Page 70 of The Assassin's Captive
The weight of his words settles over me. This attack wasn't random violence. It was a coordinated attempt at assassination, professional killers sent specifically to end my life.
"Why?" The question comes out as barely a whisper.
"Because you represent everything they fear," Emilio replies calmly. "This is why you must work for me."
He steps closer, and I see something that might be paternal concern in his pale eyes.
"They wanted you dead before you could become useful to me. But now?" He gestures at the destruction around us. "Now they've declared open war. And in war, Serena, there are only two positions—ally or enemy."
I look around the destroyed room, at the blood on the walls and the bodies being removed by men in expensive suits. At Lorenzo, still armed and alert despite the apparent end of the threat. At Emilio, who speaks of war as casually as other men discuss the weather.
This is my world now. Violence and power, blood and betrayal. The choice Emilio offered me upstairs has been made for me by strangers with guns and explosives.
I am a Costa. And in Rome, that means I am already at war.
The only question now is whether I'll fight to survive it.
30
LORENZO
The blood pools darkly against the floor in the entrance, thick enough to reflect light from the chandelier above. I keep one hand on Serena's shoulder as she sits in the high-backed chair, her breathing finally steady after the chaos. The office door locks behind us while outside, sirens wail closer, but the sound doesn't reach us here—not through these walls, not with Emilio's men already moving.
"Don't move from this spot." I check the deadbolt twice before turning back to her. "I need to see how bad this got."
She nods without looking up. Her hands rest flat against her thighs, fingers spread wide as if she's trying to ground herself to the chair. The black slacks she wore tonight have a tear near the hem of one leg where she scraped against the doorframe when I pulled her inside. Blood—not hers—dots the fabric across her shoulder where she brushed against me.
I crack the door and peer into the hallway. Three of Emilio's soldiers move past, their footsteps muffled by expensive carpet. One carries a mop and bucket. Another hauls what looks like surveillance equipment in a canvas bag. They don't even glancein my direction, too busy following protocol to worry about who's watching them.
The main floor of the club stretches beyond the hallway, and I can hear voices—Emilio's people work fast when they need to, and this afternoon they needed to work faster than ever. A shooting at Il Cerchio could bring unwanted attention from every direction—prosecutors, journalists, rival families. The kind of attention that gets people buried.
I close the door and turn back to Serena. She's staring at her hands now, flexing her fingers like she's testing whether they still work.
I don't tell her that Emilio's men caught one of the attackers three blocks away. She doesn't need to know what happened in that alley. "They won't be coming back," I reassure her, but she doesn't look up.
The room falls quiet except for the distant hum of voices through the walls. Serena runs a hand through her hair, disturbing the careful arrangement she pinned up earlier. Dark strands fall loose around her face, softening the sharp angles of her cheekbones.
"This was about me?" she asks softly, and I hear the fear in her tone.
"Yes."
"The Bianchi family?"
"Most likely." I push off from the door and move to the window. Through the heavy curtains, I can see flashing lights in the distance. Police getting close. "They've been watching you for weeks. Today was their move."
She's quiet for a long moment. When she speaks again, her voice carries an edge of anger. It's good. That'll help motivate her where her fear keeps her stuck.
"How long before they try again?"
"They won't." I turn from the window to face her. "Not after tonight."
"You sound certain."
"I am."
She studies my face, searching for something I won't give her. Doubt, maybe. Fear. She won't find either. I've been doing this too long to second-guess myself now. The Bianchi family made their play and failed. In this world, failed attempts don't get second chances.
A knock at the door interrupts the conversation. Three short raps, then two long ones. Emilio's signal.
