Page 9 of The Assassin's Captive
"By choice?" She's leaning in, and this feels very much like an interrogation.
"By circumstance. My work doesn't leave much time for relationships."
"What kind of consulting requires that level of dedication?"
I'm spared from answering by our arrival at the bar. The building is a converted palazzo, its rooftop terrace offering panoramic views of the city. I valet the car and guide her to the elevator, my hand resting lightly on her lower back.
The bar is exactly as I remember—dim lighting, comfortable seating areas, and clientele who mind their own business. I choose a corner table where we can see the entire space but remain relatively private. The waiter brings us menus, and I order a bottle of Brunello without asking what she prefers.
"You like to make decisions," she observes.
"I like to take charge when I know what I'm doing."
"And you know what you're doing with me?"
The question carries multiple layers of meaning, and I consider my response carefully. "I know what I want."
"Which is?"
"To understand you better."
She smiles, but there's something calculating in her expression. "Most people find my work boring. Financial crimes, money laundering, corporate fraud. It's not exactly dinner conversation."
"I find it fascinating. The way you trace money through shell companies, connect seemingly unrelated transactions, build cases that can take down entire organizations." I lean forward slightly. "It takes a special kind of mind to see those patterns."
"You seem to know a lot about what I do."
"I told you, I follow your work. The banking consortium case last year was particularly impressive. The way you unraveled their offshore structure was elegant." I've almost memorized the file Emilio gave me so I can come across as an interested potential paramour.
She takes a sip of wine, and I notice she's already finished half her glass. "That case nearly destroyed me. Two years of investigation, and they still managed to avoid serious jail time."
"But you exposed them. Made it impossible for them to operate the same way again."
"For now. There are always more where they came from."
The conversation flows easily from there. She tells me about the pressures of prosecuting powerful people, the way evidence can disappear and witnesses can be intimidated. I share carefully edited stories about dealing with difficult clients, the challenge of maintaining ethical standards in a corrupt system.
She orders another glass of wine, and then another. Not enough to impair her judgment, but enough to relax her natural caution. I watch her shoulders drop, notice the way she leans closer when she talks, how her laugh comes more easily.
"Do you ever worry about the people you prosecute?" I ask. "About how they might respond to your investigations?"
"You mean do I worry about retaliation?" She considers the question. "Sometimes. But I can't let fear dictate my decisions. If I did, I'd never prosecute anyone dangerous."
"That's admirable. And dangerous."
"Probably. But someone has to do it."
I check my watch discretely. We've been here for two hours, and I'm conscious of how exposed we are. The longer we stay, the more likely someone will notice us together, remember seeing the prosecutor with a man they can't identify.
"Excuse me," she says, standing. "I need to use the restroom."
I watch her walk away, noting the slight sway in her hips, the way the wine has loosened her usual rigid posture. While she's gone, I signal the waiter for another bottle and scan the bar for any faces that might pose a problem. The crowd is mostly tourists and young professionals, no one who would recognize either of us.
When she returns, she sits closer than before, her knee almost touching mine. The wine has brought color to her cheeks, and she's smiling more openly.
"You're very good at deflecting questions," she says. "Every time I ask about your work, you change the subject."
"Maybe my work isn't as interesting as yours."
