Page 92 of Breaking Rosalind
“No,” I rasp.
“You’re my son, Cesare. Tommy had a vasectomy after having his sons, and I’m the only other man who fucked your mother around the time of your conception.”
I breathe hard to control my rising anger, but when his words sink in, I turn off the gun’s safety with a click. “Shut your filthy mouth.”
Galliano raises his pistol. “Don’t do this, son.”
“Get fucked.”
“Just hear me out. Tommy went to a lot of trouble to organize a meeting with Roman. He could be walking into an ambush just to give me a chance for us to talk.”
“Then say what you want and leave,” I snap.
He nods. “We want you to join our ranks.”
I laugh, the sound manic. “Why the fuck would I leave my brothers for a pair of crooks who stole our meth lab?”
“Because we’re your blood.” He pats his chest. “You ever wonder why you don’t have your brothers’ bulky build or dark brown eyes? It’s because you’re a Galliano, not a Montesano.”
“I take after my mother,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Look again. You’re the spitting image of my son when he was your age.”
There’s no reply to that statement because it’s the truth. I’ve seen family photos online and there’s no denying the resemblance. Five years ago, Mom left a note beneath my pillow, explaining the truth of my parentage and urging me to leave my brothers behind and join the Galliano family before they learned the truth.
“Roman has been out of the game for too long,” Matty says. “He’s weak, just like his father, Enzo. Tommy is expanding our territory to New Alderney. The Montesano family is a sinking ship, and I’m offering you a lifeline.”
I stare down the barrel of Galliano’s gun, wondering which one of us is faster on the trigger.
“Don’t think of shooting, Cesare,” he says. “I have four other guns trained on your head. You have twenty-four hours to give me an answer.”
“The answer is no.”
“Twenty-four hours,” he bites out. “I will not take no for an answer.”
A fist of anguish tightens my chest at the implication that he will force my hand by telling Roman and Benito my secret. The Galliano brothers don’t just lead the biggest crime family in New Jersey. They’re close associates and beloved cousins of Frederic Capello.
My brothers must never discover I’m related to any of these bastards.
THIRTY-SIX
ROSALIND
I stare up at the flickering lightbulb, my eyes streaming with tears.
The chastity belt strapped to my hips has a device that vibrates just enough to stimulate my clit, but not enough so I can climax. No matter how much I try to grind against it, every time I reach a certain level of arousal, it’s programmed to shut off and leave me frustrated.
I can’t sleep. I can’t think. I can’t even breathe. This relentless cycle of pleasure and denial is breaking me faster than any conventional form of torture.
Sweat coats my skin and soaks the table’s leather surface. My tongue is swollen and dry. My throat is raw from gasping for air, and the worst part of this predicament is that my captor has left me alone.
Wires stretch from the monitors to the toy. Every time my blood pressure reaches a certain threshold, and it finally feels like I’m close to release, the toy deactivates. When my BP drops, the vibrations restart, increasing their intensity, until I’m back to the edge.
Cesare Montesano is a menace. This bullshit should be banned by the Geneva convention or Mafia code of conduct.
The door swings open, and the man himself enters, clad in a black silk shirt that skims his muscular chest and hugs his broad shoulders. It’s unbuttoned to the sternum, revealing tantalizing glimpses of his tattooed olive skin.
My teeth grind. This torture has me so desperate and horny that I’m starting to find him attractive.