Page 67 of Breaking Rosalind
“You want to speak to Miranda?” he asks, his lip curling with contempt.
I hesitate, wondering if this is a trick. If Britt got away, then Cesare won’t be able to contact my daughter. Since I have nothing else to lose, I give him a nod.
“Then tell me the purpose of those photos,” he says. “I want specifics. Who is coming to attack and when? How many? Tell me everything, and you can ask Miranda yourself what I did.”
Adrenaline surges through my system, making my heart thrash like a caged beast. I don’t have that information, but I can speculate. Even if I did, there’s no guarantee he’ll keep me alive long enough to escape.
This is a dangerous gamble, but I’m not without leverage. “I’ll tell you everything you want to know,” I say, my voice steady despite the fear pulsating through my veins. “But first, you need to prove that Miranda is safe.”
His knife flies toward my face, its blade lodging into the cushioned table. I clench my teeth, my sinuses filling with the scent of fear and blood.
“Do you think you can make demands?” he snarls, his eyes burning with the flames of his fury. “You’re in no position to negotiate.”
“Prove to me that Miranda is safe.” I enunciate every word, my courage rising with each frantic heartbeat.
Cesare turns on his heel and disappears through the door.
Something tells me it was a mistake to call his bluff.
TWENTY-SIX
CESARE
Hours after walking out on Rosalind, I’m cooped up in the back of a truck within a war zone lower down on Alderney Hill, reconsidering every life choice that’s relegated me to being the family errand boy.
If the Capello family hadn’t orchestrated Dad’s heart attack and framed Roman, I would be still in medical school, slicing open cadavers.
If I hadn’t let Mom talk me into becoming a surgeon, I would be out there with my brothers, fighting through a small army of soldiers for a chance to kill Capello’s son.
If the Capello twins hadn’t framed me for slaughtering my pet when we were kids, then Mom wouldn’t have thought I was a burgeoning psychopath. She also wouldn’t have fought so desperately for me to keep me away from the family business. When she told me I was different from my big brothers, that was an understatement.
My vendetta against the Capello family is just as burning as Benito’s, yet Roman has demoted me to the triage truck to assist Dr. Brunelli with casualties.
I snap on a pair of gloves and turn to my patient. Joe sits shirtless on a folding chair, his arm dripping with blood. The balding bastard stares up at me like I’m his executioner.
Gunshots resound outside, mingled with the sound of explosions. Every few minutes, something knocks into the triage truck, making its walls vibrate. It’s an insulated trailer, converted into an operating room and a space for first aid.
“Where’s Dr. Brunelli?” Joe asks.
“Operating on a man with a chest wound,” I say.
Joe shifts in his seat. “I’ll wait for him.”
“Scared of me?” I ask.
He gulps, his gaze darting everywhere except mine. “You’re the...”
My jaw tightens, and I wait for him to say I’m the screwup, the addict, the psycho baby brother everyone’s forced to tolerate. I stare him down, daring him to repeat any of the shit I’ve overheard.
“Well, you’re the torturer,” he mumbles.
“Who’s your only chance of fixing you up. Unless you’d like to continue bleeding out? You ever had your blood pressure taken?”
His brow furrows. “Of course.”
“That bullet is dangerously close to your brachial artery, the same vessel those cuffs use to measure your BP. If it bursts, you’re dead.”
Joe’s eyes widen, and he glances down at his arm. “You sure?”