Page 26 of Breaking Rosalind
ELEVEN
ROSALIND
My heart thumps painfully against my ribs. I’m still reeling from Cesare restraining me underwater, and now I’m getting traumatic flashbacks. The chlorinated water turns briny as I remember Gunther’s uncanny face reviving me with his lips. No one will ever stop me from thinking he drowned me in the Atlantic Ocean as an excuse to give me mouth to mouth.
What the fuck is wrong with Cesare? I injected him with enough oxypentanol to keep him unconscious for thirty-six hours, yet he’s standing behind me with a gun. He’s either a freak of nature or he’s so accustomed to sedatives that his body has built up a resistance.
I shove aside my speculations. Cesare already thinks I tried to inject him with poison and probably won’t believe me if I tell him it was an antidote.
The only way I can handle this situation is by playing things cool. No matter how he managed to overcome the OPA, he’s still vulnerable from its side effects. If I can separate him from the gardeners, then it’s only a matter of time before I can knock him out and escape.
Stepping into the pool house, I glance over my shoulder. Cesare walks in after me, dripping water everywhere and holding me hostage with his gun. The other men still hover by the shrubs, watching us through the French window, so I continue through to the playroom.
I scan the racks of BDSM toys, searching for something to use as a weapon. There’s a thick leather bullwhip I could fashion into a noose, but using it would require getting too close.
“That’s far enough,” Cesare rasps.
“Are you even going to let me explain?” I turn to meet his bloodshot eyes.
He laughs, the sound manic. “No need,” he says, his breath heavy from exertion. “But you will tell me your client.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“Cut the bullshit. You’re an assassin.” When I shake my head, he adds, “Everything makes sense now, from why you stalked my cousin to how easily you spread your legs. You were sent here to kill me, and you failed.”
The accusation doesn’t even make my heart rate blip. I’ve weaseled my way out of worse situations. Instead, I snort.
“You’re insignificant. This was all about making Leroi jealous.”
He flinches, his features hardening, and I know I’ve struck a nerve. Cesare Montesano isn’t just the youngest of the three brothers. He’s also the misfit. Roman and Benito are more like their cousin, Leroi: cold-blooded, calculating, composed. Cesare is impulsive and hot-headed, with his emotions running too close to the surface.
It’s easier to see the chips in his armor, and one of them is how he compares himself to his older male relatives.
“You’re lying,” he says, his voice dangerous and low. Then he points his gun at my thigh. “Tell me who sent you or I’ll lodge this bullet in your femur.”
My heart skips several beats. He means every word, but his eyes are so unfocused and glassy that his aim is likely to be off. If his bullet tears through my femoral artery, I’m dead.
“Alright.” I raise both hands. “I’ll talk.”
He nods, his chest still rising and falling with labored breaths. His skin is pallid and still drenched from the water. Swaying on his feet, he stares at me through a dreamlike haze. How the hell is he functioning when he looks on the verge of collapsing?
“Just let me dry off,” I say.
“So you can run away again?” He flips off the gun’s safety with a sharp click. “Talk.”
The sound triggers hundreds of hours of training in how to disarm an assailant. Adrenaline surges through my veins, and I lunge forward.
Cesare’s eyes widen, and he steps back. “What are you?—”
My fingers close around his wrist and twist. The gun points to the ceiling and fires, making my ears ring. A rain of plaster and dust falls over our heads, clogging my throat.
Tightening my grip, I wrench on Cesare’s arm, making him double over with a roar. “Crazy bitch!”
One swift elbow strike to his ribs makes him drop the weapon, but he kicks it to the side.
“Shit.” My last hope of an easy victory skitters across the tiled floor and under the bed.
Cesare hurls his weight against me, and we both tumble to the floor. Even under the influence of OPA, the power difference is overwhelming. He’s bigger, stronger, and heavier, but I have one significant advantage: I’m in complete control of my senses.