Chapter 12

CESARE

The edges of my vision turn black from a cocktail of adrenaline, drugs, and extortion. I want to sleep off the toxins running through my veins, but I can't do a thing until I get the truth.

Standing back, I glare down at my little captive. The restraints force her chest forward and her arms wide apart. Her legs are spread wide, displaying her waxed pussy.

I grit my teeth. How the fuck can something so alluring be so treacherous?

"Stay silent," I hiss. "I dare you, because I'm itching to rip out each secret until you scream for death."

She sucks in a deep breath and stares up at me through hazel eyes.

"My name is Rosalind," she says, her voice calm. "And I was sent here to gather information."

"Go on," I reply.

"The New Alderney Times is doing an exposé on organized crime within Beaumont city, and it's my job to find dirt on the Montesano?—"

"No," I snap. "You're not a fucking reporter."

"Call them. My boss is Gunther Hoffmann, managing editor at the Times. He'll tell you everything. Use my phone."

I scoff. "I'll speak to your handler after proving you wrong."

"Then go online and find his number," she says. "Call the fucking switchboard. I'm telling the truth."

Lip curling with disgust, I stalk across the playroom to the bed, where I left her phone and search online for the newspaper's phone number. One glance over my shoulder tells me that Rosalind is checking her restraints, but I already tightened the cuffs and adjusted the buckles out of reach.

The phone rings, and a receptionist answers. I ask for Mr. Hoffman, and she places me on hold. Music pipes through the speakers, making me roll my eyes. No matter what this bitch says, I know she's no reporter.

"Did you reach him?" she asks.

I ignore her.

"Hoffman speaking," says a gruff voice.

"Did you send a reporter to investigate the Montesano family?"

"Who is this?" he barks.

"Answer the fucking question."

He hesitates. "Is Rosalind alright?"

I glance over my shoulder at the naked woman and frown. "She's alive. Let me ask you another question. Is it newspaper policy for your reporters to drug their subjects?"

Hoffman falls silent for so long that I wonder if he's still on the line. Then he sighs. "Of course, not. That's strictly against our newspaper's code of conduct. Where is Rosalind? Let me send a car to take her back to the office for disciplinary action."

All this line of bullshit has done is confirm that her firm has covered its bases and provided their assassins with great cover stories. Unconvinced, I hang up and walk to the other side of the playroom, where I load a trolley with a tray of surgical tools and push them toward my little captive, who stiffens.

"Did you speak to Gunther?" she asks, her voice guarded.

I nod. "He wants to send a car to whisk you back to the office."

Swallowing hard, she glances down at the trolley. "What happens now?"

"Most firms of assassins are small boutiques, run by a single coordinator." I hold up a knife and make a show of examining its blade. "Only one is influential enough to infiltrate the New Alderney Times."

Her breath quickens. "What are you talking about?"

My cousin, Leroi, is probably the best assassin in New Alderney. When we were discussing ways to save my big brother from the electric chair, he talked us through our options.

We needed to assassinate a whole host of corrupt officials who had been bribed to convict Roman for a crime he didn't commit, all while making sure nothing led back to us. Once they were dead, we had to wipe out the family of the man who framed him for murder.

Leroi said there was only one firm large enough to take on the job, but paying for a job of that scale would leave a money trail connecting back to us. That firm is rumored to have its own academy and branches all over the world.

"You work for the Moirai Group." I hold the blade to her throat. "If the next word I hear from you is bullshit, I will slice open every major blood vessel and bathe your delectable body in crimson."

She shivers, her gaze sweeping down my crumpled black shirt to the erection straining through my pants.

"You promised me a scalpel," she says, her voice breathy. It's a pathetic attempt to employ reverse psychology.

"I lied. As did your handler."

"So, what now?" she arches her back, and my gaze drops to her breasts.

I run the flat of the blade down her cheek, and stare into the most intricately colored hazel irises. They're a dark green that borders on gray with pale striations lit up by a stardust of amber. Her fear is masked by a spark of defiance that draws me closer.

"It would be a shame to ruin such a pretty face," I say with a grin. "I'll leave that until last."

She shivers. "Anything I can do to change your mind?"

I drag the knife down her jawline and press its tip into her neck. She barely flinches from the sting, further confirming my suspicions that she's a trained assassin, but the sight of her blood is too intoxicating to resist.

Leaning in, I swipe up the crimson trail with my tongue."Delicious."

When her breath quickens, I draw back to find her nipples tightening and her clit swelling. Heat shoots straight to my cock. There's no faking that level of arousal.

She releases a nervous chuckle. "What is this, death by a thousand cuts?"

My little captive is so bold, so brave, so brilliantly suited to my tastes. "Oh, sweetheart. You're my perfect toy."

"Wh-what do you mean?" she asks.

"Assassins like you are untraceable. I can take my time, breaking you with no fear of being reported to the police."

"Wait," she says. "Aren't you going to interrogate?—"

I lean forward and silence her with a kiss. She parts her lips to protest, but I slip my tongue into her mouth. She tastes sweet—a tantalizing cocktail of fear and desire. I feast on her mouth, savoring the feel of her lips and teeth and tongue.

When I pull away, she's thrashing against her restraints. "Cesare," she says through panting breaths. "Don't you have questions?"

"Just one."

I stride to the other side of the playroom, toward the shelves where I keep my most prized toys. The one I'm looking for sits inside a metal box.

Flipping it open, I extract an antique revolver with a wooden grip and a twelve-inch barrel.

"Hey, Rosalind?" I say.

"What?"

"Have you ever played pussy roulette?"