Page 187 of Breaking Rosalind
I curl my hands into fists. Tommy Galliano doesn’t know the first thing about chemistry. If he did, he’d understand that perfection is impossible to surpass.
“What did you do?”
“We formulated something new,” she mutters. “It wasn’t meth. It was more chemically similar to cocaine. We called it benzo.”
“Benzo,” I repeat, already knowing it’s an abbreviation of cocaine’s chemical name.
“It was highly addictive, with even worse side effects than any other drug. Tommy forced Christian to try every batch to make sure it wasn’t poisoned or subpar.”
My breath quickens. “Is he alright?”
“We developed another formula on the side to help Christian cope with the addition and side effects. We called it pellucid because it worked like an antidote.”
“Is he still addicted?” I ask.
“No, but it’s taken a toll on his mental health.”
I shake my head, disgusted at how Galliano could exploit a mother’s love and use her son as a guinea pig. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Roman is paying for therapy,” she replies with a soft sigh, “But if you ever get the chance to kill Tommy, I want to spit on his face as he dies.”
“Galliano won’t get away with this,” I say, meaning every word. “And if he’s still alive when I’ve finished with him, I’ll let you make the killing blow.”
She raises her head to meet my gaze, her eyes hardening with determination. “That bastard deserves to burn in hell for what he did to my boy.”
Christian bursts into the room, his eyes shining. “Mom. Rosalind is a treasure trove of amazing formulas.”
Dr. Cortese stands, her features softening, and joins her son. I follow after her, my heart sinking.
Galliano used Christian as a pawn in his power games, just as I used Miranda against Rosalind. Is there any difference between me and my paternal uncle, or am I equally monstrous?
Apologizing to Rosalind wouldn’t be enough.
She probably wants my blood.
SEVENTY-FOUR
ROSALIND
After sharing the formula for mercury nitrovolucite and its instructions with the team, Cesare takes me to another set of elevators that lead directly to the shopping mall. It’s just before the lunchtime rush, and the place is filling with shoppers, all oblivious they’re standing above a secret laboratory.
A fragrant mix of cuisines from the food court fills the air and makes my stomach rumble. My gaze darts toward a vegan café that produces fresh wheatgrass shots.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“You need new clothes,” he says. “I’m taking you to the Dolce Vita boutique.”
“Never heard of it.”
He flashes me a smile. “The owner is a distant cousin.”
We reach a store front with windows adorned with mannequins displaying designer clothes that wouldn’t look out of place on a Paris runway. I can only guess that the price of the garments would exceed a month’s salary.
“Are we going to a high-end place that needs me to blend in?” I ask.
He turns to me and frowns. “What do you mean?”
“These clothes are very nice, but I only wear them for work when I’m trying to infiltrate upscale events.”