Page 74 of The Assassin's Captive
31
SERENA
Lorenzo's house feels different tonight. The familiar rooms that once seemed cold now carry a warmth I can't quite identify. Maybe it's the way he moves through the space, no longer the careful stranger who kept professional distance. Maybe it's the knowledge that this place—his sanctuary—is about to become mine too.
I stand in the living room while he builds a fire in the stone fireplace. The flames catch quickly, sending golden light dancing across the walls. Outside, rain patters against the windows, turning the glass into rivers of distorted light from the street lamps.
"Hungry?" he asks, straightening from the hearth. Soot streaks his hands, and he wipes them on a towel before tossing it aside.
I realize I haven't eaten since lunch. The events at the club, Emilio's offer, the weight of the decision I made—everything consumed my attention completely. Now, with safety settled around me and Lorenzo's presence filling the room, hunger returns with surprising force.
"Starving."
He nods toward the kitchen. "Come on. I'll cook."
The kitchen is larger than my entire apartment was. Marble countertops, professional-grade appliances, windows that overlook a small garden behind the house where the privacy fence secludes his space from the neighborhood. Lorenzo moves through the space, pulling ingredients from the refrigerator and setting them on the counter.
"Pasta?" he suggests. "I make a decent carbonara."
"You cook?"
"I live alone. The alternative is takeout every night." He fills a pot with water and sets it on the stove. "Besides, cooking is methodical. I find it relaxing."
I watch him work, fascinated by this domestic side of him I've never seen. His movements are precise as he whisks eggs and grates cheese, but there's something almost meditative about the process. The tension that usually carries itself in his shoulders has eased.
"Tell me about the life," I say, settling onto one of the bar stools that face the kitchen island. "What should I expect?"
He pauses in his whisking. "It's not the life you had planned."
"I gathered that much."
He sets the bowl aside and turns to face me fully. "You'll have money. More than you know what to do with. A house that makes this one look modest. Cars, clothes, access to places most people only read about in magazines."
"Material things."
"Yes. But also influence. When you speak, people will listen—not because of who you are, but because of whose name you carry. Judges will take your calls. Prosecutors will consider deals they wouldn't offer anyone else. Doors will open before you even approach them."
The water on the stove begins to bubble. Lorenzo adds salt and slides pasta into the pot, stirring once before setting a timer.
"And the costs?"
"Freedom." He doesn't hesitate. "Everything you do reflects on the family. Every choice you make, every person you associate with, every case you take—it all gets scrutinized. You'll be watched, protected, but also controlled."
I absorb this, turning it over in my mind. "By Emilio?"
"By everyone. The family has expectations. Enemies who will look for weaknesses. Allies who need reassurance of your loyalty." He moves to the stove, checking the pasta. "Your life becomes public property in ways you can't imagine."
"And you? What's your role in all this?"
He drains the pasta and adds it to a pan with crispy pancetta. The rich smell fills the kitchen, comforting my senses. "I keep you alive. I keep you safe. I eliminate threats before they become problems."
"That's not what I meant."
He knows it isn't. I can see it in the way his shoulders tense slightly, the way he focuses too intently on combining pasta with egg mixture. When he finally looks at me, his eyes carry something raw and vulnerable.
"What did you mean?"
"I meant what are you to me? Bodyguard? Warden? Something else?" A smile plays at my lips but I keep it hidden. When we started this, he was more of a captor. Now I want so much more. I know psychologists would call that Stockholm syndrome, but I feel safe. I don’t need their opinions, anyway.
