Page 4 of The Assassin's Captive
"So soon?" He turns to face me, and in the theater's dim lighting, his eyes seem almost predatory. "The final act is often the most revealing."
"I have an early morning."
"Of course." He stands when I do, and I realize how tall he actually is—easily six feet, with the kind of build that suggests both strength and control. "Perhaps we could continue this conversation over a drink? There's a quiet place nearby."
Every rational part of my mind screams no. This man is dangerous, connected to people I'm trying to prosecute, possibly here to gather intelligence or worse. But there's something about the way he's approached me—respectful, almost courtly—that intrigues me despite my better judgment.
"I don't think that's a good idea," I say.
"No, probably not." His smile is genuine this time, and it transforms his entire face. "But sometimes the most interesting conversations happen when we step outside our comfort zones."
I study him for a long moment, weighing risks against curiosity. If he wanted to harm me, he could have done so already. If he wanted information, he could have tried more aggressive approaches. Instead, he's been patient, even charming, treating me as an equal rather than a target.
"I appreciate the invitation," I finally say, "but tonight isn't good for me."
"I understand." He doesn't seem disappointed, which surprises me. "Perhaps another time, when your schedule is less demanding."
I hesitate, then hear myself say, "Next week. After my trials are finished."
The words come out before I can stop them, and I immediately regret the impulse. But part of me—the part that has spent too many nights alone with case files and coffee—is curious about this man who seems to know so much about my work.
"Next week," he repeats, and there's something in his tone that makes it sound almost like a promise. "I'll be in touch."
He doesn't ask for my number, doesn't suggest a specific time or place. Somehow, I know he'll find me when he's ready. The thought should terrify me, but instead, it sends a thrill through my chest that I don't want to examine too closely.
I make my way out of the theater, weaving through the crowd of people still discussing the performance. The night air is cool against my skin, and I pull my coat tighter as I walk toward my car. Behind me, I can feel his presence, though when I turn to look, he's nowhere to be seen.
By the time I reach my apartment, I've almost convinced myself that the encounter was innocent, that my paranoia is getting the better of me. But as I unlock my door and step into the familiar darkness of my living room, I can't shake the feeling that I've just made a decision that will change everything.
I pour myself a glass of wine and settle into my chair by the window, looking out at the lights of Rome spread below. Somewhere in that maze of streets and shadows, he's out there, and next week, I'll see him again.
The thought both thrills and terrifies me, and I'm not sure which feeling is stronger.
3
LORENZO
The prosecution office sits on Via Arenula, a narrow street that offers perfect sight lines from three different parking positions. I've mapped them all—the spot near the pharmacy where I can watch the main entrance, the corner by the café that covers the side exit, and the alley across from the courthouse where most people park illegally and move on before the meter officers arrive.
Tuesday morning, I choose the pharmacy spot and watch Serena emerge from the building at exactly 8:47 a.m. She wears a charcoal suit today, her hair pulled back in that severe twist that makes her look untouchable. Her heels click against the cobblestones as she walks toward the courthouse, her briefcase swinging at her side.
I follow at a distance, keeping two blocks behind. The streets are busy enough that I can blend in with the foot traffic, another businessman heading to work. But I stay alert, scanning for anyone else who might be tracking her movements.
That's when I see a dark sedan parked across from the courthouse entrance. The driver sits too still, his posture too focused. He's been there since before Serena arrived, and hedoesn't move when she disappears inside the building. Most people would drive away, find another parking spot, go about their business. This man settles in as if he has all day.
I circle the block and park where I can observe both the courthouse and the sedan. The driver is middle-aged, wearing a brown jacket and cheap sunglasses. He keeps checking his phone, but his attention always returns to the courthouse doors. When other people enter and exit, he barely glances at them. He's waiting for someone specific.
Serena emerges three hours later, flanked by two other prosecutors. They stand on the courthouse steps, deep in conversation about whatever case they're building. The man in the sedan sits up straighter, and I see him lift what looks like a camera. I memorize his license plate number and make a mental note to run it through my contacts later.
The afternoon brings a different routine. Serena leaves the prosecution office at 4:30 p.m. and walks toward the Pantheon. She stops at a small market, buying fruits and vegetables and a bottle of wine. I keep my distance, but I'm not the only one watching.
A man in a gray coat follows her through the market, staying one aisle behind. He's good—better than the amateur in the sedan—but not good enough. He moves when she moves, stops when she stops, and keeps his head down when she turns. Professional surveillance, but not professional enough to avoid detection by someone who knows what to look for.
Serena pays for her groceries and heads toward the fountain. The man in the gray coat abandons his pretense of shopping and follows. I trail them both, using the crowd of tourists as cover.
At the fountain, Serena stops and pulls out her phone. The man in gray finds a bench twenty meters away and pretends to read a newspaper. I position myself near a gelato stand, close enough to intervene if necessary.
Emilio won't be happy if someone else beats us to the punch. If necessary, I will take her from the street and risk there being witnesses to avoid losing her. We need the details on what she knows.
