Page 221 of Breaking Rosalind
I glance away, my breath quickening.
This is moving too fast. I’m usually so cautious with men.
“Feeling better, love?” he asks, his voice soft.
“Yeah,” I reply, trying not to sound choked up. “Thanks for arranging this.”
He pulls me into his chest for a comforting hug, and it takes every effort not to melt in this embrace. That doesn’t stop me from resting my head on his shoulder and wrapping my arms around his waist.
It’s alright to enjoy his company while I’m still in survival mode. As soon as our bargain is over, so will our relationship.
He cups my cheeks. “Xero has the delivery. Are you still okay with the plan?”
I nod. “I’m not just freeing myself, but all the students about to sign their lives over to an evil organization. Every operative at the graduation will also be set free.”
He nods. “You realize the other hostages will die tomorrow?”
My throat thickens. “Yeah. Can I see them?”
Half an hour later, we’re back in the basement. Instead of returning to the room with the five crosses, we’re in an infirmary where Greta, Branson, and the other two operatives from the assassination attempt are sitting up, strapped to hospital beds.
Thick bands restrain their entire bodies, with their fingers encased in splints. Feeding tubes snake from their noses, along with IV lines delivering fluids into their veins. Catheter bags hang from the side of each cot, making me shudder.
To the left and right of them, the other six other operatives lie unconscious within their beds. I recognize them all, and over the decade I’ve been at the Moirai, not a single one of them has shown me any respect.
“Rosalind,” Greta croaks, her voice pulling me out of my musings. “How are you still alive?”
My brows rise. I almost forgot how they all colluded to throw me under the proverbial tank by telling Cesare I arranged the assassination. Hearing her voice is a reminder of the daily mockery and humiliation I faced when Gunther demoted me, and I became a scapegoat and a cautionary tale for anyone thinking of defying the firm.
Well, I’m no longer the bottom of the barrel and no longer have any reason to cringe. Ignoring her question, I ask, “Why didn’t you fight with me when we were all being held at gunpoint?”
Greta glances at Branson, who bows his head.
“Branson?” I ask.
When he doesn’t answer, I turn to the other two. “Well?”
“You were already marked for death,” Greta spits.
“What does that mean?” I ask, already knowing part of the answer from questioning Dr. Daniel.
“Gunther said you rejected the promotion to join forces with the Montesano family, and it looks like he was right.”
My nostrils flare, and I grind my teeth, not bothering to tell them I left HQ because Cesare took Miranda. Most of these people don’t have connections outside the firm. Those who did sure as hell wouldn’t sacrifice their lives if any of their relatives got abducted.
Recruiters at the Moirai target orphans, kids in foster homes, or those sent away to boarding schools by their families to rot. If I didn’t have a child, I would be just as disconnected from the outside world.
“If Gunther doesn’t kill you for being a double agent, we will,” Branson adds.
“There’s something you should know about your precious Gunther,” I say through clenched teeth. “Every operative who gets promoted overseas is dead or has been left for dead.”
“Bullshit,” Greta says.
“Ask yourself how many of these lucky people have ever returned to the USA.”
“You and Axel went to Zurich.”
“That was a job, not a promotion,” I say.