Page 186 of Breaking Rosalind
“Do you have any contacts with full-scale industrial laboratories?”
An hour later, we’re pulling into an office building a block away from Beaumont City’s largest shopping mall. Underneath it is where Roman relocated the meth lab he and Benito rescued from the Galliano brothers.
We take an elevator down to the third level basement and continue through an empty underground parking lot and through two sets of security doors into the sterile laboratory.
Rosalind’s gasp is audible over the low hum of machinery, and my chest inflates with pride.
“Impressive,” she says, her gaze sweeping past a row of industrial-sized rotary evaporators and up to the wide exhaust ducts snaking across the high ceiling.
We continue past tall distillation columns and a room filled with drums toward where a group of cooks clad in white hazmat suits gather around a counter, checking the purity of their latest batch.
At the sound of our footsteps, my former chemistry lecturer, Dr. Cortese, turns around and waves us over with a glove-covered hand.
My stomach drops at how much she’s aged since she and her team were abducted. Her hair has turned gray. She’s still beautiful, but her wrinkles have deepened.
What the hell happened to her while the Gallianos held her captive?
I hide my shock with a smile. “Dr. Cortese.”
She breaks away from the group and pulls me into a tight hug. “It’s so good to see you, Cesare.”
Resting her head on my chest, she sighs as though I’m a close friend. I return the hug, noting that Dr. Cortese never showed me this level of affection during her time at the university or even after I introduced her to Roman.
She draws back with a sad smile and is about to say something when her son, Christian, barges in with a broad grin. “What brings you here? Did you graduate?”
My gaze bounces from my former teacher to my former classmate. It looks like Christian is trying to protect his mom. “No.” I force my features not to grimace at the reminder of why I dropped out of medical school. “The family business became more urgent, so I had to leave.”
They both nod, not needing any further explanation. If Dad hadn’t died and Roman hadn’t been arrested, the Galliano brothers wouldn’t have infiltrated the lab and abducted our cooks.
Stepping back, I sweep an arm toward Rosalind. “My associate needs a large quantity of mercury nitrovolucite.”
Rosalind steps forward. “I’ve only made it on a small scale and as part of a chemistry class, but I can provide a detailed formula and instructions.”
Christian ushers her to a part of the counter where they hunch over a notebook, leaving me behind with Dr. Cortese. I turn to the older woman and ask, “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
With a nod, she walks toward a wall of steel shelving units, where there’s a door leading to a dormitory of bunks. She wanted them installed for nights when someone needs to stay behind to monitor a batch or can’t make it home because of a late-night experiment.
Before I can step toward her, she turns around to face me, her blue eyes etched with pain. “I know you want answers, Cesare. Everyone does.” Her voice is ragged, barely louder than the clink of glass beakers from the other side of the room. “I just... We had to produce meth for them. They were so forceful.”
Guilt forms a knot in my chest. I hadn’t even considered asking her why she cooked for the Galliano brothers. Two psychopathic maniacs and an army of armed lackeys is no match for a science lecturer and a handful of college students.
“Nobody blames you. You did what you had to do to stay alive,” I murmur, trying to ease some of her tension.
Sighing, she bows her head, her shoulders deflating with relief. “Those men were monsters.”
My chest burns with curiosity. I never understood why Mom would sleep with the Galliano brothers while she was married to Dad, let alone leave us to marry Tommy. Dad had his faults, but he wasn’t a psychopath who murdered women for sport.
“Did you meet them?” I ask.
She shudders. “Tommy was a regular visitor. He used to complain that the meth was weak and forced us to develop a better blend.”
“But yours was 99.6% pure,” I say.
“He wanted something stronger, with a bigger kick, and punished us when we failed.”
My brows pull together in a deep frown. “What happened?”
Her gaze lowers. For several seconds, it looks like she won’t answer, then she sits on one of the bunks and stares at her lap. “He hurt Christian and threatened to spray his brains across the lab if we didn’t make this miracle drug.”