Page 8 of The Assassin's Captive
5
LORENZO
Iarrive at her building fifteen minutes early and park across the street where I can watch the entrance. The evening air carries the scent of jasmine from the courtyard gardens, and the golden light of Rome at sunset makes everything look deceptively peaceful. I've changed into a navy suit, nothing too formal but expensive enough to suggest success in whatever profession she imagines I practice.
At exactly eight o'clock, she emerges from the building. She wears a black dress that hugs her curves without being obvious about it, and her hair falls loose around her shoulders instead of the severe twist I'm used to seeing. The transformation is striking—she looks younger, more approachable, but no less intelligent. When she spots my car, she walks over with confident strides.
"You're punctual," she says as she slides into the passenger seat.
"I try to be." I pull away from the curb, navigating through the narrow streets toward the center of the city. "How was your day?"
"Long. Court can be exhausting, especially when you're waiting for a verdict." She settles back in her seat, and I notice she's wearing a subtle perfume that makes me want to lean closer. "What about you? What is it you do, exactly?"
"Consulting," I say, keeping my answer vague. "I help people solve problems."
"What kind of problems?"
"The complicated kind."
She laughs, a genuine sound that surprises me. "You're very mysterious, you know that?"
"I prefer to think of myself as private."
"There's a difference?"
"Private means I don't share personal information easily. Mysterious implies I'm hiding something." She's very perceptive and just as intelligent as Emilio said she is.
"And are you? Hiding something?"
I glance at her, noting the way she watches my face as I consider the question. She's testing me, looking for tells, reading my reactions the way she would study a witness on the stand.
"Everyone's hiding something," I say finally. "The question is whether it's worth knowing."
We drive in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the city passing by outside the windows. I've chosen a rooftop bar in Trastevere—upscale but not flashy—with views that will keep her distracted and enough ambient noise to cover our conversation.
"Tell me about your family," I say as we cross the Tiber.
"Not much to tell. My parents are academics. Literature professors. They raised me to believe in the power of words and the importance of truth." She pauses. "What about yours?"
"Also not much to tell. My father died when I was young. My mother didn't remarry." The lies come easily, practiced overyears of maintaining false identities. "I learned early that you can't depend on anyone but yourself."
"That sounds lonely."
"It can be. But it also makes you strong."
She turns to look at me more directly. "Is that why you're still single?"
"What makes you think I'm single?"
"No ring. No photos in your wallet when you paid for drinks at the opera house. No mention of anyone waiting for you at home."
I'm impressed by her observation skills, though I shouldn't be surprised. She's a prosecutor. Reading people is part of her job.
"You're very perceptive," I say.
"It's a professional requirement. So, are you? Single?"
"Yes."
