Page 29 of The Assassin's Captive
"They have everything to do with this. They gave you the stability and education that made you into the prosecutor who now threatens my family. That makes them responsible for the problems you've created."
"If you hurt them?—"
"I won't have to hurt them. I'll simply make their lives so miserable that they'll wish I had. Tax audits that go on for years. Pension payments that get delayed by bureaucratic complications. Home inspections that find violations requiring expensive repairs they can't afford."
Serena's hands shake with rage, but I see the moment when she realizes the futility of fighting someone with resources she can't match. "What do you want to know?" The question comes out as a whisper, her voice hoarse with defeat.
"Everything. The cases you're building, the evidence you've gathered, the financial networks you've traced. I want to know who you're working with, what your timeline looks like, and how close you are to bringing charges."
She nods slowly, her eyes fixed on the broken glass at our feet.
"And in return?"
"In return, you stay alive long enough for Emilio Costa to decide what your life is worth."
14
SERENA
The fire crackles behind the hearth, sending amber light dancing across the walls of his living room. I sit on the leather sofa, legs tucked beneath me, watching Lorenzo pour himself another glass of whiskey. The third one in an hour, but he's prowling, stalking around like a beast in a cage.
The realization has fully settled into my bones. I am trapped here—no car, no phone. No way out except through him. And he wants answers I can't give. Secrets I have spent years protecting. Trust I don't possess.
But there are other things I can offer. Other currencies I can trade.
I study the rigid line of his shoulders beneath the black shirt, the tension coiled in his frame. He's been distant since the call from Costa earlier. Cold. Calculating. The man who kissed me that night has retreated behind walls of ice and steel. But I saw the hunger in his eyes when I walked into this room. The way his gaze lingered on the curve of my waist, the sweep of my bare legs beneath this silk dress.
Desire is a weakness. And Lorenzo Santoro, for all his control, is still a man.
I rise from the sofa, bare feet silent on the floor, and he doesn't turn when I approach, but his hand tightens around the glass. I stop behind him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin, to catch the scent of cedar and gunpowder that clings to him always.
"You're thinking too hard," I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper.
His shoulders tense. "Am I?"
"Brooding. Plotting. Whatever it is you do when you get that look." I step closer until my chest nearly touches his back. "But tonight doesn't have to be about Costa. Or the past. Or whatever war is brewing out there."
He turns then with a slow, predatory look in his hazel eyes as they search my face, looking for the trap. The deception. He knows me too well already.
"What are you doing, Serena?"
The question comes out flat. A statement rather than an inquiry. But I hear the undercurrent of warning threaded through his voice. The edge of danger that should make me retreat.
Instead, I reach up and trace the scar that cuts down his cheek. His jaw clenches beneath my touch, but he doesn't pull away.
"Maybe I'm tired of fighting you," I say. "Maybe I want to try a different approach."
"And what approach is that?"
My fingers trail down to his throat, feeling the steady pulse beneath his skin. "Cooperation. Trust. You want me to open up to you? Then perhaps you should give me a reason to."
His free hand captures my wrist, his grip firm but not painful. "Careful. You're playing games you don't understand."
"I understand perfectly." I lean closer until my lips brush against his ear. "You want to know my secrets. I want to know yours. Seems fair."
His breath hitches. The glass in his other hand trembles, whiskey sloshing against the crystal. For a moment, his mask slips, and I see the raw hunger beneath. The need he has been holding back.
"Stop." The word comes out rough. Strained. "You don't know what you're asking for."
