Page 45 of Breaking Rosalind
“Fine.”
“And I get the next paid assignment. No more analyst bullshit.”
“Yes, yes.” He waves me away. “Now, get out of my sight.”
I turn on my heel and walk out of his office, my heart rising back to the center of my chest. Gunther was telling the truth about not having the authority to write off my debt, but it always pays to start a negotiation with an impossibly high demand.
It will take a few more missions to put me in the black, but once I’ve built up a small nest egg, I can finally quit the Moirai Group and live like a normal human being.
I might even be able to build a relationship with Miranda.
She’s moved from screaming every time I visited her at school to indifference to cold politeness. Even though she doesn’t remember that terrible afternoon, part of her is still affected from seeing me kill her guardians.
I want to tell her why I did it, but she’s only fourteen. Far too young to know anything about the circumstances of her birth.
My phone buzzes as I step out into the hallway to message Britt. It’s a text from a number not in my contacts. When I open it, it’s a photo of Miranda with her wrists bound and her head in a reverse bear trap.
Terror seizes my chest as my phone floods with more and more gruesome images, ending with the message:
Come alone to the alley beside the Phoenix at midnight or little Miranda will die. In agony.
EIGHTEEN
CESARE
Contrary to popular belief, nightclubs aren’t closed during the day. While we wait for patrons to arrive, employees busy themselves cleaning, stocking the bar, and supplying local dealers with meth. There’s even an outlet at the back where we supply overpriced booze to people who order online.
I guide Miranda through the Phoenix’s front doors and give her a moment to soak in her surroundings. She steps into the foyer, admiring the mirrored walls and velvet curtains with wide-eyed fascination. She tilts her head to gaze up at the crystal chandeliers used to illuminate the space and can’t help but release a tiny gasp.
“You own the whole building?” she asks, her voice breathy.
“Yeah, along with a few others,” I reply with a chuckle.
She pauses to place her palms on the unoccupied coat check desk, her head swiveling in all directions. “This is so cool.”
“You haven’t even seen the club yet.” I wrap an arm around her shoulders and guide her toward the double doors. “You’ve never been to a nightclub?”
She shakes her head.
“Come on, let me show you around.”
I take her on a brief tour, showing her the DJ booth, the private function rooms, and my office, where she marvels at the wall of surveillance screens. I even play one of her favorite songs she can prance about on the dance floor. As we walk around, people acknowledge me and are careful not to glance at my underage companion.
As we take a seat in the VIP section, she glances at the bar and asks, “Can I have a cocktail?”
“Anything you want, love.”
I wave over Tania, the pink-haired bartender who walked in on me giving Ricky CPR.
She flounces over, her lips downturned, her eyes burning with resentment. “What can I get you?”
“Two Shirley Temples,” I say.
Her gaze slides to Miranda in her school uniform before she turns back to me. “Is this a joke?”
I flash my teeth. “Just get us the drinks.”
Rolling her eyes, she returns to the bar, most likely muttering curses. I turn to glare at her back. Stupid bitch is making me look bad in front of my guest. If she’s still sore about being choked, then she should have quit.