Page 26 of The Assassin's Captive
The office sits behind a heavy wooden door that would intimidate most people from attempting entry. But growing up with two academic parents who frequently locked themselves away with important research taught me skills that most lawyers never develop. The lock yields to pressure applied with a paper clip I find in a document tucked in the drawer of a side table and the bent spring of an ink pen I disassemble for this purpose—techniques learned from a childhood spent trying to access forbidden books and interesting documents.
Lorenzo's office reflects the same expensive taste as the rest of his house—leather furniture, built-in bookcases, expensive artwork. But the desk draws my attention immediately, its surface covered with files and photographs that make my blood run cold.
Pictures of me leaving my apartment building. Images of me entering the courthouse where I work. Surveillance photos taken from distances that required professional equipment and planning.
I flip through the files with growing horror, finding maps of my daily routes, copies of my credit card statements, detailed notes about my schedule and habits. This isn't casual observation. This is comprehensive surveillance that has been ongoing for months.
One folder contains information about my adoptive parents, including their home address, work schedules, and financial records. Another holds copies of legal documents I've never seen before—sealed adoption papers, birth certificates with names I don't recognize, court orders that reference cases from thirty years ago.
The sound of water stops upstairs, but I can't tear myself away from the evidence spread across his desk. This man, and the people he works for, have been watching me, studying me, gathering information about every aspect of my life while I remained completely unaware of his existence.
Footsteps descend the staircase, moving with purpose toward the office. I don't have time to return the files to their original positions or lock the door behind me.
Lorenzo appears in the doorway, his hair still damp from the shower, wearing fresh clothes that emphasize the powerful build of his shoulders and chest. His expression remains calm as he takes in the scene—me standing behind his desk, surrounded by evidence of surveillance that spans months.
He steps into the room and closes the door behind himself quietly but his expression darkens to an inky glare. "Find what you were looking for?"
His voice carries no anger, no surprise at discovering his privacy violated. If anything, he seems almost relieved that the pretense of ignorance is finally over.
"You've been watching me." The accusation comes out as a whisper, my voice failing under the weight of betrayal and violation.
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"Eight months."
The timeline makes my stomach clench. Eight months ago, I was working on preliminary research for the Costa investigation, gathering financial records and building the foundation for legal action that wouldn't begin for weeks.
"You knew I was investigating your organization."
"From the beginning."
Lorenzo moves toward the desk with the same controlled movements I've come to associate with him, but there'sno menace in his approach. He seems almost tired, as if maintaining secrets has become exhausting.
"Then why didn't you stop me? Why not eliminate the threat before I could cause damage?"
"Because eliminating you wasn't my decision to make."
He reaches across the desk and closes the files I've been examining, his movements gentle despite the tension crackling between us.
"But it is now," he continues, meeting my eyes with an intensity that makes my breath catch. "You have a choice. Tell me what you've discovered in your investigation, share the evidence you've gathered, and help me understand what threats you pose to my family."
"And if I refuse?"
Lorenzo's expression doesn't change, but there's something in his voice that chills me to the bone as he says, "Then you stay locked in this house until someone less merciful than me comes to ask the same questions."
13
LORENZO
The security technician finishes installing the last motion sensor along the property's eastern perimeter and packs his equipment into a reinforced case. His work has transformed my home into a fortress over the past six hours—upgraded cameras with night vision capabilities, motion detectors that can distinguish between wildlife and human intrusion, access codes that change every twelve hours through an encrypted system.
I hand him an envelope containing twice his usual fee and escort him to the front gate. The man asks no questions about why someone would need military-grade surveillance for a residential property, which is exactly why I pay him enough to maintain that discretion.
After he drives away, I activate the new security grid from the control panel hidden behind a false wall in my office. The system comes online with a soft hum, and multiple screens display feeds from every angle of the house and grounds. Red dots indicate sensor placement throughout the olive groves and cypress trees that provide natural camouflage for anyone attempting approach.
My phone buzzes with a text from Victor Costa, confirming that he's positioned one of his most reliable men at the gate. Dante Benedetti has worked security for the family for eight years without incident, which makes him trustworthy enough to guard something this valuable without asking questions about what he's protecting.
