Page 24 of The Assassin's Captive
"Handle it. You're good at making problems disappear."
"This isn't the usual problem. She's not some street dealer or corrupt official. She's a prosecutor with connections throughout the legal system. People will look for her." I sigh. "And they'll just go back to CODIS and find out who they tested her against. It's just a matter of time…"
"Then make sure they don't find her." Emilio's tone indicates the conversation is ending, but I need to understand the parameters of my new assignment. Protecting her is different from eliminating her, and the difference affects every decision I'll make in the coming days.
"For how long?" I ask, already wondering how he'll take it when he learns I fucked her too.
"Until I figure out if she's really my daughter or an elaborate trap designed to destroy me." His voice hardens with resolve that I recognize from decades of following his orders. "If she's mine, then she becomes family. If she's not, then she becomes a lesson to anyone else who tries to manipulate me with fake blood ties."
The line goes dead, leaving me alone on the terrace with new responsibilities that contradict everything I thought I understood about this assignment. The woman upstairs was supposed to be a source of information, then a casualty of war.Now she's potentially the most important person in Emilio's world.
I pocket the phone and return to the house through French doors that lead directly to the kitchen. Dr. Catalano sits at the granite island, updating medical charts with the methodical attention to detail that makes her valuable for situations requiring discretion.
"How is she?"
"Stable. The concussion is healing properly, and there's no sign of internal injuries. She'll be sore for another week, but nothing that requires hospitalization."
"Can she travel?"
Dr. Catalano looks up from her notes with a cautious expression and says, "Short distances, yes. But I wouldn't recommend anything strenuous for several days. Her body has been through significant trauma."
I nod and climb the stairs toward my bedroom, where the woman who has turned my world upside down waits under the protection of my roof. The hallway feels different now, charged with possibilities I never anticipated when I designed this house as a refuge from the chaos of my professional life.
Her breathing reaches me before I open the door, the rhythm indicating sleep. But her body position seems too controlled, too perfectly arranged for someone truly unconscious. She's awake and listening, gathering information while pretending vulnerability.
I don't call her out on the deception. Intelligence and caution are assets that will keep her alive in the coming weeks, and I need her alive while Emilio decides whether she's truly his blood.
Moonlight filters through the bedroom windows, illuminating her face in shades of silver and shadow. The bruises from the accident are dark and haunting, revealing thestrong bone structure that carries her father's genetics. The resemblance seems more obvious by the second.
She shifts slightly under the covers, and I catch the flutter of her eyelids that confirms my suspicion. She's been awake the entire time, monitoring my movements and trying to understand her situation.
The photograph that sits behind the books on my nightstand is exactly where I left it but it betrays her exploration. She knows who I am now, knows the connection that binds me to the Costa family. The knowledge makes her more dangerous and more valuable in equal measure.
I settle into the chair beside the window and study her profile in the dim light. Tomorrow will bring new complications—hospital inquiries, police questions, the pressure of keeping her hidden while Emilio investigates her background. But tonight, she's safe under my protection.
She isn't leverage anymore. She's a target that every family in Rome will want to claim or eliminate once they learn about her connection to Emilio Costa, and especially since she has buried so many of their men under the strict purpose of justice.
12
SERENA
The morning news drones from the television screen while I sit on Lorenzo's leather sofa, searching for any mention of my name. Hospital spokespeople discuss budget concerns and staff shortages. Politicians argue about judicial reforms that will never pass. Traffic reports detail accidents on highways I travel daily to reach my office.
But nothing about a missing prosecutor. No alerts about a woman who disappeared from a private hospital. No press conferences demanding answers about where I am or who took me.
The absence of coverage tells me more than any news story could. My disappearance has been managed, controlled, erased from public awareness by someone who has connections in the right places. Whoever orchestrated my removal from that hospital bed has the power to make people disappear without questions.
Lorenzo enters the living room carrying a tray with coffee and pastries from the kitchen. He's dressed in dark slacks and a white shirt that fits his broad shoulders with tailored perfection. His movements remain economical, controlled, but there'stension in his jaw that wasn't there when he served me wine in that dinky apartment that was so plain. I should've known it wasn't his home. It was probably some sort of safe house.
He sets the tray on the glass coffee table and pours two cups of espresso without asking if I want any. The coffee smells rich and complex, probably expensive enough to feed a family for a week. Everything in this house speaks to wealth and taste, to a man who has resources most people can only dream about.
"You need to eat," he says, settling into the chair across from me. His hazel eyes study my face with the same intensity I remember from our confrontation four days ago.
I ignore the food and focus on the television screen, flipping through channels, hoping to find some way to escape my current reality. Local news, national broadcasts, international coverage—all of it devoid of any reference to my existence.
"They're not looking for me," I say without taking my eyes from the screen.
"No."
