Page 165 of Breaking Rosalind
“And when she gives you a hard time, what is that about?”
Miranda glares at her feet and scowls.
“Come on, love.” I lift her chin, making our eyes meet. “Think.”
“I suppose she wants me to study and be healthy,” Miranda mutters. “But she acts like she’s my mom.”
My stomach flips, and it takes every ounce of effort to maintain a poker face. “Final question.”
Miranda nods and gulps.
“Have you ever asked her why she did what she did?”
She turns her head to the side, which tells me the answer is no.
“Rosalind loves you more than you could imagine,” I say, my voice low. “She just has a different way of expressing her emotions.”
“I suppose she told you?”
“She shows me every day how much you’re her priority.”
Miranda shuffles on her feet, huffs and puffs and looks so sweet that I can forgive her for almost anything. “Alright,” she says. “I won’t call her a bitch.”
We return to Rosalind’s side, where I tell the clerk to wrap up everything Miranda selected and deliver the packages to the academy. Rosalind and Miranda leave with a change of clothes both for tonight and for our meeting with the head mistress in the morning.
After a short cab ride to the mountain, I check into our suite at the Brunswick Hotel under the name Charles Montague. It’s more luxurious on the inside compared to its gothic exterior, and the other guests look to be parents visiting their children at the school.
Our suite is a quaint, two-bedroom affair, tucked away at the top of the hotel. There’s a living area with a marble fireplace burning in one end surrounded by burgundy sofas that match the tapestries and drapes. On the other side of the room is a discreet kitchenette and dining table for the families who don’t want to venture out of the mountain. An entire wall of windows provides a panoramic view of the village.
By now, the sun has set, and the streets below are lit up with warm lights. I stand by the window and lose myself in the scene. Anything right now is a distraction from thinking about that conversation with Galliano.
The man needs to die, but he’s too well guarded. Every time I pull a weapon on the bastard, he has at least four men training guns on my head. He’s ten steps ahead, with more manpower, more resources, and a ruthlessness that has no limits.
The worst part about this threat is I can’t tell my brothers the truth. Matty Galliano was one of the people behind our family’s downfall. Benito and Roman might not immediately cast me out, but our relationship would change for the worse the moment they discover I am related to those snakes.
“Oh my god!” Miranda squeals from one of the bedrooms. “This is gorgeous. Let me see yours.”
She rushes out of her room and across the lounge into the second door, almost colliding with Rosalind who stands a foot away from the doorway with her shoulders hunched up to her ears.
Snapping out of my reverie, I follow Miranda into the master bedroom, where she’s already flitting about, exploring every corner with the enthusiasm of a hummingbird.
The room is tasteful, with a four-poster bed along one wall that’s draped in rich, dark velvet. If this were one of our hotels, Dad would want to burn the worn mahogany furniture and replace it with something modern.
“Don’t you like it, Rosa?” Miranda asks, her voice giddy.
Rosalind remains in the doorway, still and silent. I glance around to find her eyes burning with the threat of violence. When I turn to see what’s making her seethe, the corner of my mouth tugs into a smile.
There’s only one bed.
SIXTY-FIVE
ROSALIND
All the tension I’ve felt since becoming Cesare’s prisoner rears to the surface, forming a tight band of resentment around my chest. I had faith that I would escape captivity one way or another and I accepted tolerating him for a while until my daughter was safe.
But what I can’t accept are these sleeping arrangements. The four-poster bed belongs in a bodice ripper romance, where the blushing heroine gets ravished by the shirtless scoundrel.
I booked a family suite with three rooms. Three, so we could all have separate beds, but Cesare must have changed my reservation to this two-roomed monstrosity.