Page 62 of The Assassin's Captive
His gaze takes in my tears, my grip on the doorframe, the way I stand poised between flight and surrender. Understanding flickers across his features—not judgment, but recognition of the choice that faces me.
"Do you want to run?" His voice carries no condemnation, only quiet acceptance of whatever answer I might give. He would let me go if I asked, I realize. He would honor my choice even if it destroyed him, even if it brought Emilio's wrath down on his head. The man who kills without hesitation would sacrifice everything for my freedom.
The knowledge breaks something inside me, some last barrier I'd maintained against complete surrender. The truth spills out before I can stop it, raw and desperate and utterly honest.
"No." My voice cracks on the word, fractures along fault lines I didn't know existed. "I want to be in your arms where I feel safe."
His expression softens, the hard lines around his mouth easing into something that might be relief or gratitude or recognition of his own need reflected back at him. He approaches slowly, giving me time to change my mind, to bolt if that's what my instincts demand.
Instead, I step toward him, drawn by the promise of shelter he represents. Not safety—I understand now that safety is an illusion, a comfortable lie people tell themselves to sleep at night. But shelter from the storm, temporary refuge from forces too large to fight alone.
His hands find my face, palms warm against my cheeks, thumbs brushing away tears I hadn't realized were still falling. The gesture is impossibly gentle from a man whose hands have ended lives, whose touch could snap my neck before I could draw breath to scream.
"Come back inside," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and something deeper, more complex than simple desire. "Let me lock the door."
I nod, unable to speak past the tightness in my throat. He guides me back into the room with careful attention, his touch both protective and possessive. The door closes behind us, followed by the definitive sound of the lock engaging. Such a small barrier against the world outside, yet it feels monumental in its symbolism.
We have chosen each other in this moment, in this place. We have decided to face whatever comes together rather than alone.
Lorenzo's fingers work at the buttons of my blouse, undoing each one with the same careful attention he brings to everything else. No urgency drives his movements now—only reverence, as if my body were something precious rather than merely available. The fabric falls away under his ministrations, followed by my skirt, my undergarments, the barriers I tried to rebuild between myself and this impossible situation.
When he draws me back to the bed, when his mouth finds mine in the darkness, I let myself sink into sensation rather than thought. His hands map familiar territory with new gentleness, tracing patterns of ownership and worship across my skin. I arch beneath his touch, whisper his name into the quiet space between us, allow myself to be consumed by need that overwhelms rational thought.
But even as my body responds to his caresses, even as I pull him closer and open myself to his invasion, my mind cannot fully escape the future that waits beyond this room. Emilio Costa plans my usefulness, designs roles for me to play in games I barely understand. Somewhere in the shadows, enemies sharpen their knives and plot my capture or destruction.
The only certainty I have is this—the man who moves above me now, whose breath mingles with mine, who promised toprotect me no matter the cost. Whatever comes next, whatever performance Emilio demands, whatever dangers circle closer with each passing hour, I won't face them alone.
The thought should comfort me as pleasure builds between us, as Lorenzo's body claims mine with increasing urgency. Instead, it feels more frightening than any threat I've yet encountered. Because now I have something to lose beyond my own life. Now I have a heart that can be broken, trust that can be betrayed, love that can be weaponized against me.
As we move together in the darkness, as I lose myself in the temporary oblivion of physical connection, I understand that I have crossed a line from which there is no return. I am no longer Serena Barone, prosecutor of criminals and seeker of justice. I am becoming someone else entirely—daughter, pawn, lover, weapon.
The transformation terrifies me.
28
LORENZO
The entrance to the club doesn't announce itself. Between two wine bars on a narrow street in Trastevere, a single door sits beneath peeling paint and weathered stone. No sign, no indication of what waits beyond the threshold. I guide Serena forward with my hand at the small of her back, feeling the tension coiled in her shoulders as she takes in the unremarkable façade.
Two men flank the entrance. They nod at me without speaking, their eyes tracking Serena's movement as we pass. She doesn't flinch under their scrutiny, but I catch the slight adjustment in her posture—the way she draws herself taller, sharper. Even here, walking into the belly of Rome's most dangerous organization, she refuses to show weakness.
The interior swallows us in burgundy velvet and amber light. Crystal chandeliers hang from coffered ceilings, their glow reflecting off polished floors. The main room hums with quiet conversation—men in expensive suits conducting business over aged whiskey and Cuban cigars. Their voices drop as we move through, not out of respect but recognition. They know who I am. They know why I'm here.
I lead Serena past the main floor, through a corridor lined with mahogany panels and oil portraits of long-dead Romans. Velvet doors punctuate the hallway at regular intervals, each one hiding negotiations that could topple governments or end lives. The air grows heavier with each step, thick with the scents of leather and power.
At the end of the corridor, I stop before the final door. My fingers brush the brass handle, but I don't turn it immediately. Instead, I lean close to Serena's ear, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Remember what I told you. Answer his questions. Don't volunteer information he doesn't ask for. And whatever happens, don't challenge him directly."
She turns her head slightly, her dark eyes meeting mine. "I'm not afraid of him, Lorenzo."
"You should be."
I push open the door.
The corner chamber feels smaller than the rest of the club, more intimate. Rich wood paneling climbs the walls, broken only by narrow windows that offer glimpses of the cobblestone street below. A Persian rug covers most of the floor, its deep reds and golds muted by age. Two leather chairs sit across from each other in the center of the room, positioned carefully.
Emilio Costa stands near the far window, his back to us. He's smaller than most men expect—average height, lean build, with silver hair combed back from a weathered face. But power radiates from him, filling every corner of the space. When he turns to face us, his pale blue eyes assess Serena with clinical detachment.
