Page 22 of The Assassin's Captive
Lorenzo nods and moves toward the door. "Rest," he tells me, and there's something in his voice that might be concern. "We'll talk when you're stronger."
Then he's gone, leaving me alone with a doctor who asks no questions about how I came to be here or why her patient was stolen from a hospital in the middle of the night.
Dr. Catalano's examination is thorough but gentle. She checks my pupils for signs of concussion, palpates my ribs for fractures, cleans and re-bandages the cut on my forehead. Her fingers are warm and steady as she works, and she murmurs reassuring sounds when I wince at particularly tender spots.
"Bruising will fade in a week," she says finally, packing her instruments back into the bag. "The head injury is healing well. No signs of complications."
"How long was I unconscious?"
"Three days, according to your chart." She pulls a bottle of pills from her bag and places it on the nightstand. "For pain. No more than two every six hours."
She leaves as quietly as she arrived, and I'm alone in Lorenzo's bedroom with questions that multiply faster than I can process them. The house settles around me with the soft sounds of old wood and stone, punctuated by distant footsteps as Lorenzo moves through rooms below.
I remember our night together with clarity that makes my cheeks burn. The way he touched me, the intensity in his eyes, the moment when his control cracked and revealed something raw beneath. But that man feels like a stranger compared to the one who carried me from the hospital with such care.
Sleep should claim me—my body aches for rest, and the pain medication Dr. Catalano gave me pulls at the edges of my consciousness. But questions drive me from the bed despite protesting muscles and the dizziness that comes with standing too quickly.
The room holds secrets, and I need answers.
I start with the dresser, opening drawers with movements that are as quiet as I can manage. The contents are unremarkable—expensive clothing, leather accessories, the kinds of things any successful man might own. But the top drawer yields interesting items—multiple passports in different names, each with Lorenzo's photograph but varying backgrounds and nationalities. Cash in several currencies, bound with rubber bands and tucked into a wooden box. A phone I don't recognize, probably one of several he uses for different purposes.
The nightstand beside his bed contains books—Dante, Machiavelli, Sun Tzu—and a loaded pistol that sits in a custom holster attached to the drawer's interior. The weapon is clean, well-maintained, the kind of tool that sees regular use—and it's empty. Dammit.
But it's the photograph tucked behind the books that stops my heart.
Three men stand together in what appears to be a private club or restaurant. The lighting is warm, intimate, suggesting celebration or important business concluded successfully. On the left stands Lorenzo, younger than he is now but unmistakably him. His arm rests across the shoulders of a man I recognize from newspaper photographs and mug shots in my own files at work—Emilio Costa, Rome's most notorious crime boss.
The third man shares Emilio's features—the same dark eyes, the same strong jaw. Family resemblance that needs no explanation. This must be Victor Costa, Emilio's son and second-in-command.
My hands shake as I hold the photograph, studying the easy familiarity between the three men. This isn't a business meeting or casual acquaintance. These are partners. Family. Brothers in everything but blood.
Lorenzo isn't just connected to the Costa syndicate.
He belongs to it.
The prosecutor who has spent months building cases against organized crime in Rome is sitting in the bedroom of a man who works for the most dangerous family in the city. The irony would be laughable if the implications weren't so terrifying.
I sink onto the bed, my legs suddenly unable to support my weight. Everything clicks into place now—his confidence, his resources, the way he moved through that hospital without raising suspicion. This isn't kidnapping.
This is claiming.
I've been stolen by the Mob.
The door opens downstairs, followed by the sound of Lorenzo's footsteps as he climbs toward the bedroom. I shove the photograph back behind the books and dive under the covers, forcing my breathing to slow and my body to relax.
When he appears in the doorway, I keep my eyes closed and let him believe I'm sleeping. He stands there for several minutes, watching me with an intensity I can feel even through closed lids.
Then the door closes softly, and I'm alone again with the knowledge that everything has changed.
The man I remember from our night together, the one whose touch could make me forget every rational thought, works for Emilio Costa.
And I have no idea what he plans to do with me.
11
LORENZO
The terrace overlooks rolling hills that disappear into darkness beyond the property's boundaries. Cypress trees line the driveway below, their shadows long and sharp under security lights that activate at the slightest movement. I lean against the stone railing and pull out my secure phone, the one reserved for conversations that can never be recorded or traced.
