Page 177 of Breaking Rosalind

SEVENTY

CESARE

I run down the hallway, unable to shake off Rosalind’s words. She still thinks I’m her captor and maybe she’s right.

What she doesn’t understand is that she’s holding me captive, too. Her regal presence, her strategic mind, and her capacity for unconditional love has captured my heart. I bound down the stairs, passing a maid who drops her tray and curses under her breath. Snickering at her loss of composure, I reach the ground floor, trying to catch Roman before he disappears into the pool house to watch over his crazy balcony woman.

I find him behind his desk, scowling over a pile of contracts. His expression is almost identical to the portrait of him hanging on the wall.

Gil sits on an armchair beside the mahogany bookshelf, watching porn on mute. As I peer over his shoulder, he turns off the screen.

“What were you doing at the airport?” Roman asks.

“Rosalind and I came to a truce. Part of that included taking her out of town on an errand.”

My brother raises his brows, wanting me to continue, but I shake my head. I trust him, but shutting the fuck up is the only way to stop a secret from spreading like a rash.

“If you’re asking why I didn’t use the jet, it’s because someone at the airport leaked my movements to Galliano.”

He nods. “The sooner those bastards are dead, the better it’s going to be for us all. Tell me about this truce.”

I repeat Rosalind’s plan to trick the Moirai into handing us more hostages. Gil barks a laugh and gets up to gather a group of men, while Roman picks up the phone.

“You sure they’re going to believe we’d swap their assassins for more time?” he asks.

“They’re suffering from a staff shortage and won’t send anyone important,” I reply with a shrug. “What have we got to lose?”

“Fine.” Roman taps a few commands into his screen. “But I’m coming with you, and we’re both wearing armor.”

“Let me wake up the hostages. The Moirai will probably want proof that they’re still alive.”

I leave the study and continue down the hallway to the stairs leading to the wine cellar. When my phone buzzes with a text, I know it’s coming from an unknown number. My gut churns with a bitter brew of resentment and regret. Galliano is getting desperate. Now that I’ve responded to him once, he won’t stop badgering me until I put him out of his misery.

After passing through the door disguised as a barrel, I navigate the maze of hallways toward the basement infirmary. My footsteps echo against the stone walls as I pass the empty cells, wondering if I’ll ever have the chance to house either of the Galliano brothers. I need to know how they seduced Mom.

Our family has used the space beneath the mansion for all kinds of shit, starting with great-grandfather Paolo’s distillery. Dad used to tell us that Alderney Hill was covered in fragrant trees like juniper and balsam fir to disguise the smell of crime. All those juniper berries eventually found their way into the gin.

I shake off that thought. Dwelling on juniper trees will only lead to memories of the magnolia trees I destroyed after Mom’s death.

Fuck. Finding out that Rosalind is also a mother has me thinking more about Mom. The two women are nothing alike. Mom was petite with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a warm smile, while Rosalind is a dark-haired Amazonian warrior.

I shouldn’t make comparisons, shouldn’t ask myself why Rosalind would kill for Miranda and why Mom left us in the dust, but my brain won’t stop obsessing on their differences.

Rosalind is strong, loyal, enduring—everything Mom wasn’t. Rosalind walked back into my clutches after I first took Miranda, knowing exactly what she would suffer. No matter what I tried, I couldn’t break through her hard shell until she thought her child was under threat.

Mom and I were so close. Our relationship wasn’t fractured like Miranda and Rosalind’s, so how could Mom leave us so easily? What was so unlovable about me?

I find Dr. Brunelli napping on the cot in the infirmary’s corner with a paperback half open on his chest. His mustache twitches under each heavy snore, making me huff a laugh.

“What are you reading?” I ask.

Jerking awake, he sits upright, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. “Cesare, you’re back.” He blinks as though processing my question before glancing down at his book. “Just an old psychology book.”

“How are the hostages?”

“Stable and sedated.” His gaze flicks to the wall clock. “It’s almost time to replace their IVs.”

“Wake them up. Roman’s just called their boss, who will want proof they’re still alive.”