Page 124 of Breaking Rosalind
The grinning bastard approaches the jet’s steps, raising his gloved hands like he’s Marcel Fucking Marceau begging for the chance to mime being shot down in a rain of bullets. As I reach for my weapon, the doors of the limo open, letting out four armed men, each training a gun at my chest.
I lower my hands. Matty Galliano might want me to cross over to his side voluntarily, but he and his brother aren’t known for their patience. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve hung up on him, left his texts unread, or told him to fuck himself, yet he keeps coming back.
“Cesare,” he says, his voice bursting with pride. “I’m so happy to see you in the sun.”
My skin crawls, and I resist the urge to shudder. If I’m the big bad wolf, then Matty Galliano and his brother, Tommy, are snakes. The man slithering toward the steps wears a python-skin pea coat, complete with raised scales. It’s buttoned up, revealing only the white turtleneck that rides up to his chin.
I glare down into his artificially colored face, wondering what the quartet of armed men think of their boss’s thick makeup.
“You’ve grown up to be so handsome,” Galliano adds, his voice choked.
My lip curls. “If creepy compliments are your love language, is it any surprise I keep ignoring your calls?”
He gazes up at me like I’m the eighth wonder of the world. It’s the same expression Miranda makes when she’s fangirling, only not as cute. I can take adulation from women. In fact, I welcome it, but not from this decrepit old man.
“Family is more important to me than life itself, and I…” He inhales a shuddering breath. “Don’t shut me out, Cesare. You’re the only child I have left.”
I grind my teeth, resisting the urge to snap back. It takes every ounce of self-control to hold back from filling this creature with bullets.
“Did you get my message?” he asks.
“The dead girl in the alley?”
“She spat in your drink.” His voice grates on my last nerve. “I had to teach her some respect.”
An incredulous laugh builds up in my gut. This man is a compulsive liar and a comedian. “You chose her because we fucked, and you killed her to create a rift between me and my bothers.”
He raises a finger and smirks, “Half-brothers.”
“If what you told me is correct, they’re now my only siblings.”
When his smile fades, I know my jab has pierced his heart. It’s been nearly three weeks since Leroi killed Galliano’s kids, and he’s desperate to find a replacement.
He reached out several times when they were alive, but never to this extent. Bastard is turning into a stalker.
“Will you consider my offer?” he asks.
“After you sent the Moirai to kill us?” I spit.
He flinches as though slapped. “Not you,” he says, his voice breaking. “Never you. The assassins were only supposed to take out Benito and Roman.”
Anger simmers in my gut like liquid bubbling in a still. I want to charge down the steps and tighten that turtleneck around his throat. I want to squeeze the life out of him until his eyes bulge out of his painted skull. I want to stomp that face until all that’s left of him is gore.
If I got close, his men would barrel me into that limo, and I’d never see the light of day again. Annoyance kicks me in the balls. Since when did I become the fucking damsel?
“The shooter confessed to having three targets, not two,” I say.
His features darken. “I’m going to have words with my brother.”
I scoff. “Looks like Tommy wants all three Montesano brothers dead.”
His nostrils flare, but he remains silent. Tommy Galliano was right to commission the triple hit. There’s no way in hell I would ever turn away from my family. We may not have the same father, but we share loyalty, history, and blood.
“Leave it with me, son,” Matty says and shuffles toward the limousine.
My fingers twitch to shoot him in the spine, but I force back the urge to start a gunfight and focus on his retreat.
I glare at the leather pants, which lead down to a pair of green cowboy boots, unable to tell if his awkward movements are because of a skin condition or because he’s wearing the hide of at least three different animals.