Page 48 of The Assassin's Captive
She clenches again, like her body’s trying to take all of it.
I stay inside her, breath still ragged, hand firm on her hip. Her skin is flushed, damp with sweat, chest rising against mine. She blinks up at me, lips parted, eyes too open for what we’ve done. I watch her heartbeat flicker in her throat, steady and alive under my palm.
The room is quiet except for our breathing, and for a moment, I allow myself to forget who we are. What this means. What will happen when the sun rises. But she doesn't let the silence linger.
"I need your help," she says, her voice soft but clear in the darkness, "if I'm going to survive being Emilio Costa's daughter."
Serena is finally accepting the truth of what she is, of the blood that runs through her veins. And she's asking me—the man who was sent to kill her—for protection.
"Serena—"
"Don't tell me it's not that simple." She shifts, leaning back against the wall behind her to look at me. "I know what this makes me. I know what it means. And I can't do this alone."
The vulnerability in her voice cuts through me. This is the same woman who faced down my threats with fire in her eyes. But now, in the aftermath of what we've shared, she's showing me the fear she's kept buried.
"I think you know we've crossed lines that can't be uncrossed, and that I'll be there for?—"
A sound from outside cuts through my words. Metal against stone followed by footsteps that are too loud.
I'm moving before the echo fades, pulling on my pants and grabbing the Glock from the nightstand in one fluid motion. Serena sits up, clutching her arms over her chest, her eyes wide.
"Stay here," I whisper, already moving toward the terrace doors. "Don't make a sound."
The terrace is bathed in shadow, the moon now hidden behind a bank of clouds. I press myself against the wall and peer around the corner, scanning the alley below. At first, I see nothing but the usual collection of refuse bins and parked cars.
Then I spot the movement in the darkness and know instinctively what it is. A figure in dark clothing moves through the shadows on the far side of the alley, keeping close to the buildings. He's trying to stay hidden, but his movements are too deliberate, too focused. This isn't some random vagrant or late-night wanderer.
My blood turns to ice. It's the same prowler who was lurking around my back yard a week ago when that nosy cop showed up to intervene. I could've finished this then if he'd have stayed out of it.
"Hey! You there!"
The shout comes from below, and I watch as Silvano Petrini emerges from the shadows near his own home. The retired detective moves with surprising speed for a man his age, his voice carrying clearly through the night air.
"What are you doing skulking around here?"
The prowler freezes for a split second, then bolts. He's fast, but Silvano is faster than he looks, giving chase like a predator. "Stop! Police!"
Even retired, Silvano still has the voice of authority. And he's determined—I'll give him that. The prowler stumbles, recovers, then disappears around the corner of the adjacent home, and Silvano follows him into the shadows where they vanish out of sight. Their footsteps fade with them as they grow farther away and I stand there listening.
I remain motionless on the terrace, watching the scene unfold with growing dread. Silvano is making enough noise to wake half the neighborhood, which means this little chase won't go unnoticed. Questions will be asked. Attention will be drawn.
And attention is the last thing I need right now. Though, I'm a bit relieved to find his nosiness has kept me from having the police directly on my doorstep. I thought the man would come at me, but he's kept to his business—and I to mine—just like he promised.
The alley falls quiet again, but I wait another full minute before retreating back inside. Serena is sitting on the edge of the bed, my shirt draped over her shoulders.
"What was it?" she asks.
"Someone watching the house." I close the terrace doors and draw the curtains tight. "Second time I've seen him."
Her face goes pale. "You think they know I'm here?"
I don't answer immediately. Instead, I grab my phone from the dresser and scroll through my contacts until I find Victor's number. My cousin answers on the second ring, his voice thick with sleep.
"Lorenzo? It's past midnight."
"I need you to run a name for me. Luciano Maretti."
But Victor's silence speaks volumes. When he does respond, his voice is rough with sleep. "Lorenzo, that's not possible. Maretti left Rome two years ago after the Torretti war. Dad made sure of it."
