Chapter 20

CESARE

I stand by the door with the reverse bear trap. Its rusty-looking jaws wrap around the lower half of the face with a spring that loops around the top of the head. Although made of foam and painted in acrylic paint, it's a realistic replica, down to the levers and bolts and screws.

Miranda gazes up at me through eyes too sparkling and bright for an innocent girl in the presence of a predator. She removed her blazer and tie when the food arrived and now sits with the first two buttons of her shirt loose, her sleeves rolled up, and her hair tied back in a messy bun.

I offer her a genuine smile. "Are you ready to prank your sister, love?"

She falls back on the couch with a giggle that thaws my icy heart. Kids are so much more expressive than adults. Every emotion plays on their faces. She's so easy to read and a hundred times more likable than her sister.

"Okay, but we need blood." She grabs a bottle of ketchup, squeezes some on her fingers, and smears it over her hairline.

My brows rise, and my smile widens. "I'm impressed by your commitment, but that won't be necessary."

"What are you waiting for?" she says. "Put me in the trap."

Chuckling, I place the replica over her head and adjust the straps around the back of her neck. "Can you breathe?"

Her shoulders droop. "I thought it would be heavier."

"Disappointed?"

"It isn't even made of metal."

"You don't think I would put you in a real trap?" I ask with a frown.

She huffs. "Rosa's going to know it's fake."

"She won't."

"How do you know?"

"Because a server wore it last Halloween to pose with the customers, and it looked real enough in the photos."

Satisfied with that, Miranda holds still while I pour fake blood at strategic points beneath the trap's jaws and the straps that touch her skin.

"Now tie my wrists," she says.

"What?"

"So it looks like I can't escape or fight back," she says, as though the answer is obvious.

My brows pinch, but I smooth out the expression. I don't hurt innocent people, especially those I like. But when she grabs her school tie and shoves it in my hand, I can't help but oblige.

I wrap it tightly around her wrists, secure it with a knot, and step back. "That should do it. Can you cry on demand, or will you need help?"

"No, I can do it," she replies from behind the trap.

I walk to the dimmer switch and adjust the lighting to create the right atmosphere. Sinister and dark with enough illumination to bring out the tears and blood streaming down Miranda's face.

"Ready, love?" I raise the camera.

She takes a deep breath and contorts her features into a look of anguish and pain.

I take a few pictures, but when the fat tears roll down her cheeks and turn black from her mascara, I switch to video.

Clever little girl.

Miranda's chest rises and falls with wracking sobs, as though she really is in pain. I adjust the zoom to capture the perfect shot, then I gesture with my arm like a conductor, urging her to push her performance to the next level.

"Please stop," she cries. "It hurts."

"I haven't even started," I growl for the camera.

Miranda screams, and the sound is like a concerto. She writhes and thrashes on the seat, her wrists straining against the fabric.

The scene would be heart-wrenching if I didn't know it was staged.

"Cut," I say.

She flops back to the sofa in a peal of giggles. "Let me do the editing. Rosa's going to freak!"

Half an hour later, after taking some more gruesome-looking photos, I send the first of many messages to Rosalind and wait.

Miranda scrolls on a burner phone, alternating between learning the steps of a viral dance and gorging herself on a selection of desserts from the menu.

Her phone rings, and I take it to the door, leaving her alone in the room. The two men I ordered to stand in the hallway and keep her inside acknowledge my presence with nods.

I continue down the corridor into Allegra's empty office and answer, "Hello, Miranda's a little tied up right now. How may I be of assistance?"

"You fucking bastard," she hisses. "If you hurt her?—"

"That's no way to speak to the man holding little Miranda's life in the balance," I drawl. "And such a sweet young thing."

She stifles a sob. "What do you want?"

"You. On your knees. Naked. Begging. Bleeding. Is that too much for a man to ask?"

"If you hurt her, I'll flay the skin off your tiny penis and force it down your throat."

I chuckle. "You and I both know it's big." In a much firmer voice, I add, "Be aware who I'll punish for your next insult."

She breathes hard, and the sound goes straight to my cock. This is exactly where Rosalind belongs—at my mercy.

"Just..." she exhales a shuddering breath. "Just please take her out of that awful trap. Her life is hard enough without you adding to her trauma."

My brow furrows. Trauma?

"I'm coming, alright? I'll be at the alley beside your club. Please... I'll do anything you want. Just release her."

I hang up, my triumph over Rosalind turning sour at the reminder that little Miranda lost her parents at the tender age of four. Earlier, I tried to delve for more details, but she fell silent.

When I return to the room, Miranda is drinking a milkshake topped with whipped cream, nuts and a chocolate-coated wafer.

"Having a good time, love?" I ask.

She gives me an eager nod. "Was that Rosa?"

I lower myself in the seat beside her. "Yeah. She was pretty scared."

She scoffs. "I would have liked to hear that."

"Can I ask you a serious question?" I pause, watching her freeze mid sip. "How would you describe your relationship with Rosalind?"

Miranda's face pinches.

"What is it?"

She shakes her head.

"Does she hurt you?" I ask.

"Nothing like that," Miranda mutters. "I just hate her."

"Why?"

She glances away. "You won't understand, because you're her boyfriend. It's obvious how much you love my sister."

Any other time, my jaw would drop and my eyes would bulge out of my head at that foul accusation, but I keep my poker face.

"Is that what you think?" I ask.

"Why else would you try so hard to impress me?" She raises her straw to her lips.

I hold back the laugh bubbling up in my chest. What little Miranda sees is the extent of my determination to recapture her sister. But if love means wanting to choke a woman until the light leaves her eyes and fuck her until she bleeds, then consider me smitten.

Miranda's phone buzzes with a text from Rosalind:

Ten minutes away.

Turning back to Miranda, I offer her what I hope is a gentle smile. "Drink up, love. I have a hot date with your sister."