Page 6 of Breaking Rosalind

“Same age you were when I recruited you from your academy.”

Dread crushes my chest like a boulder. Gunther’s message is loud and clear. If I don’t find a way to infiltrate the Montesano mansion, he’ll come for Miranda.

TWO

CESARE

Medical school never taught me how to bring someone back from waterboarding. Maybe I would have stuck around if they’d taught us how to revive them from lethal torture.

I kneel beside Ricky Ferraro’s unmoving form and pull the wet cloth off his face. The snitch’s scraggly face is as still as death, and his lips have turned blue. The hose I used to drown him lies at my side, still pumping out a steady stream of cold water across the bathroom floor.

“You still with me, Rickyboy?” I slide my fingers beneath his jaw, but there’s no pulse.

Shit.

My gaze darts around the tiled space, part of me expecting someone to barge in and demand to know what the hell I’m doing with a wet corpse. Thank fuck everyone’s too excited with my brother’s release from prison to poke their nose in my business.

Another One Bites The Dust by Queen pumps in from the dance floor, giving me an idea. It’s about 100 beats per minute, the perfect tempo for cardiopulmonary resuscitation.

Interlocking my fingers, I position my hands on his chest and begin compressions in time with the music.

“One, two, three, four. Another one bites the dust,” I chant alongside Freddy. “One, two, three, four. Come on, you dead cunt.”

I pause for a few beats and stare down at his pallid face, expecting him to jerk or cough or show some sign of life. He doesn’t.

My eyes narrow. If I gave a shit about Ricky, I would pinch his nose shut, tilt back his head, and blow oxygen into his lungs, but there’s no fucking way I’m locking lips with that slimy motherfucker.

When I deliver a precordial thump to his sternum, Ricky doesn’t so much as twitch.

“Don’t you dare check out on me now,” I snarl. “I haven’t finished waterboarding you yet.”

The door opens, letting in a blast of music and a scream. I raise my head and lock eyes with our new bartender, Tania.

“Close the door,” I snarl.

Tania rushes toward us, letting the door swing shut. I curl my lip, not bothering to hide my contempt. How typical of her to assume I want her company.

“Oh my god,” she screeches. “Is he okay?”

She stands in the stream of hose water, staring down at the unresponsive man tied to an upturned chair.

“What do you think?” I ask, my voice flat.

“Did you—” Her eyes widen.

Rising to my feet, I wait for her to put together all the pieces. Despite the two-inch long lashes and bubblegum-pink hair, Tania isn’t stupid. She studies biomedical sciences at Alderney State University. When I interviewed her for the job, she was intelligent enough to suck my cock to perfection.

“Did I what?” I ask.

“You killed him.” She pats down her apron and extracts a phone.

“What are you doing?” I ask, my lips curling into a smile.

“Calling 911.”

I spring into action, my fingers curling around her neck.

“Cesare—”