Page 55 of The Assassin's Captive
"I'll live." He moves to the window, peering through the curtains at the street below. "But we won't if we stay here. Myneighbor probably heard the noise, and finding you in my house will raise questions I can't answer."
As if summoned by his words, I hear a voice from the alley below—older, authoritative, speaking rapidly into what sounds like a phone.
"Silvano," Lorenzo mutters. "He's calling the police."
We move fast. Lorenzo grabs a duffel bag from the closet and throws in clothes, weapons, and documents while I dress in whatever I can find. The wound on his side is still bleeding, but he moves around like he can't even feel it, like adrenaline is fueling his actions. Like he's forgotten that I am probably the one who put us all at risk by making that damn call.
The back stairwell is narrow and poorly lit, designed for servants and deliveries rather than residents. We descend in silence, Lorenzo leading with his gun drawn while I follow close behind. Every creak of the wooden steps sounds like thunder in the confined space.
The rear exit opens onto a service alley lined with dumpsters and delivery trucks. Lorenzo checks both directions before ushering me toward a black sedan parked near the far end. The engine starts immediately, and we're moving before I've even closed my door.
"Where are we going?" I ask as Lorenzo navigates through Rome's back streets, avoiding the main thoroughfares where police cars are already converging.
"Hotel. Somewhere they won't think to look."
Blood from the wound on his side has soaked through his shirt, and I can see him favoring his left arm as he drives. "You need medical attention."
"I need to get you somewhere safe first."
The hotel he chooses is unremarkable—a mid-range business establishment near the airport, the kind of place that caters to travelers who need a place to sleep during layovers or theshady sort of men who bring hookers for the bed only. Lorenzo pays cash for a room on the third floor, using identification I'm certain is false.
The room is small and sterile, dominated by a queen bed and a single window that looks out onto the parking lot. Lorenzo collapses into the desk chair the moment the door closes, his face pale with blood loss.
"First aid kit," he says, nodding toward the bathroom. "Should be under the sink."
My hands shake as I retrieve the supplies and return to where he sits. The wound is worse than I thought—a deep gash that runs from his lowest rib to just above his hip. Blood has clotted around the edges, but it still seeps with each breath he takes.
"This needs stitches," I tell him, tearing open packages of gauze and antiseptic wipes.
"Just clean it and wrap it tight. I'll live."
I work as carefully as I can, cleaning the wound and applying pressure to stop the bleeding. Lorenzo doesn't flinch, even when the antiseptic must be burning like fire. He just stares at the wall and lets me work.
"The evidence," he says finally. "Everything we need to prove who's been selling court information—it's in the car."
I pause in my bandaging. "You got it?"
"All of it. Bank records, communication logs, payment transfers. Enough to prove you were set up." He meets my eyes. "As long as you stay with me, I can make sure Emilio doesn't have you killed for going after the Costa syndicate."
The words should be reassuring, but they raise new questions that chill me to the bone.
"And who's going to protect me from Emilio's enemies?" I ask, securing the bandage around his torso. "Because those men tonight—they weren't random burglars."
Lorenzo's expression darkens. "No. They weren't."
"They were following you to get to me, weren't they?"
He nods slowly. "Word is out. About who you are, about your connection to Emilio. Every rival family in Rome knows there's a Costa daughter walking around unprotected."
The full weight of what he's saying settles over me like a shroud. "How did they find out?"
"Hospital records. DNA tests. Someone leaked your identity—probably a nurse or lab technician looking to make easy money." Lorenzo shifts in his chair, wincing at the movement. "Once that information hit the street, you became the most valuable target in Rome."
I sink onto the edge of the bed, my legs suddenly unable to support me. "So, this is it? This is my life now? Running from one safe house to another while everyone tries to kill me or kidnap me?"
"Not everyone," Lorenzo says quietly. "Emilio's enemies will never leave you alone—that's true. But there is one person who can protect you from them."
"Who?"
