Page 28 of Breaking Rosalind
He flashes his teeth. “Now, tell me exactly who the fuck you are, where you came from, and who sent you, or I’ll introduce you to my scalpel.”
TWELVE
CESARE
The edges of my vision turn black from a cocktail of adrenaline, drugs, and extortion. I want to sleep off the toxins running through my veins, but I can’t do a thing until I get the truth.
Standing back, I glare down at my little captive. The restraints force her chest forward and her arms wide apart. Her legs are spread wide, displaying her waxed pussy.
I grit my teeth. How the fuck can something so alluring be so treacherous?
“Stay silent,” I hiss. “I dare you, because I’m itching to rip out each secret until you scream for death.”
She sucks in a deep breath and stares up at me through hazel eyes.
“My name is Rosalind,” she says, her voice calm. “And I was sent here to gather information.”
“Go on,” I reply.
“The New Alderney Times is doing an exposé on organized crime within Beaumont city, and it’s my job to find dirt on the Montesano?—”
“No,” I snap. “You’re not a fucking reporter.”
“Call them. My boss is Gunther Hoffmann, managing editor at the Times. He’ll tell you everything. Use my phone.”
I scoff. “I’ll speak to your handler after proving you wrong.”
“Then go online and find his number,” she says. “Call the fucking switchboard. I’m telling the truth.”
Lip curling with disgust, I stalk across the playroom to the bed, where I left her phone and search online for the newspaper’s phone number. One glance over my shoulder tells me that Rosalind is checking her restraints, but I already tightened the cuffs and adjusted the buckles out of reach.
The phone rings, and a receptionist answers. I ask for Mr. Hoffman, and she places me on hold. Music pipes through the speakers, making me roll my eyes. No matter what this bitch says, I know she’s no reporter.
“Did you reach him?” she asks.
I ignore her.
“Hoffman speaking,” says a gruff voice.
“Did you send a reporter to investigate the Montesano family?”
“Who is this?” he barks.
“Answer the fucking question.”
He hesitates. “Is Rosalind alright?”
I glance over my shoulder at the naked woman and frown. “She’s alive. Let me ask you another question. Is it newspaper policy for your reporters to drug their subjects?”
Hoffman falls silent for so long that I wonder if he’s still on the line. Then he sighs. “Of course, not. That’s strictly against our newspaper’s code of conduct. Where is Rosalind? Let me send a car to take her back to the office for disciplinary action.”
All this line of bullshit has done is confirm that her firm has covered its bases and provided their assassins with great cover stories. Unconvinced, I hang up and walk to the other side of the playroom, where I load a trolley with a tray of surgical tools and push them toward my little captive, who stiffens.
“Did you speak to Gunther?” she asks, her voice guarded.
I nod. “He wants to send a car to whisk you back to the office.”
Swallowing hard, she glances down at the trolley. “What happens now?”