Chapter 101

ROSALIND

I step out of the limousine, and my ears fill with the roar of the crashing waves. Salty breeze hits me like a kick to the midsection, adding to my mounting dread. My eyes squeeze shut as they usually do when I'm around bodies of water. Memories of Gunther drowning me over and over rise to the forefront of my mind, making my stomach churn.

Miranda's out there, in Gunther's clutches. I can't afford to succumb to my phobia, so I force my eyes open. Moonlight casts an eerie glow on the black ocean, its reflection dancing on the waves crashing against the yacht.

My palms itch before breaking out in a sweat, and my heart beats so hard and fast that it might burst through my chest.

I clench my teeth and curl my hands into fists. Terror is irrelevant. Miranda is out there on the ocean, hurt and terrified and confused. I need to reach her before Gunther escalates.

Cesare places a hand on the small of my back, his touch soothing my fraying nerves.

"Wait here for Benito and the others, while I get a head start."

I whirl around, meeting his pale eyes. The marina lights cast harsh shadows over his face, emphasizing the sharpness of his jawline and the intensity of his scowl.

"You're not leaving me behind. Nothing you say will stop me from saving my daughter."

His lips tighten, but he has the good sense not to argue. "The keys to the speedboat are on the yacht. We can also pick up weapons, life jackets, and a medical kit."

"Let's go."

We run across the marina to the steps of the yacht, where the stewardess from before allows us to board. I follow him through the dim corridors to the infirmary, a sterile room with two cots and stainless-steel shelves filled with medical supplies.

After grabbing a medical bag, he opens a supply cabinet. "My mother used to come out to the ocean so we could swim. She loved the water."

I'm too frazzled to focus on what he's saying, especially when I spot a gun resting on the table. "Where can I get some ammunition?"

He flicks his head toward a door at the end of the infirmary. "Storage closet."

"Thanks."

I pick up the gun and hurry past the cots, fling open the door and flick on the light switch. Fluorescent bulbs buzz to life, illuminating shelves lined with boxes of medical equipment. The door swings shut, and I scan the small space, searching for any unmarked containers.

My brow furrows. "Where are the bullets?"

The click of a turning lock echoes through the tiny space, followed by another and another. Chills run down my spine, and my stomach plummets. I whirl around to the door and push it open, but it's jammed.

"Cesare, what the fuck?" I snap.

"I'm sorry, love," he says from the other side of the door. "You said it yourself. You can't function in water."

"Let me out," I yell, my voice rising with panic.

"Gunther wants you dead, and I won't let you sacrifice your life."

I pound on the door. "That's not your decision to make."

"Miranda's going to need her mother," he replies, so calm and even that the words sound rehearsed. "By the time you break out, she'll be waiting for you on the shore."

"Don't be ridiculous. Let me out. You can't handle Gunther. He might not even be alone."

"When I bring Miranda, I want you to tell her the truth. About you… and me," he says, his voice wavering.

My breath quickens, and the backs of my eyes sting with tears. I run my fingers over the seam of the door, trying to find a lock, a latch, a lever, but there's nothing.

"Why are you talking like you won't return?"

"She needs to know the truth. You're not the villain who murdered her parents. You're a mother willing to sell her soul to keep her safe."

"Cesare." My fingers curl into fists.

"I've finally found a way to make up for keeping you as a pet. And to show you how much I'm sorry. For everything."

My heart pounds so hard that it splinters. "You idiot. I already forgave you."

"It's not enough. I love you so much that I would lay down my life to keep you safe. You and my sister," he says, his voice breaking.

The words barely register through my fury. How could he do this to me after everything? How dare he lock me in a closet and go play hero? Rage sizzles through my veins, burning my heart to ashes.

"Stop it, Cesare. Open the fucking door!" My screams bounce off the walls, only to be met by silence.

Betrayal slices through my heart, letting it bleed liquid indignation. He's not coming back. The bastard imprisoned me like I'm some sort of princess in a tower.

"If Gunther doesn't kill you, I will," I snarl.

The lights blink off, encasing me in darkness. I fumble around for the light switch, too blinded by anger to think straight. He can't leave me here and go alone to snatch Miranda from Gunther's claws.

Gunther might not be a practicing assassin, but he's wily, experienced, and knows every trick in the killer's playbook. Cesare is impulsive, with no self-control.

I lean my head against the door and exhale lungfuls of frustration, needing to think past my overwhelming outrage. Cesare has more layers than his recklessness. That manic psychopath is his outer facade. Behind it is a man who is clever, calculating, and ahead of his opponents.

With a few careful words, he tricked Tommaso into ordering an antidote for the benzo, and he tricked me into walking into this brig. Cesare might be observant and know how to outsmart an opponent, but he knows nothing about Gunther.

I can't let him get out there alone.

Whirling around, I turn on the light and search through the boxes for something, anything, to help me pick the locks. I was so anxious to get those bullets I forgot to examine the other side of the door before getting myself imprisoned.

I'm slacking, letting down my guard because there's a part of me that's already dependent on Cesare to take care of my needs.

This isn't like me at all.

I rummage through cardboard boxes filled with pill bottles, bandages, gloves and syringes until I find a small box containing disposable scalpels.

Triumph flares through my chest, and I flash my teeth. I extract one of the metal instruments and slide its blade into the gap in the door. With rapid up-and-down strokes, I shim the middle lock until it finally gives way

Next, I attack the upper lock, working the scalpel until it snaps.

The high-pitched clink of metal-on-metal grates on my nerves as the stubborn lock refuses to budge. After piling some boxes to change my angle of attack, I finally make it yield.

With a muttered curse, I crouch low and work on the final lock, which is close to the floor. Sweat slickens my palms and trickles down the back of my neck. My body breaks out in chills. Heat rises off my skin, even though I'm still wearing a halter neck and a mini skirt.

What the fuck? I'm burning up with a fever. My joints throb, and my muscles pull on my bones like lead weights. There's no way I could have caught the flu.

Only it's not influenza. It's withdrawal.

Shit.

No wonder I walked into Cesare's trap. I can't even think straight.

It takes two broken scalpels and every ounce of concentration to get through the last lock, and by the time I push the door open, I'm shaking so badly I can barely stand.

The infirmary spins, and every fiber in my being screams for something to relive these maddening sensations. I can't face the ocean at night in the throes of withdrawal. Gritting my teeth, I grab hold of the edge of a cot to pull myself upright.

My gaze catches on a scrawled note along with a vial and a syringe.

Rosalind,

By the time you read this, I'll either be on my way back with Miranda or in a standoff, waiting for Benito and his crew.

Take another dose of the antidote before following.

Not sure how long the last one will hold off the withdrawal.

Love you,

Cesare

With trembling fingers, I reach for the needle and vial, drawing the clear liquid into the syringe. It would have taken that asshole ten seconds to do this for me, but he wanted to keep me in this wretched infirmary.

Nostrils flaring, I picture his huge dick caught in the yoke of a miniature guillotine with a blade bouncing off his shaft.

"This had better not be a sedative."

Sending out a silent prayer to the fates, I slide the needle into my skin, push down on the plunger, and release the liquid into my bloodstream.

"Damn it," I mutter as my veins fill with an icy chill.

I bend my head, my fingers tightening around the edge of the cot, and breathe hard. Within moments, the shivers retreat, and my limbs are restored to their usual lightness. I roll my shoulders, working through the aches until they fade.

Straightening, I rush to the infirmary door, only to find it locked.

Cesare is determined to keep me imprisoned in his yacht.

Twenty minutes of breaking through locked doors later, along with a five-minute detour to the armory, I'm rushing down the gangway, just as a line of black SUVs approaches the Marina. Black clouds cover the night sky, casting the place in an ominous gloom. I can only hope the vehicles contain Benito Montesano and his crew.

Cesare will pay for running off to save Miranda while leaving me trapped. Clutching the Uzi I found in an armory, I ready myself for anything.

We have more enemies than just Gunther and the Galliano family. Destroying the Moirai HQ has liberated all the operatives, but not all of them wanted to be free.

The vehicles park, and their doors fly open, letting out men in black suits who look more like athletes than the usual mafia lackey. I remain tense until I recognize the largest of them, wearing a three-piece suit and glasses.

It's Benito.

I walk toward the approaching men, my heart pounding. Benito might be Cesare's sibling, but the gun pointed at my chest combined with the lethal glare says he isn't ready to give me the benefit of the doubt.

"Where's my brother?" he asks.

"He locked me in the yacht and took the speedboat to confront my boss," I reply.

"How do I know this isn't a Galliano ambush?" he asks.

I'm about to reply, when an explosion sounds from behind the buildings, making everyone whirl toward the direction of the sound.

Black clouds erupt from the direction of the port warehouses, their undersides yellow with flames. My stomach plummets to the marina paving stones, and my mouth falls open with a gasp.

Benito's head whips back in my direction. "What the hell was that?"

"An ambush." My voice trembles. "That's where we were supposed to go and pick up my daughter, but Cesare put a tracker in her earring. The man holding her is on a vessel twenty nautical miles from the shore."

Fixing me with a suspicious glare, he turns his head toward two of his henchmen. "Slasher, Crusher. Get a speedboat."

The two men rush to do his bidding.

Benito rattles off more instructions, setting his men scattering in all directions. They're college-age—younger than the usual mafia brutes—athletic, tall, and move with military precision.

I breathe hard, still not entirely convinced that he's here to help Miranda or even his younger brother.

"These people aren't from around the mansion," I say.

He sniffs. "That's because I have my own organization."

But they also don't look like casino employees. I shove aside that thought and focus on Benito, who sweeps his arm toward the yacht.

"Let's go."

"What about the speedboat?" I ask.

"Your daughter could be on a battleship, a container ship, or a submarine. The yacht is equipped with enough long-range weaponry and surveillance equipment to coordinate a rescue operation."

Without waiting for an answer, Benito continues toward the gangway. I walk behind him, still holding the Uzi.

A quartet of men in black follow us, each armed with guns. I'm already thinking of ways to disarm them in case things go awry when gunshots ring out from the other side of the marina.

Benito whirls around. "What's this?"

"New Jersey plates, sir," says a man at the bottom of the procession.

Benito turns to me, his face a mask of hatred. "You ignored my question about this being a Galliano ambush. I guess now I have an answer."