Page 121 of Breaking Rosalind

“There’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” I say.

“What?” she asks with a dazzling smile.

“You can’t run off with strangers, even if they claim to be friends with your sister.”

Her brow furrows and she raises a shoulder. “But you’re not a stranger. You’re Rosalind’s new man.”

Frustration wells in my gut. How the hell do I keep this girl out of trouble without letting her know she’s technically a hostage? Hell, she even forwarded me the exact coordinates of her hideout. Miranda will always be safe with me, but most men aren’t so honorable.

“That’s not my point,” I say. “I could have been anyone.”

“But I saw the photo of you and Leroi, so I know you’re connected to my sister.” She glances around. “Where is she, anyway?”

Strange how she only asks about Rosalind when she wants to change the subject.

“I took her skiing, and she impaled her shoulder on a branch.”

“Is she okay?” she asks.

“Just recovering from some minor surgery.” I pull out my phone and show her a selfie I took of us while Rosalind was sedated.

“Why is she always asleep in your photos?” she mutters.

“It’s the only time I can ever get her to hold still,” I reply with a smile. “Other times, she isn’t interested in posing with me.”

“Is that because you’re in the mafia?” Miranda asks.

I flinch. “Where did you hear that?”

“Your brother went viral after a true crime influencer exposed the conspiracy that nearly got him executed. Some of the commenters said he was a mafia kingpin, so I dug deeper.”

“And what did you find?” I surreptitiously press the call button to summon the flight attendant.

Miranda rattles off a list of information she gathered online, her voice getting more and more animated. She talks like organized crime is all heists, high jinks and hot car chases, completely unaware that what she’s describing is horrifying.

“It sounds like you’ve been watching too many movies,” I mutter.

Before she can ask if any of it is true, the attendant arrives with a tray of drinks.

“Can I get you something?” she asks with a smile.

“Mimosa,” Miranda says.

The attendant shoots me a glance.

“And a glass of orange juice,” I add.

As soon as the woman returns to place both drinks on the low table, Miranda grabs the champagne flute and takes a sip.

“That’s enough for you.” I prise the glass from her fingers and down its contents.

“That was mine,” she snaps.

“You’re not getting drunk on my watch.” I set down the flute and hand her the juice. Alcohol isn’t really my thing, but I’ll snatch a drink from a woman to prove a point.

“Rosa lets me drink all the time,” she mutters.

“I doubt that.”