Page 20 of The Assassin's Captive
"Excuse me," he says with authority, "visiting hours ended twenty minutes ago."
I nod toward the bed. "I'm her cousin, Marco Tessari. The nurse downstairs said I could see her."
Dr. Ruggeri checks his watch, then looks at me with the measuring gaze doctors perfect over years of evaluating patients and families. "She's stable, but the head trauma requires careful monitoring. We're keeping her sedated until the swelling reduces."
"How much longer?"
"Difficult to say. Could be hours, could be another day. Brain injuries heal on their own timeline." He moves to check the monitors, recording numbers on his clipboard. "Are you her emergency contact? We've been trying to locate family since she arrived."
"We weren't close," I lie smoothly. "Haven't spoken in months before this happened. I don't know her current contacts."
Dr. Ruggeri nods, making a note. "When she wakes, we'll need to verify her identity. The police will want to speak with her about the accident."
My pulse quickens, but I keep my expression neutral. "Of course. I'll be here when she's ready."
"I'm afraid that won't be possible tonight. We limit overnight visitors to immediate family only." His tone allows no argument. "You can return during regular hours tomorrow."
I look down at her one more time. In a few hours, maybe less, she'll open her eyes. The concussion will fade, her memory will return, and she'll remember everything—the opera house, my home, our confrontation, her escape.
They'll tell her that the car she stole belongs to Emilio Costa. And when the police run their background checks, when they dig into her identity to piece together what happened, they'll find connections that lead back to the man who wants her dead.
Unless I get to her first.
"I understand," I tell Dr. Ruggeri. "I'll be back first thing tomorrow morning."
He escorts me to the elevator, and I ride down to the lobby already formulating a plan in my head. At the reception desk, Gretchen looks up with a sympathetic smile.
"How is she?"
"The doctor says she'll recover. Thank you for your help." I pause, as if remembering an afterthought. "When she wakes up, could you call me? I'd like to be here when she's ready for visitors." That call will never come, because I intend to be here before she wakes and have her removed discretely, but I have to play the part.
Gretchen takes down my false phone number, and I walk back to the parking lot under the weight of what I know. The woman lying unconscious three floors above me is Emilio Costa's daughter.
The prosecutor I was ordered to break and erase has become the most valuable person in his world for so many reasons.
And I'm the only one who knows the truth.
Everything changes now.
10
SERENA
Consciousness arrives in fragments. First, the throbbing in my skull that pulses with each heartbeat. Then the antiseptic smell that burns my nostrils. Finally, the pressure across my mouth—warm skin against my lips, firm and heavy pressure.
My eyes snap open.
Lorenzo's face hovers inches from mine, his hazel eyes darker than I remember. His hand covers my mouth completely, his thumb and fingers extending past my jawline. The hospital bed beneath me creaks as I try to move, but his other hand presses against my shoulder, pinning me down.
"Stay quiet," he whispers. His voice carries an urgency that sends ice through my veins. "We need to leave. Now."
The room around us is dim, lit only by the glow from medical equipment. Machines beep steadily beside the bed, monitoring vital signs, but it appears I'll no longer be here for those monitors to assess me. Through the window, darkness stretches across the empty parking lot and distant hills. It's still the middle of the night, but I don’t even know how long I've been sleeping.
Lorenzo's hand moves from my mouth to beneath my knees, lifting me from the bed like he's picking up a ragdoll. The hospital gown bunches around my thighs, and cool air hits my exposed skin. Every muscle in my body protests the motion, sending sharp pains through my ribs and back.
"I can walk," I say harshly, but he ignores me. I don’t know why I even expect him to listen to me. I should scream, but he may hurt me worse than I already am. Every cell in my body screams in pain.
He carries me toward the door, pausing to listen for sounds in the hall. I cling to him as my head throbs, spinning through a dozen flashes of memory that come all at once—me smashing his head with a bottle, the car veering off the road, voices asking me questions about my identity.
