Page 32 of The Assassin's Captive
Her eyes open slowly, dark brown depths focusing on my face. Most people flinch when they wake to find me watching them. Serena simply studies me in return, with a clear and assessing gaze.
"Good morning," she says, her voice husky from sleep.
"Morning."
She stretches against me, the movement sending heat spiraling through my chest. I force myself to remain impassive, to give her nothing she can use against me. But she is already sitting up, the sheet falling away from her bare torso. She makes no move to cover herself, and I realize this too is calculated. Everything about her is calculated.
"Last night was—" she begins.
"Last night was nothing." My words are a grumble but she doesn’t flinch. "Don't mistake sex for salvation."
Her expression does not change, but I catch the flicker of disappointment before she masks it. "Of course not. I was simply going to say it was informative."
"Was it?"
She slides out of bed, not self-conscious in her nudity. I watch her gather her clothing from the floor, wrinkled from our urgency last night. "You're not as controlled as you pretend to be. That's useful to know."
The observation hits closer to truth than I care to admit. I sit up, running a hand through my hair. "Control is relative. I had you exactly where I wanted you."
"Did you?" She pulls the shirt over her head, smoothing the fabric down her torso. "Because from where I was lying, it seemed mutual."
I stand, retrieving my clothes from where they landed scattered across the floor. The conversation is veering into territory I do not wish to explore. Not when the taste of her still lingers on my tongue. Not when I can still feel the way she came apart in my arms.
"What do you want, Serena?"
She perches on the edge of the bed, watching me dress. "Information. The same thing you want from me."
"I already told you?—"
"You told me nothing." Her voice sharpens. "You brought me here. You've kept me here. But you haven't told me why. Not really."
I button my shirt, considering how much truth she can handle. How much truth I can afford to give her. "The why doesn't concern you."
"It concerns me entirely." She stands, crossing to the window. The morning light catches in her hair, turning it to burnished copper. "I'm a lawyer, Lorenzo. I understand leverage. I understand negotiation. So tell me what this is really about."
I could lie, could spin her another story about protection and safety. But she is too intelligent for deception, and I am tired of pretending this is anything other than what it is.
"You're leverage," I say finally. "For Costa, against the other families. Against anyone who might use your connection to Emilio."
She turns from the window. "And if I cooperate? If I tell you everything you want to know?"
"Then maybe you live long enough to see how this plays out."
The brutal honesty lands between us. I watch her absorb it, process it, file it away behind those sharp eyes. Most people would crumble under the weight of such a statement. Serena simply nods.
"I see. And if I don't cooperate?"
I don't answer immediately. Can't answer immediately. Because the truth is I have not decided what happens if she refuses. The original order was clear. Extract information, then eliminate the threat. But Costa's blood changes everything. Serena knows things about our enemies, not just about us. We keep her silent and her knowledge secret from the public eye, but her value as an asset outweighs her danger as an enemy.
For now.
"The outside world isn't safe for you anymore," I say instead. "Here, I can control the variables. Out there, you're exposed."
"To what?"
"To everyone who wants a piece of Emilio Costa's newly discovered daughter."
The words hit her visibly. She sinks back onto the bed, color draining from her face. Different expressions flash across her face—shock, disbelief, anger, then knowing. It chills her and she stills, but her only protest is, “No…” breathed softly on a panicked breath.
