Page 122 of Breaking Rosalind

“She does.”

I reach for my phone. “Let me call her and check.”

Miranda launches herself at me and grabs my wrist. “Don’t!”

“Thought so,” I say with a smirk.

She whacks my arm. “Cesare, what’s wrong with you?”

“I take care of what’s mine,” I say. “And I already see you as a little sister.”

Her eyes widen. “Does that mean you’re going to propose to Rosa?”

I tilt my head, picturing Rosalind crawling down the aisle with a remote-control toy in her pussy, forcing her to repeat the vows. Warmth fills my chest at the thought of tying her to me in the eyes of the law.

“When the time is right,” I say with a nod. “When I’m sure she’ll say yes.”

“She’ll be stupid if she refuses,” Miranda says with a huff.

“Rosalind doesn’t love me as much as I love her.” I say, trying not to smirk. I love torturing my little pet, but if given the chance, she’d cut off my balls and shove them down my throat.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“Sometimes, I wonder if she even likes me at all.”

“Cesare.” Her voice breaks.

“It’s true,” I say with a sigh. “Nothing I do for her is ever good enough.”

Miranda pulls me into a tight hug, and something in my chest loosens. No girl or woman has embraced me since the morning Gil walked in to tell us they’d found Dad dead at the club.

Mom held me while I cried, only to turn distant. Days later, Roman got arrested for the murder of a woman he didn’t even know, and then Mom abandoned us to marry Tommy Galliano.

That’s the trouble with women. They can’t be trusted. A man can spend his entire life basking in the warmth of their unconditional love, only to be left in the cold the moment there’s a better offer.

I draw back from Miranda’s embrace and gaze down into her eyes, they shine with kindness, compassion, and care. It’s hard to believe she and Rosalind even share the same blood.

“Rosa is ruthless, but I think her heart’s in the right place,” she murmurs.

“What do you mean?” I ask, my brows pinching.

She dips her head.

“Miranda?”

Tears land on her jeans, staining the worn denim with glistening spots. My breath catches, and my heart thumps with dread. I lift her chin, making our eyes meet.

“What is it, love?”

“You promise not to tell the cops?” She wipes her face with the backs of her hands.

My stomach tightens. I don’t want to believe it’s true, but I have to ask, “Did Rosalind hurt you?”

She shakes her head. “Remember when I told you my parents were dead?”

I’ll never forget the matter-of-fact way she described her father dying in an explosion and her mother getting shot in the head. Keeping my face in a neutral mask, I nod.

“Rosa came to the house one day when I was little and killed them both.”