Chapter 24

CESARE

I gaze down at Rosalind's slumbering form. She's beautiful when she's not running that smart mouth, with plump lips the shade of damsons, thick lashes, high cheekbones, and a pert nose.

Her mahogany hair spills across the leather platform like dried blood with tresses curling toward her perfect breasts and nipples that look like they've been dipped in Chianti.

Last night, the muscle relaxant wore off a lot faster than expected, and she broke out of the zip-ties and freed her ankle from the spreader bar. She was about to liberate the other when I injected her with a sedative.

I kept her drugged and bound for the rest of the journey back to Alderney Hill and into the estate. Now, she's in the new playroom, where my furniture was moved into a basement room beneath the mansion.

Escaping won't be easy, and locating her will be near impossible. An intruder would have to find our wine cellar, work out which of the barrels is a hidden entrance, and then navigate a maze of hallways protected by biometric security doors.

Rosalind is trapped.

Leaning close, I inhale her sweet scent and scowl. Why must she smell like magnolias? The earthy combination of citrus and rose never fails to heat my blood to anger.

My fingertips trail down the pulse point on her neck, feeling its steady beat. I study the patch of skin on the side of her breast where I carved my initials, finding it only raised and reddened. Rosalind must have healed the incision in the brief time we spent apart, using an advanced form of medical technology I'm eager to learn.

"What secrets do you hold, pet?" I ask her unconscious form. I can't wait to unravel her, piece by delicious piece.

I grin, my chest inflating with satisfaction. This powerful little creature is mine. Mine to possess, mine to break, mine to shape into my perfect toy. Rosalind will appease my darkest desires and succumb to my every whim. I will wear down her spirit, turn her into my blank slate, and build her up to fulfill every depraved fantasy.

After attaching each of her fingers in a steel hand trap and securing her wrists with rigid handcuffs, I check my phone, which hasn't stopped buzzing with alerts since I arrived.

It's a text from the burner phone I gave Miranda:

What was that about?

Cesare, what's happening?

Where did you take my sister?

Why were the police shooting at our car?

Cesare?

My heart sinks, and my lips tighten. If Rosalind had come alone as I had ordered, I would have returned Miranda to Tourgis Academy unaware and un-traumatized. With a sigh, I tap out a message.

It's not what it looks like. Your sister's friend ruined what should have been a romantic surprise by ramming into a police car.

Dots appear on the screen.

Britt said I was in danger.

My brow furrows, and I type:

From who?

She types back:

You. She says you want to hurt us both.

My lip curls. This Britt character needs to watch her mouth.

Did I hurt you?

She replies:

No. I had the best time.

I respond with:

Maybe Britt feels neglected because Rosalind wants to spend time with her new boyfriend.

Miranda sends me an animated gif of a laughing skull. I take that as a good sign until she writes:

Can I speak to my sister?

Shit. Why am I working so hard to appease a little kid, when I have everything I want? Her older sister, naked, bound, and under my control. Part of me still thinks I owe her something because I haven't felt so entertained in forever.

Ignoring my common sense, I carry Rosalind to the bed. After covering her perfect tits with a sheet, I take a picture of her and type out:

Sorry, love. Rosalind can't talk right now. She's sleeping.

The dots reappear, and I wait for Miranda's response, but it doesn't come. I stare at my screen with a peculiar mixture of relief and disappointment. Relief that Miranda has stopped digging for the truth, and disappointment that she's accepted such a flimsy excuse.

Next time I see Miranda, I'll chastise her about being so trusting. She jumped into a stranger's car without checking my credentials. I could have been a predator, a pervert, or a psychopath. If my intentions toward her had been nefarious, she could have gotten hurt.

I wait a few minutes for her to respond, but when there's only silence, I climb out of bed, carry Rosalind back to the bench, and secure her to its leather surface with a series of straps.

With each finger encased in metal splints, there's no way for her to escape.

The door opens, and Benito steps in, his features pinched as though he smells something sour. "You've retrieved the assassin."

I snatch a sheet, cover up her nudity, and snarl, "What do you want?"

"There's been an incident," Benito says with a delicate sniff. "Dominic attacked Roman's special guest."

My breath catches, and my eyes widen with disbelief. Who would want to hurt the crazy balcony woman? Nobody knows how important she is to our family's future, except Sofia, our housekeeper, and the three of us brothers. Everyone else thinks she's just a woman Roman picked up from the club.

"Why?" I ask.

"That's what we're about to discover," he says. "Roman needs you to drag his carcass out of the pool house and into an interrogation room."

I fold my arms, my gaze sweeping down his three-piece-suit. "Why don't you do it?"

"Roman wants me to go to Tourgis Academy to pick up Dominic's daughter." My jaw drops, and I'm about to protest when he raises a finger. "Before you claim to be the pied piper of taking girls hostage, we need someone capable of sweet-talking the headmistress."

My lips tighten. "Tell me what you really think, brother."

"Rolling up at the school gates and demanding Dominic's daughter will only get you arrested."

"Alright, then. Why doesn't Roman drag Dominic to the interrogation room himself?"

"Because he's busy calming down a hysterical woman who is one psychotic break away from realizing she's a hostage we intend to kill," Benito says with a sigh.

My jaw tightens. That's a lot of talking to disguise the fact that he could have dragged Dominic to the interrogation room instead of walking past it to ask me to do the job.

"The longer he's left unguarded, the more likely his accomplice will put a bullet through his head to stop him from talking," Benito adds.

"Fine," I growl and usher him out of the playroom.

Ten minutes later, I'm entering the French doors of my former sanctuary. Dominic lies unconscious on the pool house's floor, sullying its stone tiles with blood. His face is a mass of cuts, bruises, and exposed bone, but the rest of his body appears to be untouched.

"What the fuck happened to you?"

I crouch down beside him, studying his battered face with a mix of curiosity and disgust. Roman must have lost his mind defending his special guest because there's no artistry to Dominic's wounds.

My ears prick at the sound of feminine crying, mingled with Roman's hushed words of comfort. I turn to the door that used to lead to my inner sanctum and scowl.

There's probably a reason my brother didn't lock this woman in the basement and torture her into signing over our stolen property. Benito must have convinced him to carry out some unnecessary and convoluted scheme.

I won't interfere, but I'm intrigued.

Rising to my feet, I walk around an easel, finding a male figure sketched in faint charcoal with an oversized dick. I snort, wondering if Roman posed naked.

When movement sounds from the door, I walk back to the unconscious man, hook my arms beneath his pits, and drag him out through the door.

At the distinct squeaking of a trolley wheel, I release my quarry and straighten.

Sofia pushes a cart laden with covered bowls, plates, and silverware. Her eyes widen at the sight of Dominic's battered face.

"Do I need to be worried?" she asks, her lips thinning.

"Not until I find out if he has any accomplices. Benito says he attacked her." I nod in the direction of the pool house.

Her jaw hardens, and she glares down at Dominic with so much hatred that I raise my brows. "I knew that one was no good. I made him gnocchi yesterday, and he let it go to waste."

"A travesty," I mutter. "Don't worry. I'll punish him for wasting your fine cooking."

Her features tighten, and she glances around as though checking that the coast is clear. My insides twist with unease. The only time she gets like that is when talking about my secret.

"He's been calling the house, threatening to speak with Roman," she says, her voice hushed. "If you keep ignoring him?—"

"I'll take care of it," I say.

Sofia purses her lips, knowing full well I won't speak to that bastard. She's about to launch into one of her lectures when I place a hand on her shoulder.

"Trust me. He won't live long enough to tell Benito or Roman the truth."