Page 237 of Breaking Rosalind
His taunting words ignite a rage that burns hotter than a funeral pyre. I thrash within the guards’ hold, swearing that one day, I rip off his skin.
As the doctor approaches Rosalind from behind with the syringe, I finally remember where I first heard about Benzo. It’s the formula Tommy forced Dr. Cortese and her team to manufacture. The drug he would test on her son, Christian. The one Dr. Cortese said was more addictive than crack.
Fuck.
He’s trying to turn Rosalind into an addict.
NINETY-FIVE
ROSALIND
Any relief I might feel from the change in subject fades the moment Tommaso orders the doctor to inject me with benzo. I scour my knowledge of drugs but can only dredge up a class of psychoactive drugs people use as sedatives.
It can’t be any of the common ones that come under that category like Valium or Xanax because no hospital or mafia organization could run low on something so widely manufactured. I can only assume it’s a custom formulation.
“Touch her and I’ll kill every single motherfucker in this hospital,” Cesare yells.
“This is for your own good, boy,” Tommaso mutters.
“Get away from me,” I scream, even though it’s futile.
I thrash and kick against the iron grip of my captors, but one of them delivers a blow to the side of my head, filling my vision with sparks. As I struggle to regain my senses, a needle slides into my carotid artery with a cold sting, flooding my veins with a numbing coolness that makes the edges of my vision blur.
This feels like Dr. Daniel’s drug, only I’m not entirely paralyzed. Euphoria spreads through my senses, drowning out the fury at yet another violation.
Tommaso’s vile words echo in my ears as I struggle to remain conscious, his manic laughter slicing through my haze like shards of glass. As the drug takes hold and my body goes limp, a sense of bliss engulfs my despair.
I’m back where I started. Powerless within the grip of a Galliano. And if one of us breaks, they’ll claw back the one person I would die to protect.
Tommaso’s voice floats into my consciousness. “Take her to the mansion.”
“Give her to me or say goodbye to our alliance,” Cesare snarls.
Tommaso falls silent for several heartbeats. “Are you sure you want this one, Cesare? She’s used-up. By the time my brother got tired of her, she was a no-limits whore.”
My reaction is dulled by the drug, but Cesare’s roar of anger penetrates my brain fog.
“The next time you insult her, I will tear out your tongue,” he yells.
“Call your brothers,” Tommaso snaps.
“What?” Cesare asks.
“Tell them you defect, and I’ll give you the slut.”
The patterns shift in my vision, accompanied by the shuffle of feet. Maybe Cesare is trying to break free from the guard’s hold to get to me, but the movements make the air vibrate.
“I’ll call them,” Cesare hisses.
“On speaker.”
My mind is a whirlpool, but I cling onto the words like a lifeline. When the call to Roman goes to voicemail, Tommaso’s cackles fill the air with unpleasant shockwaves. Shit. Now, my mind is interpreting sounds into physical touch.
“Emberly left Roman tied to a bondage table. He’s probably already filled the dungeon with his piss and shit.”
Confusion pulses through my veins in time with my slowing heartbeat. Was that an auditory hallucination or Tommaso’s idea of a joke?
My head lolls to the side, and I’m about to drift away when I hear Benito’s voice.