Page 192 of Breaking Rosalind
“Cesare,” Leroi says. “Are you good?”
I clear my throat. “There’s one more thing I need to say.”
When nobody speaks, I continue. “What Rosalind did was strictly business, and before anyone asks, she didn’t shoot Roman in the chest. That man is dead. I tortured him to the edge of his sanity. Then I made Dr. Brunelli revive him from the brink of death so I could torture him again.”
Roman’s jaw clenches, but he nods.
“Rosalind isn’t the one who brought in six other assassins, that was you.” I point at Benito and Roman.
“Us?” Benito growls.
“You two invited a bunch of strangers into our home, knowing that the Galliano brothers were trying to expand into our territory. Before you blame a woman whose information just got us six more hostages and a plan to destroy the Moirai, look at yourselves.”
I fold my arms, waiting for one of them to bring up my failures. Instead, I am met with silence. Being the youngest in a family sometimes means being left out or having your opinions dismissed. But that doesn’t mean I’m not watching from the outside.
Leroi glances from me to my brothers. “Anyone got anything else to add? No? Then how about we all shut the fuck up and enjoy the movie.”
Seraphine turns to me with a warm smile and pats the seat beside hers. We bonded over the triage surgery I performed on Samson Capello to make him medically fit enough to endure another round of torture.
I’m sure she thinks I’m a doctor.
Returning her smile, I lower myself onto the seat. Benito rewinds the movie, even though we’ve seen it over a hundred times.
If I’m honest, I prefer Scarface, but I’m going to enjoy this family moment while it lasts.
SEVENTY-SIX
ROSALIND
With a yawn, I step out of the elevator and into the mall. At this time of the morning, most of the stores are closed and there’s no sign of shoppers, but I spot the occasional cleaner.
I stayed up the entire night, working with Christian on the amount of mercury nitrovolucite we’re going to need to reach the deepest levels of the Moirai. Large-scale production of chemicals is far trickier than the experiments we conducted at the academy.
Industrial manufacturing introduces a whole new set of variables I hadn’t contemplated, and there’s no room for error when ingredients are volatile and rare. I’m just so glad I had Christian’s expertise.
As I head toward the deserted food court, a door opens and the red-haired woman from yesterday steps out of the vegan café holding an A-frame board advertising the day’s specials.
Our eyes meet, and she raises a hand to wave. “Wheatgrass shots again?”
Actually, I was thinking of strong coffee, but wheatgrass is exactly what I need to boost my flagging energy levels. “Make it two with a coconut cappuccino.”
She gives me a thumbs up and disappears back into her store just as my phone vibrates. Only two people have this number, but Miranda prefers to text than call.
I accept the call. “Hey.”
“Good morning, pet,” Cesare drawls, his voice a deep rumble. “I’m pulling into the parking lot.”
“Meet me at the café.”
He makes a disgruntled sound. “See you there.”
I snicker at the thought of him eating another vegan meal. I’ll eat meat on missions or if I’m sure it’s of the best quality, but my body prefers plant-based substitutes. Besides, after days of not eating, I’m in desperate need of nutrition.
Slipping the phone back into the pocket of my cargo pants, I open the café’s door and step inside. My nostrils fill with the mingled scents of baked goods and freshly ground coffee, and I make my way to the counter, where a large cup of coffee awaits.
As the redhead pours wheatgrass into shot glasses, I take a sip of my cappuccino. It’s rich and velvety, thanks to the coconut milk, with a hint of caramel. I’m about to ask about the blend she used when I feel the prick of a needle.
On instinct, I drop my coffee and pull out the tiny dart. The ceramic cup smashes on the floor, splashing my ankles with hot coffee. Whirling around, I lock gazes with a large figure at the door, holding a compact sedation device.