Page 90 of Breaking Rosalind
“My mom found me covered in blood, trying to bring my dead rabbit to life, and she screamed.” His jaw tightens. “Said I was in danger of becoming a psychopath.”
“Oh.” I gulp. “I’m sorry.”
His sticky fingers graze over my breasts, and he leans in close. “That’s why I plan on taking good care of you.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling his hot breath against my skin. So, this is his villain origin story. He probably sees himself as a tragic hero, forced to become a dark protector.
“Cesare, I’m not a rabbit.”
His lips graze my cheek. “You’re far more precious to me than a ball of fur. That’s why I plan to break you open, pry out all of your secrets, and rebuild you into a creature of my own making.”
My jaw tightens. His mother was right. He is a psychopath. If I allow these mind games to continue, I’m in danger of becoming exactly what he wants.
THIRTY-FIVE
CESARE
Hours later, I lean forward on the desk, staring at the wall of monitors broadcasting different angles of the Phoenix. Music filters in through the walls, making the office seem more isolated.
I miss my pretty little pet. I could have played with her, but Benito kept blowing up my phone about tonight’s meeting. Roman wants to delay starting a war with the Galliano brothers, while I need them both to die with my secret.
What a pity Roman assigned Benito to watch the front door. He probably knows I would have shot the Galliano envoy, whatever the consequences, but not for the reason he thinks.
Fuck. I wish Rosalind was here, bound and kneeling beneath the desk between my spread legs. Nothing beats hate fellatio. She could glare daggers at me while she swallowed down my cock to the root. Every time her teeth grazed my shaft, I would wonder if she would bite.
My gaze drops to the camera I set up in the underground playroom, where Rosalind lies within her binds. She’s sleeping, based on the app monitoring her vital signs. When she awakens, her blood sugar will dip, and she’ll be plagued once more with hunger pangs.
An alert pops up on my screen. It’s a photo from Miranda of a pizza she’s warmed up from the freezer and a large tub of ice cream.
I glance at the time. 10:34 PM. My stomach grumbles, reminding me I should have eaten more than Sofia’s rice pudding.
Miranda asks when I’m going to fetch her, but I can’t answer. I’d planned on flying out earlier today, but I had to pick up Samson’s head, chat with Leroi and Seraphine, take the head to Roman and wait for him to finish talking with Rosalind’s boss, then deliver the head to the Di Marco Law Group, so they could release Frederic Capello’s assets to Roman’s special guest.
I don’t want to make Miranda promises I can’t keep.
My gaze wanders back to a monitor, where Roman and Gil sit in the club’s VIP section, waiting for the Galliano envoy. When Gil rises off his seat, I stiffen in mine, only to slump as he approaches some blonde.
Gil steers her toward the front of the club, looking as though he plans to throw her out through the front door. Instead, he opens the side door leading to the cloakroom and bends her over a table.
“Look at that!” I say with a laugh.
When Gil isn’t up my ass being Roman’s second set of eyes, he’s a helpful motherfucker. Always willing to scoop up a clingy woman I’m tired of fucking.
That’s what I did with Leroi. The moment I was sure he no longer wanted Rosalind, I snapped her up before anyone else could shoot their shot. Except I won’t discard her.
Rosalind is mine until she perishes.
On the next screen, a pink-haired woman walks into the frame, where the camera points at our security guard, Bruno, standing in the alley, smoking a joint. It’s Tania, the former bartender who caught me waterboarding Ricky Ferraro and later spat in Miranda’s cocktail.
My eyes narrow as she gets on her knees and pulls down Bruno’s zipper. I snort. “Is she trying to get back her job?”
As her head bobs up and down over his shaft, a masked figure steps into the frame, holding a gun. He shoots Bruno, then punches Tania unconscious, leaving her lying in the man’s blood.
I jump to my feet. “What the fuck?”
The figure turns to the camera, pulls off his ski mask, and waves. It takes a moment to process that manic grin. Then it hits like a punch to the gut, leaving me winded.
Matty Fucking Galliano.