Page 96 of Breaking Rosalind
“The bullet grazed his skull, leaving a flesh wound. He blacked out for an hour, then raised the alarm.”
“And that’s how they found Tania?” I ask, my voice breathy.
Roman advances toward me, eyes blazing, his shoulders expanding to take up the entire hallway.
My heart races, and I swallow hard, trying to stem my resentment toward Galliano. He must have known I would hide all evidence of our conversation and used that opportunity to murder the woman everyone knew I’d been fucking.
That bastard is so desperate to have me at his side that he would frame me for murder.
“Would you like some advice, baby brother?” Roman snarls.
“What?”
“Take it from a man who got locked up for the murder of a woman he didn’t know, was miles away from when she died, and never even fucked.” He pauses, and the tension in the hallway thickens like coagulated blood. “This does not look good.”
I nod.
“Is there anything you want to share?” he asks, his tone sharp enough to cut throats.
The question hangs in the air like a noose.
Sidestepping, I ask, “Where’s Tania?”
His lips tighten, mirroring Dad’s disapproval. “Gil put her in a freezer with Ricky Ferraro.” His brows rise. “The informant you killed.”
“Don’t say it like you didn’t waterboard him first,” I snap. “And I didn’t kill Tania.”
He raises a finger, giving me another of Dad’s expressions. “Stay the fuck out of trouble. I got enough police attention from our special guest.”
I nod.
Roman finally breaks eye contact, but I don’t allow myself to deflate because I know he’s not finished.
“There’s a welcome-home party tomorrow night. Benito’s inviting all the movers and shakers in Beaumont City, and he’ll be onstage, welcoming me back. I want you up there to show a united front.”
I flinch. “Is that the only reason?”
He places both hands on my shoulders. “Can you handle that, Cesare?”
“If you’re asking if I’m still using?—”
“I’m asking if you can get onstage and say a few words,” he says, his voice softening. He cups my cheek the way he used to when I was little and gives me a reassuring big-brother smile.
Prickly heat creeps across my skin, and I feel like the annoying little kid who used to trail after Benito and the Capello twins, begging for scraps of attention.
Shrinking with reflected embarrassment, I glance away and mutter, “I’m twenty-four, not eighteen.”
He chuckles, the sound warm and rich. “Time went still when I was inside. In my mind, you’ll always be my kid brother.”
I shift on my feet and squirm, not knowing what the fuck to say. Sometimes, it’s hard to relate to Roman because he’s nearly ten years older. He was always this mythical older brother who barely had time to notice me when I was growing up. It’s strange to see him outside of prison, and his presence is both unfamiliar and overwhelming.
“You were drugged without your consent,” he rumbles. “That’s got to have a lingering effect. You remember that time when Mom ate tiramisu laced with Marsala wine?”
The reminder of her alcoholic relapse rips open the fissures in my heart, making it bleed with sorrow and resentment. Pain spreads across my chest and thickens my throat, making my words come out choked.
“I’m not a drunk and I’m no longer an addict,” I say.
He nods, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “No, you’re not, and I’m proud of you for staying clean.” He pats my cheek. “Keep it that way.”