Page 52 of Breaking Rosalind

“It’s the only way,” I reply. “I’ll handle Cesare.”

“What about his brothers?” she asks. “Or their mafia militia? Will you handle them too?”

I stare at the numbers increasing on the elevator display, not wanting to conjure up the image of what she’s implying.

No amount of torture or degradation is too much to keep Miranda safe. I wouldn’t just sacrifice my body to save my little girl, I would sacrifice my soul.

The elevator doors open, and we step out into the final vestibule before we reach the outside world. It’s a white space with vents between the tiles known to blow poison to incapacitate intruders.

My gaze flicks to a ceiling equipped with motion sensors, cameras, and small openings for automatic weapons. What a pity the leaders of such a well-designed firm consider their employees to be disposable.

The doors open, and we step out into the ground floor parking lot, where Britt walks us to an SUV.

“Let me handle Cesare,” I repeat for emphasis. “I need you to focus on making sure Miranda is safe.”

Tremors vibrate down my spine. This is what it feels like to be the fictional hero who sacrifices themself to save the world. For once, I’m not the villain. I’m a mother who will go to any lengths to save her child.

I can only hope that I survive.

TWENTY

CESARE

I stand by the door with the reverse bear trap. Its rusty-looking jaws wrap around the lower half of the face with a spring that loops around the top of the head. Although made of foam and painted in acrylic paint, it’s a realistic replica, down to the levers and bolts and screws.

Miranda gazes up at me through eyes too sparkling and bright for an innocent girl in the presence of a predator. She removed her blazer and tie when the food arrived and now sits with the first two buttons of her shirt loose, her sleeves rolled up, and her hair tied back in a messy bun.

I offer her a genuine smile. “Are you ready to prank your sister, love?”

She falls back on the couch with a giggle that thaws my icy heart. Kids are so much more expressive than adults. Every emotion plays on their faces. She’s so easy to read and a hundred times more likable than her sister.

“Okay, but we need blood.” She grabs a bottle of ketchup, squeezes some on her fingers, and smears it over her hairline.

My brows rise, and my smile widens. “I’m impressed by your commitment, but that won’t be necessary.”

“What are you waiting for?” she says. “Put me in the trap.”

Chuckling, I place the replica over her head and adjust the straps around the back of her neck. “Can you breathe?”

Her shoulders droop. “I thought it would be heavier.”

“Disappointed?”

“It isn’t even made of metal.”

“You don’t think I would put you in a real trap?” I ask with a frown.

She huffs. “Rosa’s going to know it’s fake.”

“She won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because a server wore it last Halloween to pose with the customers, and it looked real enough in the photos.”

Satisfied with that, Miranda holds still while I pour fake blood at strategic points beneath the trap’s jaws and the straps that touch her skin.

“Now tie my wrists,” she says.