Page 120 of Breaking Rosalind
A groan sounds from somewhere in the room, making my head snap up. Breathing hard, I take in my surroundings. The room I’m in is dark, without even the courtesy of a flickering bulb. Illumination comes from the digital display of a clock that reads 11:59.
11:59? Is that the time or a coded message?
I jerk back and forth, trying to make the contraption move a few inches, only for it to roll forward. The movement triggers a switch that floods the space with light and burns my eyes.
Breathing hard, I blink away the glare, only to find myself in a much larger room. Axel hangs suspended on a wooden X, naked save for a ball gag and a set of bandages around his chest. The other assassins from the Moirai also hang unmoving to his left and right.
Greta stares at me, her face streaked with tears. That muffled sob I heard earlier didn’t come from me. It was her.
What. The. Actual. Fuck?
FORTY-SEVEN
CESARE
I lean back in my seat on the Montesano private jet, sipping a congratulatory Shirley Temple. Everything is finally under control. Rosalind should be rousing from sedation to find her fellow assassins pinned to Saint Andrew’s crosses, and her wounds will be healing nicely. Best of all, I haven’t heard a word from that Galliano scum.
This gives me the time I need to rescue my little princess from her tower.
Miranda stands before me in the private jet, reenacting her rescue, playing all three parts of the people involved.
She swings the imaginary ax at the door. “Stand back, love,” she says in a deep voice that’s supposed to be mine. “I’m going to set you free.”
I chuckle. How can one sister be so much fun while the other is a vicious backstabber?
“Okay,” she says in her own voice and skitters back to the sofa.
She switches back to pretending to be me and reaches into the hole I chopped through the door. “You’re safe, now, Miranda.”
“Did I say that?” I ask with a smirk.
“Are you telling this story, or am I?” She places her hands on her hips.
“Sorry, love.” Raising the glass, I gesture at her to continue. “No more interruptions.”
Miranda reenacts how some old asshole in the apartment opposite stepped out with a gun and received the butt of my ax in the gut.
I would have swung the blade at his head for pointing a gun at a little girl, but I didn’t want to traumatize her with the sight of violence.
She doubles over, mimicking the injured neighbor before falling into a peal of giggles. “You were like something out of a fairy tale.”
“Rapunzel?” I ask, my gaze lingering on her long braid.
She tilts her head the way girls do when you’ve said something silly. “Little Red Riding Hood. You’re the wood cutter who freed me from the big bad wolf.”
“And this wolf would be the fat bastard?”
“My sister and her stupid friend.” Her lips tighten. “Britt called me last night, telling me to destroy my new phone.”
A sharp breath hisses through my teeth. Straightening my shoulders, I force my facial muscles to calm. Despite getting shot and my men’s attempt to capture the glum bitch, Rosalind’s friend managed to escape the distillery.
“Why would she want you to get rid of a handset that hasn’t even yet hit the stores?” I ask, feigning innocence.
“Britt says you’re dangerous.” She flops in the seat next to mine.
I gaze down into gray eyes a little too large for her face. Everything about Miranda is so cute. It’s easy to forget she’s related to the woman who tried to put a bullet through my heart. I fidget in my seat, my chest tightening with guilt.
Miranda is far too trusting. I’m not the woodcutter in her little fairytale, I’m ten times worse than the wolf.