Page 38 of The Assassin's Captive
"Walk away to where?" I keep my voice level but let the threat show through. "He came here for a reason. Someone sent him to probe my security, and I need to know who."
"Maybe," Petrini acknowledges, "but beating him unconscious on your lawn isn't going to get you better answers. It's just going to create problems you don't want to deal with."
He's right, and I hate that he's right. The prowler is barely conscious now, slumping against my grip and bleeding more freely from his facial cuts. If I continue this interrogation, he'll end up hospitalized or dead, and either outcome will bring official attention I can't afford. Especially not while Serena's in my house, sleeping off the stress of learning her entire identity has been a lie.
But letting him go means whoever sent him will know their probe succeeded. They'll have confirmation that this location is occupied, defended, and worth further investigation. My home becomes a target instead of a refuge, and everything I've built here starts falling apart.
"You saw him first," I tell Petrini. "Armed, trespassing, attempting to breach security. You know what that usually means in this neighborhood."
"I know what it means everywhere," he replies. "But I also know the difference between defending property and committing assault. Right now, you're dancing across that line."
The prowler's knees buckle, and I have to support his full weight to keep him upright. Blood drips from his chin onto the grass, and his breathing sounds wet and labored. Petrini watches this development and shakes his head.
"Lorenzo…" he says, "let him go, or I make some phone calls that complicate your morning significantly."
I study his face, looking for tells that might reveal his real agenda. Former cops don't usually insert themselves into neighborhood disputes unless they have ulterior motives, and his calm confidence suggests he's dealt with situations like this before. But his body language reads genuine concern rather than calculated interference, which makes this harder to navigate.
The prowler groans and tries to speak, but only blood comes out. I've pushed him past the point of useful interrogation, and keeping him here longer will only create evidence I'll need to dispose of later. Petrini knows this as well as I do, which is why he's applying pressure now instead of waiting for me to finish.
"Fine," I say and release my grip. The prowler collapses to his knees, then scrambles away on his hands and knees toward the tree line. He disappears into the underbrush within seconds, leaving only blood droplets on the grass to mark his presence.
Petrini watches him go, then turns back to me. "Smart choice. Now we can have a civilized conversation about boundaries and expectations."
"There's nothing to discuss," I repeat, but I know that's no longer true. He's seen too much, knows too much, and positioned himself too conveniently to be dismissed as aharmless retiree. My entire operation just became exponentially more complicated.
"I think there is," he says. "Because I've been watching this neighborhood for two weeks now, and certain patterns have become clear. Patterns that suggest my quiet retirement might not be as quiet as I hoped."
I study his expression, looking for clues about how much he actually knows versus how much he's guessing. But his poker face is excellent, honed by decades of interrogating suspects and witnesses who didn't want to reveal their secrets.
"What patterns?" I ask.
"Late-night arrivals. Unusual security measures. Visitors who don't look like family or friends." He pauses. "And now prowlers who think your house might be worth robbing, which suggests someone's been asking questions about your routines."
The accuracy of his observations confirms my worst fears. He's been conducting systematic surveillance, not casual neighborly interest. He knows my schedule, my security setup, and probably my vehicle registrations. Which means he also knows that someone else has been watching, gathering intelligence for reasons that brought an armed amateur to my fence this morning.
"Retired cops usually mind their own business," I tell him.
"Retired cops usually don't end up living next door to active crime scenes," he replies. "But here we are, so I guess we both need to adapt." His hands open casually before he crosses his arms over his barrel chest and smirks.
My home isn't safe anymore, but abandoning it means relocating Serena during the most dangerous phase of her protection. Moving her now would expose us both to surveillance and potential interception, but staying here means operating under the scrutiny of a man who could complicate everything I'm trying to accomplish.
"What do you want?" I ask.
"Peace and quiet," he says. "No more screaming. No more blood on the grass. No more reasons for me to wonder if I should be making official reports about my observations."
"And in exchange?"
"I mind my own business, you mind yours, and we both pretend this morning never happened." He glances toward the house, then back to me. "But if this kind of thing becomes a pattern, we'll need to revisit our arrangement."
I nod, understanding the terms of our unofficial détente. He won't report what he's seen, but he'll be watching for signs that my activities are escalating beyond what he considers acceptable. It's a temporary solution at best, but it buys me time to figure out how to handle both the immediate threats and the longer-term problems his presence creates.
"Understood," I tell him.
"Good." He turns to go, then pauses. "One more thing. Whatever brought that man here this morning, it wasn't random. Someone's testing your defenses, which means they're planning something bigger. You might want to consider whether this location is worth defending or if relocation might be the smarter play."
He walks back to his house without waiting for a response, leaving me alone in the garden with blood on the grass and the growing certainty that everything I've built here is starting to unravel. I holster the Glock and return to the house, my mind already working through contingency plans and worst-case scenarios.
Serena's still asleep when I check on her, curled on her side with her hair spread across the pillow. She looks younger when she's not conscious, less guarded, and I find myself lingering in the doorway longer than necessary. The morning light revealsthe bruises on her throat from our encounter two nights ago, fading now but still visible.
