Chapter 11

ROSALIND

My heart thumps painfully against my ribs. I'm still reeling from Cesare restraining me underwater, and now I'm getting traumatic flashbacks. The chlorinated water turns briny as I remember Gunther's uncanny face reviving me with his lips. No one will ever stop me from thinking he drowned me in the Atlantic Ocean as an excuse to give me mouth to mouth.

What the fuck is wrong with Cesare? I injected him with enough oxypentanol to keep him unconscious for thirty-six hours, yet he's standing behind me with a gun. He's either a freak of nature or he's so accustomed to sedatives that his body has built up a resistance.

I shove aside my speculations. Cesare already thinks I tried to inject him with poison and probably won't believe me if I tell him it was an antidote.

The only way I can handle this situation is by playing things cool. No matter how he managed to overcome the OPA, he's still vulnerable from its side effects. If I can separate him from the gardeners, then it's only a matter of time before I can knock him out and escape.

Stepping into the pool house, I glance over my shoulder. Cesare walks in after me, dripping water everywhere and holding me hostage with his gun. The other men still hover by the shrubs, watching us through the French window, so I continue through to the playroom.

I scan the racks of BDSM toys, searching for something to use as a weapon. There's a thick leather bullwhip I could fashion into a noose, but using it would require getting too close.

"That's far enough," Cesare rasps.

"Are you even going to let me explain?" I turn to meet his bloodshot eyes.

He laughs, the sound manic. "No need," he says, his breath heavy from exertion. "But you will tell me your client."

I frown. "What do you mean?"

"Cut the bullshit. You're an assassin." When I shake my head, he adds, "Everything makes sense now, from why you stalked my cousin to how easily you spread your legs. You were sent here to kill me, and you failed."

The accusation doesn't even make my heart rate blip. I've weaseled my way out of worse situations. Instead, I snort.

"You're insignificant. This was all about making Leroi jealous."

He flinches, his features hardening, and I know I've struck a nerve. Cesare Montesano isn't just the youngest of the three brothers. He's also the misfit. Roman and Benito are more like their cousin, Leroi: cold-blooded, calculating, composed. Cesare is impulsive and hot-headed, with his emotions running too close to the surface.

It's easier to see the chips in his armor, and one of them is how he compares himself to his older male relatives.

"You're lying," he says, his voice dangerous and low. Then he points his gun at my thigh. "Tell me who sent you or I'll lodge this bullet in your femur."

My heart skips several beats. He means every word, but his eyes are so unfocused and glassy that his aim is likely to be off. If his bullet tears through my femoral artery, I'm dead.

"Alright." I raise both hands. "I'll talk."

He nods, his chest still rising and falling with labored breaths. His skin is pallid and still drenched from the water. Swaying on his feet, he stares at me through a dreamlike haze. How the hell is he functioning when he looks on the verge of collapsing?

"Just let me dry off," I say.

"So you can run away again?" He flips off the gun's safety with a sharp click. "Talk."

The sound triggers hundreds of hours of training in how to disarm an assailant. Adrenaline surges through my veins, and I lunge forward.

Cesare's eyes widen, and he steps back. "What are you?—"

My fingers close around his wrist and twist. The gun points to the ceiling and fires, making my ears ring. A rain of plaster and dust falls over our heads, clogging my throat.

Tightening my grip, I wrench on Cesare's arm, making him double over with a roar. "Crazy bitch!"

One swift elbow strike to his ribs makes him drop the weapon, but he kicks it to the side.

"Shit." My last hope of an easy victory skitters across the tiled floor and under the bed.

Cesare hurls his weight against me, and we both tumble to the floor. Even under the influence of OPA, the power difference is overwhelming. He's bigger, stronger, and heavier, but I have one significant advantage: I'm in complete control of my senses.

Twisting, I deliver a knee to his balls that makes him howl. I scramble to my hands and knees in the direction of the gun, but Cesare grabs my ankle and drags me back.

"Who sent you?" He crawls on my back, his fingers closing in around my throat.

He pins me to the hard floor, forcing out all the air from my lungs. I twist and turn and buck, trying to break free from his grip, but there's no escaping his superior body mass.

Sweat breaks out across my brow as I struggle beneath his weight. No matter how I wriggle, he keeps moving to anchor me into place. When his erection pokes into my ass cheek, I take that as my prompt to switch tactics.

"Are you trying to kill me or show me a good time?" I ask, making my voice husky. "Because newsflash: choking makes me wet."

He chuckles, the sound harsh. "I'm going to enjoy your slow death."

"Fuck, Cesare," I moan. "Do a girl a favor and let her die with your huge cock in her pussy."

His breath hitches. His grip loosens for the fraction of a second I need for an opening. Throwing my head back, I slam it into his nose.

"Fuck!" Cesare flinches back with a roar, and I twist free.

Heart pounding, I launch myself across the room toward the bed. He's right behind me, his body heat scalding my back. Just as my fingers close in around the gun, his fist lands on the side of my head. Pain flashes through my skull like lightning, and the room spins.

"Drop the gun," he bellows.

Fuck that. I need to stay conscious, get the fuck out of here, and survive another day for the sake of my girl.

I turn around, readying the pistol, but a second punch knocks me to the ground. My fingers loosen, the gun falls to the floor with a clatter, and I go limp.

Heavy, labored breaths pull me back into awareness. The intense throbbing on the side of my head tells me that only minutes have passed since Cesare knocked me out. I hold still with my eyes closed, feigning unconsciousness to bide time.

My body is upright, and I'm sitting on a leather surface with my arms and legs splayed. This must be the bondage chair I noticed last night.

Peeking through my lashes, I find Cesare sitting on the bed with the contents of my purse spread out across the mattress. I cringe at the sight of the handgun, syringes, knives, vials of liquid, and compressed fabrics, but my stomach plummets when he's scrolling through my phone.

He must have bypassed its security by scanning my retina. Everything inside it, from the contacts to the photos, has been carefully curated to protect my identity. But it's not foolproof. A determined investigator could break through the encryption and reveal anything incriminating.

"What are you doing?" I rasp.

"What's this icon?" He holds up the handset.

"Which one?" I ask, already knowing he's found the Moirai Group's app.

He strides over, his eyes flashing, and holds the screen up to my face. "This one," he hisses and points at the icon of the spinning wheel. "Why is it protected with a password?"

"It's an e-reader containing the complete works of Homer." The lie rolls off my tongue with practiced ease. "And the password exists, so no one scrolls around and messes with my bookmarks."

He sways on his feet, his gaze still unfocussed. "What is it?"

My heart pounds. There are three passwords. The first will open the Moirai app, the second will delete it and send the firm an SOS with GPS coordinates, and the third will wipe the data and open a text file of The Odyssey with annotations.

There's no point in aggravating Cesare by making him delete the app. Gunther already knows my location, and the firm can't yet magic a method to penetrate the Montesano stronghold.

"Minus sign, six hundred," I say, giving him the third.

He taps in the passcode, his breath still labored, and curls his lip. "Huh?" He blinks once, twice, three times, before shoving the screen back in my face. "What the fuck is this?"

"Ancient literature," I reply.

"Bullshit." He backhands me across the face, making my head snap to the side. "No more lies."

My eyes narrow, and I clamp my lips shut. I've been trained to withstand harsh interrogation tactics. Cesare will get frustrated or bored before I break.

He flashes his teeth. "Now, tell me exactly who the fuck you are, where you came from, and who sent you, or I'll introduce you to my scalpel."