Page 14 of Breaking Rosalind
“We’ll see about that,” I mutter with a suppressed smirk.
Cesare stops the car at the other side of the mansion where the walls are covered in ivy. Up ahead is a manicured lawn that’s mostly dark, leading to an illuminated swimming pool. Behind it stands a much smaller structure built of the same white stone as the mansion.
When he opens the door, I pull on my handle, only to find it locked. A mocking laugh lodges in my throat. Did he think I would try to escape? He struts around the front, his lips curling into a satisfied grin, and finally allows me to exit.
As I step out into a juniper scented garden, he clamps a hand around my bicep as though I’m his prisoner.
He leans in, his breath hot against my neck, and whispers, “You’re not going anywhere, love.”
I roll my eyes. Does he act like this with all the impressionable young women he meets at the club?
What a creep.
Cesare frog-marches me down a path that leads to the pool house, and I turn around, casting the mansion a wistful glance. That’s where I need to be, sneaking through the hallways where the brothers will be at their most vulnerable.
My mind races through different scenarios. I could drug Cesare and sneak into the house through a service entrance or a window. That would help me explore the hallways and find the brothers’ bedrooms. After uploading some draft schematics along with pictures and footage, I’ll return to Cesare, act like he’s the god of sex, and continue gaining his trust until the right time to strike.
There’s so much to explore, including the grounds. Surely one of the huge trees bordering the electrified wall can provide my colleagues an opening? I’ll forward the information to Gunther and ask for permission to perform the assassination.
Maybe then I can earn my way out of debt.
“...Make you beg.” Cesare’s voice drifts back to my thoughts.
I turn to him and frown. “What?”
He lifts a brow, his lips tightening. “I said, I’m going to cuff you to the bondage chair and make you beg.”
“Beg for more, I hope?” I ask.
Eyes hardening, he clenches his jaw as though I’ve just hurled the most heinous of insults. “Of course.”
I turn my gaze to the moon reflecting on the swimming pool, wishing I didn’t have to be so antagonistic. Part of it is out of rebellion for enduring so much rejection from his cousin, the other part is an ingrained habit.
Once I’ve formed a persona on a job, it’s difficult to break out of it until my target is dead. That, and my default mode with men is bitchy. After a lifetime of bullshit and abuse, it’s impossible to empathize with creatures driven by ego, power, and their dicks.
At the end of the pool, we continue past the tall pillars of its veranda toward arched windows standing six-and-a-half-feet tall. Cesare opens the glass door to let me into a neutral-colored living space with stone floors, beige sofas, and a kitchen.
“Why are you taking me to your pool house?” I ask, my brows rising.
Grip tightening, he jostles me past the table and through a door, into a room of white walls and littered with black BDSM furniture.
My jaw drops. Not because of all the equipment hanging off racks, but because the space is unpretentious. Almost clinical. Most men would paint the walls red or black or purple, but this playroom is tasteful. It’s not at all what I expect from Cesare Montesano.
He releases my arm and stands by the door, letting me walk around. There’s a metal cage the size of a barrel, barely large enough to contain an average-height woman, and a leather platform with vertical bars that point toward the ceiling for securing the submissive’s legs. I run my hand along a bondage chair with outstretched armrests and splayed leg rests as I take in the room.
Black-framed photos hang on the wall, featuring Cesare subduing a naked woman wearing a leather hood. My brows rise. Beneath all the tattoos, designer clothes, and edginess is an insecure boy, desperate to impress.
Shaking off that thought, I run through my plan. I’ll tire out Cesare with sex, wait until he’s drowsy to inject him with a powerful sedative, then comb the grounds and the mansion for weak spots. After forwarding everything I record to Gunther, I’ll ask for authorization to complete the mission.
Gunther knows I can do it. This won’t be the first time a lone assassin has slaughtered an entire mafia family.
“See something you like?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I turn around and fix him with a wide grin. “But I didn’t come here for the aesthetics. You promised to make me scream.”
SIX
CESARE