Page 179 of Breaking Rosalind

I grip her shoulders. “I’m sorry you got dragged into this mess. When he killed Tania, I thought it was a one-time thing he did because his brother was in the club with Roman. When he killed Allegra, I knew it was a pattern, but there was a more obvious target I needed to protect.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” she says with a soft smile and places a hand on my cheek. “Benito warned me, but I had to lay flowers for my brother’s birthday.”

“Did you manage to hit him before you got away?”

“I didn’t bother looking back. By the time I reached the car, the parking lot was empty.” She pats my cheek once more and continues down the stairs.

My anger mounts with each retreating step. I meant to do something about Galliano the moment I was sure Miranda was safe. Now, it’s time to act.

I will kill that cold-hearted bastard, no matter the price.

SEVENTY-ONE

ROSALIND

I pace the bedroom, my blood sizzling. How dare that asshole leave me behind in his locked bedroom? I can break the lock, climb out of the window, turn any of the crap he’s keeping here into a weapon, but acting against him might jeopardize our plans to destroy the Moirai.

He only locked me in because he thinks he’s caged my mind.

Shit.

Bastard knows too much about my weaknesses, which is why he thinks he can trust me not to trash his room or attempt an escape. He’s right, of course. I wouldn’t do anything to compromise Miranda’s safety.

Now is probably a good time to snoop around his room and dig up some dirt on the asshole. If he’s careless enough to leave me in his private sanctuary, then he’s practically handing me his secrets.

The only difference between this room and his dungeon are the lack of visible toys. I start with his desk, and rummage through the drawers, finding nothing more than pens, notepads, and a key.

On the far left stands a closet-sized cabinet containing crystal glasses and exotic looking bottles, but none of them are liquor. The refrigerator is filled with bottled water and snacks. If I didn’t know any better, I would think Cesare was a recovering alcoholic.

The bookshelf beside it holds leather-bound copies of literature by the Marquis de Sade in French. There’s also the German edition of Venus in Furs by Leopold Von Sacher-Masoch, along with other classical works of erotica.

I pull out a copy of Story of O and place it on the armchair for future reference. If I’m going to spend the day reading foreign literature, it may as well be something modern.

After finding nothing else of interest, I stroll into the walk-in closet. The walls are black, reflecting his personality, as are the clothes hanging from the open rails.

I stride to a tall cabinet secured by an ebony door to find it locked, which only piques my interest. A moment later, I’m back with the key I found in his desk drawer and slide it into the lock.

The door opens, revealing a four-foot-tall safe on the floor. The space on top of it is a gun rack of automatic weapons along with meticulously labeled boxes of ammunition, but I’m more interested in the shelf above eye level containing leather albums.

My breath quickens. I reach up and pull down the first album. It’s heavier than expected and filled with photos of a beautiful blonde woman with cornflower-blue eyes, holding a dark-haired baby. She reminds me a little of Leroi Montesano’s newest plaything.

Forcing down a surge of irritation, I turn the pages, finding more pictures of the same woman and boy, chronicling their lives. It’s Cesare and his mother, Lucia.

Occasionally, they’re joined by other members of the family. I immediately recognize Enzo, the father, and younger versions of Roman, Benito, and their cousins, Jennifer and Leroi.

Cesare and Lucia are always separate from the others as though they’re not part of their family but outsiders. I focus more on the photos of the large gatherings, where the pair of them are less relaxed. Cesare’s posture is tense, as if he’s perpetually on guard, and Lucia’s smile is strained.

The last album contains more recent photos of Cesare and his mother on formal occasions like his high school graduation, business launches, and various society weddings. Cesare’s smile is always too rigid, and Lucia’s eyes are glazed, looking like she’s high on drugs.

I replace the album, my mind whirring at the intensity of the mother-son dynamic. The intel I gathered on Lucia Montesano was limited. She remarried within days of her husband’s death and then died two years later during routine cosmetic surgery.

Cesare hasn’t had any significant relationships. I heard talk of a girlfriend at medical school who also dropped out in their first year, but it didn’t seem relevant. Now I wish I’d dug deeper.

The burner phone he gave me buzzes with a text message. I pull it out of my back pocket to find a photo of Miranda, grinning into the camera wearing a pair of diamond stud earrings.

When did she get those?

Another photo pops up on the screen of a wicker hamper filled with chocolate bars and her hand emerges from the corner, giving her bounty a thumbs up.

---