Page 51 of The Assassin's Captive
"You needed to know what?" He moves toward me with predatory grace, each step calculated and controlled. "How many people you could endanger? How quickly you could unravel every security measure I've put in place?"
"I didn't tell anyone where I am." The words come out defensive, desperate. "I swear to you, Lorenzo. I would never?—"
But he's already reaching for the phone, his fingers closing around it with bruising force. "You used my phone. My network. My security protocols."
"I know, but?—"
"There is no but." His voice is ice and fury. "There is only the fact that you just made yourself traceable. You just painted a target on both our backs because you couldn't control yourself for one morning."
He's right, and I know it. But the desperation clawing at my chest won't let me admit it.
"My life is falling apart," I whisper. "My career, my reputation, everything I've ever worked for. They think I'm crooked. They think I've been working for Emilio Costa all along."
"And now they might be right," Lorenzo says coldly. "Because you just proved you can't be trusted with the most basic operational security." His eyes narrow at me. "What happened to being allies, Serena?"
The words are a blade sliding between my ribs. I watch as he turns away from me, the phone disappearing into his jacket pocket. When he looks at me again, the man who held me through the night is gone. In his place stands the assassin who kidnapped me.
"Get back to the bedroom," he says.
"Lorenzo, please?—"
"Now."
The command in his voice leaves no room for argument. I rise and walk toward the hallway on unsteady legs, my heart hammering against my ribs. Behind me, I hear him following, but the heaviness of his boots on the floor scares me. He has been stern with me, forceful, direct—threatening even. But he's never been angry like this. And I'm afraid of what it means.
He ushers me into the bedroom and stands with the doorknob in his hand. "I'll be back," he says through the open door. "Don't do anything else stupid while I'm gone." When he pulls it shut, I hear the lock click and my heart sinks.
His footsteps fade down the hallway, leaving me alone in the room where he made me forget, for a few precious hours, that I was his prisoner. I sink onto the edge of the bed, my head in my hands. The sheets still carry his scent, still hold the memory ofhis weight pressing me into the mattress. But that warmth feels like a lifetime ago now.
The hopelessness crashes over me in waves, each one darker and more crushing than the last. I thought I'd reached bottom when Lorenzo first took me from my apartment. I was wrong.
This is what drowning feels like. This is what it means to watch everything you've ever built crumble while you're powerless to stop it.
And the worst part? The man I've started to trust—the man I've started to want—just locked me away like I'm nothing more than a problem to be contained.
23
LORENZO
The back lot behind the Ministry of Justice sits empty at half past midnight, shadows pooling between abandoned construction equipment and rusted shipping containers. I check my watch and scan the perimeter one more time before stepping out of the darkness.
Cristiano Laera is already here, pressed against the concrete wall near the service entrance. Even from thirty meters away, I can see his hands shaking. The man looks like he hasn't slept in days, his clothes wrinkled and his face gaunt with the particular exhaustion that comes from living in constant fear.
He spots me approaching and pushes off the wall, nearly stumbling in his haste. "You came."
"I said I would." I stop just outside his reach, my eyes moving past him to check for surveillance. "You have what we agreed on?"
Laera nods and pulls a small hard drive from his jacket pocket. The device disappears back into his clothing before I can get a good look, but the weight of it seems to steady him slightly.
"Everything's there," he says. "Bank records, communication logs, payment transfers. Enough to prove who's been selling court information to the highest bidder."
"And Serena Barone's leak?"
His face darkens. "That too. You're not going to believe who's been feeding her cases to the competition."
I reach into my own jacket and withdraw a manila envelope. Laera's new identity papers, crafted by the best forger in southern Italy. Birth certificate, passport, driver's license, even a backstory complete with employment records and tax filings. Enough to disappear completely if he has the discipline to stay gone.
"Naples," I tell him as he tears open the envelope. "There's a shipping company that will hire you without questions. The contact information is inside."
