Page 37 of The Assassin's Captive
LORENZO
Coffee steams in my cup while I scroll through the overnight footage, monitoring each camera angle for anomalies. The perimeter stays quiet most mornings, but today a shadow moves wrongly near the eastern fence line. I freeze the frame and lean forward. The timestamp reads 6:47 a.m., and there's a figure crouched low between the satellite dish and the chain link boundary.
It's not one of my men. They know better than to approach without clearance, and this person moves wrong—too hesitant, too exposed. I zoom in on the feed and catch the glint of metal in his hand—a blade, held amateurly but determined. My blood goes cold as I watch him test the fence, searching for weak points in my security.
I abandon the coffee and move quickly through the house, pulling my Glock from the kitchen drawer and checking the chamber. It settles in my palm as I slip through the back door and into the garden. The morning air carries the scent of damp earth after last night's rain, but I focus on the intruder's position relative to my approach route.
The narrow alley runs between my property and the vacant house next door, providing cover as I move along the edge of the garden beds. My boots don't make a sound on the damp stone pathway while I track his movements through the gaps in the fence. He's alone, which makes this either amateur hour or a very confident professional. Given his posture and the way he fumbles through his reconnaissance, I'm betting on amateur.
I reach the corner of the property and pause, listening. The man's breathing comes harsh and uneven, and he keeps shifting his position without purpose. Definitely not trained. Probably not sent by anyone who values competence over desperation. But desperation makes people dangerous in unpredictable ways, and I can't afford unpredictable right now.
I round the fence line and spot him clearly for the first time. Mid-thirties, thin build, wearing clothes that have seen better weeks. The knife in his hand trembles as he tries to work it between the fence posts, and his eyes dart constantly between the house and the surrounding trees. He's terrified but committed, which tells me someone put him up to this. Someone who doesn't care if he comes back.
I move fast across the open ground, closing the distance before he can register my approach. His head snaps up as my shadow falls across him, and the knife swings wildly in my direction. I catch his wrist and twist hard, forcing him to drop the blade while my other hand drives him face-first into the fence. The chain link rattles under the impact, and he grunts in pain.
"Who sent you?" I keep my voice low and controlled while I pin him against the metal mesh. His face presses into the links, and blood wells from the small cuts the wire leaves on his cheek.
"Nobody sent me," he gasps. "I was just looking around."
I drive my knee into his lower back, and he cries out. "Try again. People don't scout armed properties for fun."
His breathing turns ragged, and I can smell the anxiety sweat soaking through his shirt. "Please, I don't know anything. Someone told me there might be money here, that's all."
"Someone who?" I increase the pressure on his wrist, and he whimpers.
"I don't know his name. Guy at a bar, said this place looked empty, said there might be electronics or whatever. I needed the money, okay? My girlfriend's pregnant, and we're broke, and I thought maybe?—"
I spin him around and slam him into the fence again, this time facing me. His eyes are wide and desperate, and tears mix with the blood on his cheek. He's telling the truth, which makes this worse. Random criminals don't just stumble onto my location unless someone's been talking, and that means my security has been compromised in ways I haven't identified yet.
"What did this man look like?" I keep the Glock low but visible, letting him see what happens if his answers disappoint me.
"I don't know, maybe forty, dark hair, expensive suit. He was buying drinks for everyone, asking questions about the neighborhood. Said he was looking for investment properties."
My stomach drops. Someone's been surveilling the area, gathering intelligence about which houses stay empty and which ones might be worth investigating. Professional reconnaissance disguised as casual conversation, and this amateur got caught in the middle of it. Now he's here, bleeding on my fence because someone wanted to test my defenses.
I grab him by the shirt and drag him away from the fence, toward the tree line where the cameras won't catch what happens next. He stumbles and tries to pull free, but I maintain my grip and keep him moving. His protests get louder, turning to shouts as we reach the shadows, and I know I need to end this quickly before?—
"Hey!"
The sharp voice sounds from behind me with an authoritative edge. I turn and see a man crossing the yard from the house next door, moving quickly but not running. He's late fifties, gray hair, wearing bed clothes that suggest morning coffee rather than morning confrontation. His house robe is open but his posture screams law enforcement, even retired, and his eyes take in the scene like he has decades of experience reading situations correctly.
His name is Silvano Petrini—the new neighbor I've been monitoring since he moved in two weeks ago. He's a former detective in Rome Metropolitan Police, twenty-eight years of service before retirement. Clean record, clean pension, supposedly clean reasons for relocating to this quiet neighborhood. But clean doesn't mean uninvolved, and his timing here feels too convenient to be coincidental.
"Let him go," Petrini says, continuing his approach with his hands visible but ready. "Whatever he did, it's not worth this."
I keep my grip on the prowler but shift my position to face the new threat. "This is private property. Your involvement isn't required."
"My involvement started when I heard someone screaming for help." His voice carries calm authority, but I'm not really interested in responding to that. "You're Lorenzo Santoro, right? I'm Silvano Petrini, your new neighbor. I think we should discuss this situation before it escalates further."
The fact that he knows my name sends ice through my veins. I've been careful about maintaining anonymity in this location, but he's done his homework. Either he's very good at casual surveillance or he had reasons to research me before we ever met. Neither possibility makes me comfortable.
"There's nothing to discuss," I tell him. "This man was trespassing on my property, armed. I'm within my rights to detain him until the police arrive."
"Are you planning to call the police?" Petrini asks, and his tone suggests he already knows the answer. "Because if you are, I'm happy to wait while you make that call. If you're not, then we have a different kind of problem."
The prowler takes advantage of my divided attention and tries to break free. I tighten my grip and drive my elbow into his ribs, doubling him over. He gasps and stops struggling, but Petrini steps closer with a darkening expression.
"That's enough," he says. "You've made your point. Now let him go, and we can all walk away from this."
