Page 119 of Breaking Rosalind
I lie still as he inspects the wound with his gloved fingers, which have stopped trembling. He’s gone into physician mode.
The infirmary blurs into insignificance, and my entire world concentrates on this insane mafia prince who believes a few years of medical qualifies him for surgery.
His movements are deliberate, each action precise and calculated. I close my eyes, trying to block out the reality of my predicament.
Miranda is safe, even if she’s in contact with this maniac. Now that I’m committed to betraying the Moirai, there’s nothing holding me back from sharing information about the firm to negotiate my safety and a possible release.
It’s just a question of getting in touch with a Montesano brother who isn’t quite as insane.
“You’re doing so well, pet,” he murmurs, breaking me out of my thoughts.
My eyes snap open just in time to see him reaching past a tray of sterile instruments and taking hold of a swab. He cleans the wound with gentle strokes, removing all traces of blood.
Cold seeps into my flesh, making me want to shiver. I keep my breaths deep and slow, even as he reaches for a scalpel.
Now isn’t the time to speak or any kind of distraction. I force my body to remain still as he makes incisions around the gunshot wound and then replaces the scalpel for forceps. I don’t feel a thing when he extracts the bullet and drops it on a tray with a clink.
I stare straight ahead and tune out the rest of the procedure, not noticing he’s finished until his fingers thread through my hair.
“All done,” he says, his voice full of warmth and pulls my hair off my face. “Now, I need to tend to your cut lip and the swelling around your eye.”
Cesare hums a tune as he cleans the wound with a cool, antiseptic liquid. The tremble returns to his fingers again, and his eyes harden. I don’t need to read his mind to know his rage from earlier is rising to the surface.
He applies a numbing gel to my black eye and dabs ointment on my split lip. My chest lightens with the absence of pain. The relief only lasts a moment because he produces another syringe. Panic reaches through my ribs and squeezes my heart and squeezes so hard I stop breathing.
“Rest, little pet,” he says as a needle enters the vein on my neck.
“What did you give me?” I say through strangled gasps.
“Just a little sedative. When you wake up, everything will be different.”
My eyes flutter closed as the drug takes effect, and I sink into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The next time I awaken, I’m sitting upright with my head bowed. A ball gag lodges halfway toward my throat, and every inch of my body is strapped to a wheelchair.
Faint breaths grate along eardrums, along with muffled sobs. I’m probably so fucked in the head that I don’t even realize I’m crying.
Cracking my eyes open, I stare down at my lap and let my vision adjust to the dark. Bandages encase both legs, seeming to be attached to the lower part of its frame.
My gaze wanders past my knees and I see... nothing.
Adrenaline kicks me in the heart.
I jerk forward within my restraints and crane my neck, looking past my knees for signs of my calves, my ankles, my feet. They’re either bound so tightly to the chair or?—
My mind stutters.
He didn’t.
He wouldn’t.
He couldn’t.
He fucking could.
Ice courses through my veins, making my senses break out in a panic. I thrash within my restraints, wiggling my toes to check that I still have feet. Sensation travels up my legs, but it could mean anything from tight bondage to the phantom pain after amputation.
Who the fuck knows if what I’m feeling is real?