Page 7 of The Assassin's Captive
"Thank you," I say, continuing down the steps. Antonio falls into step beside me, and I sense he's building up to something.
"Listen, a few of us from the DPP's office are going to Osteria del Borgo for drinks. You know, to decompress after all this." He gestures vaguely toward the courthouse. "Maria's coming, and so is Francesco from the financial crimes unit. You should join us."
The invitation is tempting. These people understand the pressure, the long hours, the emotional toll of prosecuting violent criminals. A few drinks and shop talk might help me unwind.
But my mind drifts to the man from the opera house. Our conversation is tonight, and I find myself looking forward to it in ways I don't fully understand. There's something about him that intrigues me—his knowledge of my work, his careful way of speaking, the intensity in his eyes when he looked at me.
"I appreciate the invitation," I say, "but I have plans tonight."
"Oh, come on," Antonio persists. "One drink. We've all been working non-stop on this case. You deserve to celebrate."
"I'm not celebrating until we have a verdict." I stop at the bottom of the courthouse steps, where the crowd thins out. "Besides, I need to catch up on my other cases. The Bianchi trial starts next week."
Antonio's expression shifts slightly. The Bianchi money laundering case is even more complex than the Antonelli case, involving shell companies, offshore accounts, and connectionsto several prominent Rome families. It's the kind of case that can make or break a prosecutor's career. And after that I have the possibility of gathering a 416-bis case on the Costa organization. Too much to worry about to waste time on drinks with co-workers.
"Right, of course," he says. "Well, if you change your mind, we'll be there until late."
I watch him walk away, then head toward my car. The parking garage is cool and dim, a welcome relief from the heat outside, and I find my car alone in the far corner where I parked it before court.
The drive home takes twenty minutes through Rome's afternoon traffic. I navigate the narrow streets automatically, my mind already shifting away from the courtroom and toward the evening ahead. I need to shower, change clothes, maybe have a glass of wine to help me relax.
But first, I need to admit something to myself. I'm nervous about having drinks with that enigmatic man.
It's been months since I've had dinner with a man who wasn't a colleague or a witness. My last relationship ended badly—a fellow prosecutor who couldn't handle the demands of my career, who wanted me to be available whenever he needed me but who was never there when I needed him. Since then, I've focused entirely on work, telling myself it's better to be alone than to compromise.
But this man from the opera house is different. He seems to understand my work, to appreciate the complexities of what I do. And there's something magnetic about him, something that makes me want to know more despite every rational instinct telling me to stay away.
I've tried to research him, of course. It's what I do—gather information, build profiles, understand the people I'm dealing with. But my usual methods have turned up nothing.No social media presence, no professional directory listings, no newspaper mentions. It's as if he doesn't exist in any digital form.
The absence of information should concern me more than it does. In my experience, people who can't be found online are usually hiding something. But instead of making me cautious, it makes me curious. Who is he? What does he do? And why does he know so much about my work?
My apartment building comes into view, a modest structure near the Roman Forum that I chose for its proximity to the city center. I park in the underground garage and take the elevator to the fourth floor, my briefcase heavy in my hand.
The apartment is quiet, exactly as I left it this morning. I drop my keys on the kitchen counter and pour myself a glass of Barolo, letting the wine warm in my hands before taking the first sip. The flavor is rich and complex, with hints of cherry and tobacco that match my mood.
I carry the glass to my bedroom and begin the ritual of shedding my professional armor. The tailored suit goes on a hanger, the heels returned to their proper place in the closet. I catch sight of myself in the mirror—tired eyes, tense shoulders, the slight lines around my mouth that have appeared over the past year.
The shower is hot and therapeutic, washing away the stress of the courtroom and the weight of the case. I let the water run over my shoulders, feeling the tension slowly dissolve. Tonight, I'll be someone different. Not the prosecutor, not the woman who spends her days fighting crime and corruption. I'll be myself.
When I emerge from the shower, wrapped in a soft robe, I pour another glass of wine and settle into my favorite chair by the window. The view looks out over the ancient streets of Rome,where history layers upon history in an endless palimpsest of human ambition and folly.
My phone buzzes with a text message, and for a moment, my pulse quickens. But it's only Maria, checking in about the trial.
Maria: 6:45 PM: Any word from the jury yet?
I type back quickly.
Serena: 6:46 PM: Nothing yet. Could be days.
Maria: 6:47 PM: Get some rest. You've earned it.
I set the phone aside and return to my wine. The evening light is fading, casting long shadows across my living room. In a few short hours, I'll learn more about the mysterious man from the opera house. I'll ask him direct questions, push past his careful deflections, find out what he really wants from me.
But for now, I'm content to sit in my quiet apartment, sipping wine and thinking about the conversation to come. There's a flutter of anticipation in my chest, a feeling I haven't experienced in months. It's dangerous, this curiosity about a man I barely know. But sometimes, the most dangerous choices are the ones that feel most alive.
The wine is making me philosophical, and I know I should eat something, prepare for another long day tomorrow. But I remain in my chair, watching the lights of Rome flicker to life outside my window, thinking about hazel eyes and careful smiles and the way his voice made my pulse quicken.
The night can't come soon enough.
