Page 163 of Breaking Rosalind
When Miranda and the women disappear behind the fitting room door, Rosalind turns to me and hisses, “Did you have to be such an asshole?”
“Yes.” I fold my arms across my chest. “Now tell me how the Moirai can survive if its assassins keep dying or getting captured?”
She bristles as though I’ve insulted her family, then runs her fingers through her hair, seeming to realize her misplaced loyalty.
“There’s a whole academy of teenagers waiting to fill in the gaps,” she replies, her voice low. “Every time a student graduates, they join as an analyst. Think of them like fully trained apprentices, who provide mission support.”
“And they get promoted when one of their superiors either dies on the job or gets transferred?” I make air quotes.
She clears her throat. “That’s right.”
I rise off my seat and walk to the cash register to settle the bill when Miranda emerges from the fitting room. Afterward, we walk through the village looking for a store that sells more than colorful sweaters knitted from the local wool.
Questions rattle through my mind as they enter the first boutique offering something close to women’s fashion. How the hell did Rosalind get sucked into an academy for assassins, and how did the Moirai keep something like that hidden?
My phone buzzes, so I lean against the wall and check who’s sending messages. It’s a voicemail from an unknown number. Holding my breath, I press play, and hope to fuck it isn’t my stalker.
“Cesare, it’s Dad,” says a voice sounding hoarse with tears.
I grind my teeth, wanting to delete it, but I force myself to listen in case he says anything that might endanger Miranda.
“You didn’t call me about the gift I left in your parking lot, so I’m giving you forty-eight hours to call me back or I’ll deliver another to your gates.”
A sharp breath hisses through my teeth. Fuck the Moirai. Those assassins can wait. This sick bastard needs to be the first I kill. I replay the voicemail, memorize the number he gave me, and walk out into the street.
The worst part about Galliano’s ultimatum is that I can’t call him back from Helsing Island, not even from a burner phone, in case he traces my location.
But I also can’t allow another of my exes to die.
SIXTY-FOUR
CESARE
Blood roars in my ears as I pound the cobblestone streets, and every instinct screams at me to call Galliano’s bluff. But I can’t when there’s a chance he’ll make good on his threats. What if someone is tracking us right now from a rooftop? There’s no way to tell if that bastard knows I’m here with Rosalind and Miranda.
The connection in Helsing Island is even spottier than the reception at the top of Alderney Hill. Luckily for me, the store down the street doubles as an Internet cafe with a satellite link.
After paying for an hour, I find a corner, download an e-SIM and dial the number.
He answers in two rings, breathing hard down the phone. “Cesare?”
“I already told my brothers it’s you who’s killing women,” I snarl. “They think you want to frame me the same way Capello framed Roman.”
“Thank god,” Galliano says, his voice choked. “When you stopped responding to my calls, I lost control. You make me so crazy.”
My gut churns with a mix of rage and revulsion. I’ve only met the man once at the airport, yet he’s acting lovestruck.
“This creepy shit ends now,” I growl.
“Don’t do this to me, son. I’ve already lost so much,” he sobs.
I grind my teeth, wanting to reach through the phone and ring his scaly neck. This man doesn’t need a son, he needs a straightjacket, followed by several sedatives and a shot of strychnine.
“Get this straight. No amount of women you kill will ever make me join your family. All you’re doing is inspiring me to make your death more painful,” I say through gritted teeth.
“You’d kill your own father?” he croaks.
“My father is dead,” I snap. “You’re just a sick fuck with an infatuation.”