Page 56 of The Assassin's Captive
"Emilio himself. If he finds you useful."
I don’t even want to consider his words, but I have to. I think about the man I've spent months building legal cases against, the crime boss whose organization I've dedicated my career to destroying. Now Lorenzo is suggesting I place my life in his hands.
"And if he doesn't find me useful?"
Lorenzo doesn't answer, but he doesn't need to. I can see the truth in his eyes.
"So my choices are to be hunted by his enemies or owned by him," I say. "Those are my only options?"
"Those have always been your only options," Lorenzo replies. "From the moment your DNA hit that database, from themoment Emilio learned he had a daughter. The only question was how long it would take you to realize it."
I stare at my hands, still stained with his blood and the blood of the men who came to kill me. One month ago, I was a prosecutor with a career and a life and a future. Now I'm a fugitive whose only protection comes from the man who was sent to murder me.
"What happens next?" I whisper.
Lorenzo leans back in his chair, exhaustion finally showing in the lines around his eyes. "Next, we see if Emilio thinks you're worth keeping alive."
Police are searching through the wreckage of Lorenzo's house, trying to piece together what happened. They'll find the blood, the broken door, the signs of violence.
But they won't find us.
And hopefully, no one else does either.
25
SERENA
Lorenzo sits at the hotel room window wearing nothing but his boxers, his back to me, shoulders rigid against the pale light. The bandages wrapped around his ribs are a contrast, white against the dark ink that covers his skin, and they're dotted with blood that's seeped through. He holds no weapon, watches no specific threat, yet every line of his body screams vigilance.
I study the curve of his spine, the way his head tilts toward sounds I cannot hear. He guards nothing and everything—the street below, the door behind us, the fragile space we've carved from the chaos Emilio set in motion. His fingers drum against his knee, the closest thing to restlessness I've ever seen from him.
The sheets tangle around my legs as I shift, and his shoulders tense at the sound. Always listening. Always ready. Even here, in this borrowed sanctuary, he can't let himself rest.
I rise from the bed. He doesn't turn, but I know he tracks my movement with every step I take toward him.
"Serena." My name comes out a rough warning aimed at keeping me away. He's had a lot today, and he's feelingoverwhelmed by it all, but I need to feel close to him. It's terrifying, knowing those men came for me to kill me because of the knowledge I possess that could bury their organizations. That they came for me because I hold the same DNA as a killer, even though I wasn't raised by him.
I don't step back. Instead, I move around him, settling into his lap carefully so I don't bump his wounds. His hands hover near my waist, not quite touching, not quite pushing me away. The bandages brush against my stomach, and I feel the rapid beat of his heart beneath the gauze.
"You need to stop." His voice carries an edge I recognize—the same tone he uses when he's trying to convince himself of something he doesn't believe. "This will only hurt you when you realize Emilio won't let me have you. Don't you realize that?"
The words should sting because he's doubling back, pulling away from what we both agreed was best for the two of us. Those words should send me scrambling back to the safety of distance and denial. Instead, they settle into the hollow space beneath my ribs, confirmation of what I already know. What I've known since the moment I learned who I really am.
"I know." I frame his face with my hands, forcing him to meet my eyes. "And I don't care. You promised we were in this together, and I didn't know it at the time, but this isn't just an alliance, Lorenzo. I think I love you."
He tries to pull away, but I hold firm. My thumbs trace the sharp line of his cheekbones, the scar that cuts through his beard. He's beautiful in the way dangerous things are beautiful—hard edges and violence, devastating in their restraint.
"Serena—"
I kiss him before he can finish the thought, before he can build another wall between us. This isn't the desperate collision of our first kiss, or the controlled burn of the nights that followed. This is something else entirely. I am claiming him, thisman who nearly took a bullet for me, who let another man slice through his skin just to save me.
He goes rigid beneath me, every muscle locked in resistance. But I don't let him retreat. I deepen the kiss, pour everything I can't say into the space between us. When his hands finally settle on my waist, when his grip tightens and pulls me closer, I know I've won.
"You're going to break us both," he whispers against my mouth, but his hands contradict his words, mapping the curve of my spine with reverent fingers.
"Then we break together."
My grip tightens. He hisses through his teeth, jaw clenched, eyes still locked on mine. His hands clench around my waist, bruising in their restraint, but he doesn’t stop me. He can’t.
