Page 109 of Breaking Rosalind

I follow Gil out through the hallway into another room, where four men hold guns to a naked man who’s crouched on all fours. He’s athletic and blond, looking exactly what I would expect of a trained assassin.

“Is he talking?” I ask.

“No.” One of the guards kicks the man in the ribs and he doesn’t even flinch.

That’s all the confirmation I need to know he’s a member of the Moirai. It looks like all these assassins have a high tolerance for pain.

After returning to double-check that Rosalind is still unconscious, I secure the shooter with zip-ties and a mild paralyzing agent, then transport him down to a basement interrogation room.

It’s empty, save for an adjustable table and the trolley containing my tools. The shooter’s eyes stay closed as I set him up for questioning, but the moment I jab him in the shoulder with the scalpel, he flinches.

The man glares up at me through blue eyes that grate on my nerves. The shade reminds me too much of Matty Galliano.

“Let’s not waste time with denials,” I say. “The surveillance footage caught you shooting at my brother, and you took down two guards before you reached the wall. You’re an assassin.”

His jaw flexes.

I tap the tiny tattoo on his hip. “And I know you’re from the Moirai.”

His nostrils flare. “You find that out from Rosalind?”

“You know her?”

He huffs a laugh. “You could say that.”

My eyes narrow, and I take another look at his features. Some might call this bastard handsome, if you like clean-cut, Scandinavian Ken dolls.

Rosalind would never take a second look at this asshole. She likes her men, dark, dangerous, edgy. She likes a man strong enough to challenge her brattiness. She likes a man like me.

Or does she?

I thought Stockholm syndrome was kicking in before she stabbed me in the back. Maybe all that flirtation and banter was just a ploy to make me lower my guard. I was sure only I could make her wet.

My eyes narrow. Before I can stop myself, I ask, “What does that mean?”

“Rosalind and I had a great time together in Paris. Four months of good food, good wine, and good fucking.”

My nostrils flare. “Is that right?”

He smirks. “Best time ever.”

“Let me ask you something.” I walk around the interrogation table, keeping my eyes trained on the bastard’s face. “Does every assassin from the Moirai Group work from the same playbook?”

He remains still.

“Or do you memorize the same dossier on your targets and their weaknesses?”

He takes several deep breaths, each one measured and controlled. I don’t need an electrocardiogram to tell he’s trying to calm his racing heart.

I press the scalpel into his eye socket. “Answer my question.”

“Yes,” he hisses.

“Yes, what?” I reply.

“We keep a file on each target, including a psychological profile of their habits, weaknesses.”

“What does the Moirai say about me?” I ask with a sneer.