Chapter 30

ROSALIND

My heart pounds loudly enough to burst my eardrums, and I'm breathing hard, still shaken by the force of Cesare's rage. Maybe taunting him about his weaknesses was a step too far. Instead of inciting him to get angry enough to make a mistake, I made him self-reflect.

Shit. This over-emotional psycho is evolving.

The sound of running water turns my attention to the right-hand corner of the room, where Cesare fills a bucket. Of course, he cleans his own dungeon. Any sane person would balk at the sight of a woman being held against his will.

Do his brothers know I'm here? Does Leroi? The answer to both questions is probably yes, considering it was Leroi who passed on information about Miranda.

Miranda.

I squeeze my eyes shut and exhale my pent-up tension. Britt moved her to the safety of our secret hideout. It's only a matter of time before she takes my girl overseas, where any of my enemies can't reach, including Cesare and Gunther.

Now that I haven't returned to work, Gunther will probably sniff around Tourgis Academy for Miranda. He'll work out a way to send me a warning to keep the firm's secrets or make her pay the price.

Britt is smart. She knows how to hide Miranda. At least that's what I thought. How the hell is Miranda still in contact with Cesare? Britt should have confiscated her phone.

Cesare approaches the bondage table, his menacing presence breaking me out of my thoughts. Without another word, he picks up the pieces of broken plates and sets them on the tray.

My stomach growls, and I shift uncomfortably within the leather restraints, wondering if he'll make me eat the spilled yogurt.

The mingled scents of dairy and ripe fruit invade my senses and flood my mouth with saliva. I swallow, my insides rioting for food. I know it won't last. Every time we went through survival training, it would take seventy-two hours for the hunger pangs to disappear. After that, fasting is a breeze.

He moves the tray to the door, picks up the mop and dips it in the bucket. In moments, the delicious scent is overtaken by the sharp tang of cleaning solution. Cesare cleans the mess in silence, his methodical movements almost meditative.

I follow his actions with a strange mix of fear and fascination, wondering how he'll break the silence and how he'll punish me for my defiance.

My fingers try to curl within the splits, but the leather bites into my skin, securing each digit to the metal exoskeleton. There's no room for escape with each strap so rigid and thick with zero give.

Giving up on the futile effort, I study Cesare's features, but all I find is a mask of concentration. Is he replaying my last rant? Is he recalibrating his approach to break my spirit? The silence between us thickens until it takes on a solid form and pushes down on my chest.

Stop this.

In a captivity situation, the hostage must balance introspection with awareness. The hostage must never maintain a psychological dependence on the captor or risk forming an emotional bond.

I turn my thoughts inward, recalling an old academy lecture on the survival rule of three:

Operatives can survive three minutes without air, three hours in extreme heat or cold, three days without water, and three weeks without food. My heart sinks. If I can't manipulate Cesare into slipping up, then I need to find another way to break free.

It's me who needs to evolve. I need to cast aside the dry lectures and study Cesare for new weaknesses and test different approaches to gain his trust.

"Tell me the name of your client again," his sharp voice slices through the silence.

"Capello." I turn to meet his gaze, but he's focusing his attention on squeezing the mop head.

"Which one?"

"Frederic is dead, so the contract would have died with him," I say.

"Then who?"

My throat tightens. Gunther never once told me the name of our client. I had to overhear it through conversations with the assassins he deemed worthy of highly paid missions.

Cesare glances up, his eyes narrowing, his fingers gripping the mop so tightly his knuckles turn white. "Don't test me," he says through clenched teeth. "Don't even think of holding back or making any demands."

The threat hangs in the silence like a sword, or perhaps the inappropriately named Lucrezia. Everything from the coldness in his eyes to the sneer on his lips suggests that if I don't answer, he'll make me wish for death.

My survival instincts force me to improvise.

"One of his relatives who didn't die in the massacre must have contacted the firm to carry out the hit," I say.

Cesare's mask cracks, and he throws his head back with a cackle so maniacal that the fine hairs at the nape of my neck stand on end.

What the fuck did I just say to set him off? This man keeps me off balance with his unpredictable reactions. His laughter echoes off the walls, making every molecule in the air tremble.

I inhale a sharp breath through my teeth, my muscles tensing. "Did I say something funny?"

The laughter ceases, and he regains control of his features and turns to me, his eyes glinting with malicious triumph.

"We captured Samson last night," he says. "He's being tortured to death."

"Oh." I exhale, releasing only a fraction of my tension. Gunther didn't tell me Frederic Capello's older son had survived the massacre. I just assumed our client was a more distant relative.

This changes everything.

Cesare no longer has a reason to continue his interrogation. The Moirai Group will keep the Capello deposit, since there are no survivors left to pay the final invoice for the triple assassination, and I can return to work.

He raises his brows, prompting me to speak.

My tongue darts out to lick my dry lips. "As soon as the firm knows Samson is dead, they'll call off the hit."

He closes the distance between us, still gripping that infernal mop. Water drips from its sodden fibers, leaving a puddle at his feet. I remain still, forcing myself not to shrink, as my mind puzzles through the most tactful way to phrase my request.

"If every member of the Capello family is dead and can't start any new contracts, then you and your brothers are no longer targets," I say.

"Correct." He rocks forward on the balls of his feet, his eyes dancing with delight.

"The Moirai Group knows I'm here," I add. "Someone will demand my release."

"The way your boss did when I called his number?"

My throat constricts, my lungs tightening with the ache of betrayal. Cesare has a point. Gunther sure as hell didn't dispatch a crack team of operatives to extract me from the Montesano stronghold. he probably didn't even send that fucking Uber.

"That's different. It's a new set of circumstances if the client dies. If you continue keeping me here?—"

"You became my property the moment you poisoned my drink."

"Technically, it was the drink you poured for me."

"Which you made me down with reverse psychology."

"Let me go, Cesare," I say. "The Moirai Group is ruthless to those who hold their operatives captive."

"Don't fight it, pet."

He grips my chin so tightly that I swear I can feel every fingerprint, and glares into my eyes with an intensity that sets my blood on fire.

"You stopped belonging to that firm the moment you took my mark." He speaks so matter-of-factly, it's as though there's a reality where humans are property.

"Let me go," I snarl.

He flashes me a grin. "You're mine. There isn't a single place where you could hide from me because I will always find you, my pretty pet."

I spit in his face.

The hand holding my chin hostage whips out like a cobra and delivers a slap so hard that my head snaps to the side. Stinging pain radiates across my cheek, and my sinuses fill with the scent of blood.

Clenching my teeth, I hold back a barrage of insults. This crazy bastard and his antics have eroded my common sense and made me forget my professional training. Stupid acts of defiance will only get me maimed. I need to stay focused on finding an opening for escape.

He wipes the spit with his fingers and places them in his mouth. Groaning, he savors each digit as though feasting on nectar.

I stare at his tongue, the pulse between my legs pounding hard with a cocktail of terror and another sensation I refuse to name.

Cesare leans so close that his face becomes a blur. His scent is earthy, smoky, intoxicating. It clouds my thoughts and dulls my senses. I hold my breath, waiting for him to strike.

"Bad pets who don't accept their place earn punishments," he growls through panting breaths. "And you're about to receive a lesson in obedience."