the killer. But daylight brings clarity. Brings responsibility.
I am not her savior. I am her keeper. And the sooner she accepts that reality, the safer we will both be.
I head for the door, pausing at the threshold. "Stay alive while I'm gone. It would complicate things if you didn't."
She doesn't respond, but I feel her watching me leave, feel the weight of her disappointment following me down the hallway.
Thirty minutes later, I meet Victor at the car. He slides into the driver's seat with a neutral expression. We have worked together long enough that words are unnecessary. He knows what needs to be done.
"The journalist works out of an office near the Pantheon," he says, starting the engine. "She lives alone. No security. No protection."
"Good."
We drive through Rome's morning traffic, past tourists and commuters who go about their daily lives unaware of the violence that moves through their city. I stare out the window, letting my mind empty. Preparing for Irene Bellandi, who has made herself a threat. She has chosen to dig into matters that donot concern her. The consequences of those choices are not my responsibility.
But as we pull up outside her building, I find myself thinking of Serena's expression when I told her what I planned to do. The fear in her voice when she realized I might hurt someone she knows personally.
I push the thoughts aside, focus on the task at hand. Bellandi will listen to reason, or she will face the alternatives. Either way, she will understand that some stories come at too high a price.
I check my weapon, adjust my jacket, and step out into the morning sun. Time to send a message.
16
SERENA
Ilie alone in Lorenzo's bed. The Egyptian cotton sheets still carry his scent. My body aches in places that remind me of last night, of the way he moved against me, inside me, claiming every inch of my skin as his own.
The house feels empty. Hollow. I listen for sounds of movement, voices, anything that might tell me where Victor has positioned himself. But there is nothing except the distant hum of traffic and the tick of an antique clock somewhere down the hall.
I slide out of bed after my extended nap, a luxury I don't ever allow myself in my career, and head for the bathroom. It's all black marble and chrome fixtures. I splash cold water on my face, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. My lips are still swollen from his kisses. My throat bears the faint marks of his teeth, evidence of my surrender written across my skin in bruises and bite marks.
I told myself it was strategy. Manipulation. A way to gain his trust, to find his weaknesses. But standing here in his shirt, feeling the phantom touch of his hands on my body, I can't lie to myself any longer.
I wanted him. Wanted the way he looked at me as though I was the most dangerous thing in the room. Wanted the controlled violence of his touch, the way he held back until I begged him not to. Wanted to feel something other than fear and helplessness and rage.
The realization makes me sick.
I leave the bathroom and make my way downstairs, following the familiar path to the living room. The fire has burned down to embers, and the broken glass from last night has been cleared away. Everything looks normal. Clean. As though our encounter never happened.
But there, on the coffee table, sits a manila folder. My name is written across the front in Lorenzo's careful handwriting. Black ink on tan paper. It looks very official, like something I'd have lying on my desk at work.
