Page 254 of Breaking Rosalind
Cesare is determined to keep me imprisoned in his yacht.
Twenty minutes of breaking through locked doors later, along with a five-minute detour to the armory, I’m rushing down the gangway, just as a line of black SUVs approaches the Marina. Black clouds cover the night sky, casting the place in an ominous gloom. I can only hope the vehicles contain Benito Montesano and his crew.
Cesare will pay for running off to save Miranda while leaving me trapped. Clutching the Uzi I found in an armory, I ready myself for anything.
We have more enemies than just Gunther and the Galliano family. Destroying the Moirai HQ has liberated all the operatives, but not all of them wanted to be free.
The vehicles park, and their doors fly open, letting out men in black suits who look more like athletes than the usual mafia lackey. I remain tense until I recognize the largest of them, wearing a three-piece suit and glasses.
It’s Benito.
I walk toward the approaching men, my heart pounding. Benito might be Cesare’s sibling, but the gun pointed at my chest combined with the lethal glare says he isn’t ready to give me the benefit of the doubt.
“Where’s my brother?” he asks.
“He locked me in the yacht and took the speedboat to confront my boss,” I reply.
“How do I know this isn’t a Galliano ambush?” he asks.
I’m about to reply, when an explosion sounds from behind the buildings, making everyone whirl toward the direction of the sound.
Black clouds erupt from the direction of the port warehouses, their undersides yellow with flames. My stomach plummets to the marina paving stones, and my mouth falls open with a gasp.
Benito’s head whips back in my direction. “What the hell was that?”
“An ambush.” My voice trembles. “That’s where we were supposed to go and pick up my daughter, but Cesare put a tracker in her earring. The man holding her is on a vessel twenty nautical miles from the shore.”
Fixing me with a suspicious glare, he turns his head toward two of his henchmen. “Slasher, Crusher. Get a speedboat.”
The two men rush to do his bidding.
Benito rattles off more instructions, setting his men scattering in all directions. They’re college-age—younger than the usual mafia brutes—athletic, tall, and move with military precision.
I breathe hard, still not entirely convinced that he’s here to help Miranda or even his younger brother.
“These people aren’t from around the mansion,” I say.
He sniffs. “That’s because I have my own organization.”
But they also don’t look like casino employees. I shove aside that thought and focus on Benito, who sweeps his arm toward the yacht.
“Let’s go.”
“What about the speedboat?” I ask.
“Your daughter could be on a battleship, a container ship, or a submarine. The yacht is equipped with enough long-range weaponry and surveillance equipment to coordinate a rescue operation.”
Without waiting for an answer, Benito continues toward the gangway. I walk behind him, still holding the Uzi.
A quartet of men in black follow us, each armed with guns. I’m already thinking of ways to disarm them in case things go awry when gunshots ring out from the other side of the marina.
Benito whirls around. “What’s this?”
“New Jersey plates, sir,” says a man at the bottom of the procession.
Benito turns to me, his face a mask of hatred. “You ignored my question about this being a Galliano ambush. I guess now I have an answer.”
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