Page 47 of Breaking Rosalind

She makes me wish I had carefree younger siblings to spoil and protect instead of two older brothers and Gil who treat me like I’m a screwup.

Our burgers arrive, along with a fuckload of sides Miranda wanted to try. I can’t help but chuckle as she chatters nonstop about the amount of fun she’s having. Her excitement is contagious.

“So, you have a nightclub, a karaoke bar. What else?”

I rub my chin. “Our family owns all the stores on this block.”

She leans into me and whispers, “Including Wonderland?”

“What do you know about Wonderland?” I ask with a scowl.

“Only that it sells adult stuff.”

“Adult stuff.” I raise a brow.

“You know, handcuffs, masks, whips. Will you take me for a tour?” she asks, her eyes twinkling.

I shake my head. “No way. Rosalind would have my balls.”

She giggles. “She would.”

“So, what’s she like as a big sister?” I ask.

Miranda’s smile fades, taking all traces of exuberance with it, leaving her empty and distant.

“What’s wrong, love?” I ask.

She hesitates, her tiny jaw flexing as though she’s trying to compose a difficult essay. “Rosa never has time for me,” she replies, her words measured. “And she would never let me eat food like this.”

“Like what?” I glance at the banquet of burgers, fries, sides, and milkshakes.

“Junk food. If she isn’t disappearing for weeks or months, then she’s eating vegan health food. All she cares about is homework, exercise, and routines.”

“I’m sure Rosalind means well.”

Miranda scowls. “Maybe.”

“Do you live with your parents?” I ask.

“They’re dead.”

“Oh.” My brows rise. “Were you close?”

“We were until they died,” she mutters.

“Car accident?”

“My mom got shot in the head, and my dad died in an explosion.”

Frowning, I study her blank features. She talks about their deaths in a monotone, making me wonder if she’s still dealing with the trauma. If Rosalind also witnessed their deaths, maybe that’s the reason she became an assassin.

“I’m sorry. How old were you at the time?” I ask.

“Four.”

“And it’s been you and your sister ever since?”

Miranda takes a large bite from her burger, seeming reluctant to answer. The poor kid. I was eighteen when Dad died and twenty-two when I heard about Mom’s death. Old resentment rises to the surface, and my stomach twists into painful knots. She would still be alive if she hadn’t left. The food lingering on my tongue sours, and I toss my burger back onto its plate.