Page 133 of Breaking Rosalind
FIFTY-TWO
CESARE
Rosalind is so close to submitting to me I can taste victory on the tip of my tongue. My brilliant little pet doesn’t realize how much information she’s spilled. With one piece of information, she’s given me exactly what I need to make the other assassins speak.
When she awakens, she’ll give me more.
After checking she’s still secured to the tilt table, I adjust it a few degrees to maximize her disorientation. With the way I’m switching tactics, it’s only a matter of time before I shatter her mind.
When she breaks, I will rebuild her to my exact specifications. Then she’ll think of me more as a savior than a psychopath.
I leave the room and walk down to the large interrogation chamber, where I left her underlings. Faint sounds echo from within, making my steps falter. Pausing with my ear pressed to the door’s cold metal surface, I hear soft taps. They’re rhythmic and staccato, reminding me of Morse code.
Shit. The only thing I know is S.O.S. This sounds like an entire conversation.
I broke their fingers to make sure they couldn’t untie themselves and escape, gagged them so they couldn’t speak, and encased them in darkness. Those fuckers. The last thing I considered was their ability to plot against us with knocks.
As I enter the chamber, my senses fill with the putrid stench of death. More importantly, the tapping falls silent, confirming my suspicions.
The air is heavy, not with the scent of decay but betrayal. I step past the motion sensor that activates the light, and all four of the assassins turn to gape at their dead colleague still hanging from the middle cross.
Blondie’s corpse in the middle has already bypassed livor mortis and has begun to decompose. The blood beneath his cross has already soaked into the concrete floor, leaving a darkened stain.
“You should be more concerned about yourselves,” I say.
All four pairs of eyes snap back to meet mine.
“I know you’re immune to truth serums. You’re also communicating with each other to concoct a believable lie,” I say. “So, let’s try again. Next person to bullshit me won’t just join Axel in death, you’ll lose body parts.”
Hours later, I exit the wine cellar, reeling from four different accounts. Axel was the mastermind who orchestrated the assassination attempt. Britt was supposed to shoot Benito but disappeared on an unauthorized side quest to rescue Rosalind. Rosalind is a prodigy who fell from grace. Rosalind was promoted to a managerial position in another office.
All four assassins swear that they’re only support staff, yet Rosalind already told me there would be three shooters, each with an assistant to help them escape.
They all skirt around my most important questions: where are the Galliano brothers hiding and how the fuck do we stop the Moirai?
I don’t expect them to know the answer to the first, but they must have ideas about the latter. It’s as though their overlords have locked away the secret to defeating them behind a wall of terror.
My footsteps echo through the stairwell, aggravating my throbbing head. Enough time has passed since Rosalind shot me in the chest that my ribs no longer ache, yet I’m still no closer to answers.
The phone in the pocket of my leather apron buzzes with the reminder I’m running late to update my brothers on my lack of progress. When I reach Roman’s office, a new portrait of him hangs over his desk.
Whoever painted that thing depicted him as a god, with sunlight chiseling his features and turning the ends of his black hair a deep shade of mahogany. Somehow, the portrait’s eyes burn like coals. The artist is probably the crazy balcony woman who’s now sleeping in my brother’s bed.
“Over here,” Roman says.
I tear my gaze away from the painting toward the leather sofas on the room’s far left. Roman is dressed like he’s about to play a round of tennis in the park, and Benito wears a black three-piece suit with his hair slicked back like Micheal fucking Corleone.
“We missed you at the crematorium this morning,” Benito says, his voice etched with disapproval. “And at the casino and the club.”
“Allegra’s taking care of it,” I mutter.
Benito leans back in his armchair. “Aren’t you spreading her too thinly?”
“The karaoke bar practically runs itself,” I say through clenched teeth. “Besides, she has an assistant manager who can pick up the slack.”
“This is Allegra, the coke head?” Roman asks, his gaze bouncing from me to Benito.
I flinch. “You questioning my ability to manage my staff? Or are you trying to tell me former addicts never get a second chance?”