Chapter 42

CESARE

The bullet hits my protective undershirt, saving me from a deadly shot but none of the pain. The impact explodes across my chest, and I stumble backward into an iron rack.

My blood boils. Cold venom fills my veins. Everything I learned about Stockholm syndrome is bullshit. My own pet tried to put a bullet through my heart.

I shoot at a high rack, smashing through its frame. Just as Rosalind tries to make her escape, a barrel falls from the top, knocking her out cold.

My phone drops to the floor with the flashlight facing the ceiling, lighting up a dour-faced blonde. She hesitates for the second I need to land a shot in her chest and falls back behind the stack of barrels.

That's the bitch who locked up Miranda.

I stalk toward her with my gun leveled. The distillery fills with her heavy footsteps and breathy whimpers as she tries to slither away.

When I reach Rosalind, I kick away her gun, tear off her goggles, and turn off my phone's flashlight. She's unconscious, but I'm not taking any chances.

My priority is the accomplice. I want to know how she bypassed the biometric security, tracked down my pet, and discovered the location of great-grandfather Paolo's distillery.

An intrusive thought whispers that he's not my ancestor, but I tell it to get fucked. Nature doesn't mean shit. I was nurtured to be a Montesano.

Rounding the corner, I find the blonde stumbling along the wall of barrels with a hand over her chest. The other clutches at the racking system, trying to keep herself upright.

"Tell me how you bypassed our security in exchange for a quick death," I say.

"Fuck you." She darts to the side and disappears into a hatch.

"Shit!" I chase after her, finding her vanishing down a chute.

How the hell did I not know about this extra breach in our security?

I fire round after round into the chute, determined to kill her before she can escape and move Miranda. Seconds later, a heavy thud tells me she's reached a barrier at the bottom.

If she survived the gunshots, I doubt she'll have the strength to break out of the tunnel. I slip the gun in my pocket, pull out my phone and fire a text outlining the situation to our head of security. He'll find a way to extract the blonde and dispose of her carcass before it causes a stink.

Gil calls back, and I answer in one ring. "We've found the shooter," he says. "The gate staff held back everyone who came without ID and we're still hunting down runaways. I can't find Roman, so you'll need to question the assassin."

"Where are you holding the suspects?" I walk back to where Rosalind lies on the floor, unmoving.

"There's six guys holding them at gunpoint in the ground floor storage room."

"Fine." I scoop her up and arrange her over my shoulder. "Increase the guard. I'm bringing over my little assassin."

Minutes later, I walk into a room where a group of guards have their weapons trained at a huddled mass of guests and waiting staff, each bound with zip-ties. One of the armed men is Joe, whose bullet wound I healed.

After depositing Rosalind on the floor, I turn to him. "Make sure this one doesn't escape."

He nods. "Sure thing, boss."

I lean in close and whisper, "Watch her carefully. Note who makes eye contact with her or starts any kind of conversation. She's a known assassin."

Joe frowns, casting her another glance. Nothing about her face or delectable body says she's deadly, but that's Rosalind's superpower. She will lure you in with her extreme beauty and strike at the most unexpected moment.

"Cesare." Gil appears at the door. "Over here."

I follow Gil out through the hallway into another room, where four men hold guns to a naked man who's crouched on all fours. He's athletic and blond, looking exactly what I would expect of a trained assassin.

"Is he talking?" I ask.

"No." One of the guards kicks the man in the ribs and he doesn't even flinch.

That's all the confirmation I need to know he's a member of the Moirai. It looks like all these assassins have a high tolerance for pain.

After returning to double-check that Rosalind is still unconscious, I secure the shooter with zip-ties and a mild paralyzing agent, then transport him down to a basement interrogation room.

It's empty, save for an adjustable table and the trolley containing my tools. The shooter's eyes stay closed as I set him up for questioning, but the moment I jab him in the shoulder with the scalpel, he flinches.

The man glares up at me through blue eyes that grate on my nerves. The shade reminds me too much of Matty Galliano.

"Let's not waste time with denials," I say. "The surveillance footage caught you shooting at my brother, and you took down two guards before you reached the wall. You're an assassin."

His jaw flexes.

I tap the tiny tattoo on his hip. "And I know you're from the Moirai."

His nostrils flare. "You find that out from Rosalind?"

"You know her?"

He huffs a laugh. "You could say that."

My eyes narrow, and I take another look at his features. Some might call this bastard handsome, if you like clean-cut, Scandinavian Ken dolls.

Rosalind would never take a second look at this asshole. She likes her men, dark, dangerous, edgy. She likes a man strong enough to challenge her brattiness. She likes a man like me.

Or does she?

I thought Stockholm syndrome was kicking in before she stabbed me in the back. Maybe all that flirtation and banter was just a ploy to make me lower my guard. I was sure only I could make her wet.

My eyes narrow. Before I can stop myself, I ask, "What does that mean?"

"Rosalind and I had a great time together in Paris. Four months of good food, good wine, and good fucking."

My nostrils flare. "Is that right?"

He smirks. "Best time ever."

"Let me ask you something." I walk around the interrogation table, keeping my eyes trained on the bastard's face. "Does every assassin from the Moirai Group work from the same playbook?"

He remains still.

"Or do you memorize the same dossier on your targets and their weaknesses?"

He takes several deep breaths, each one measured and controlled. I don't need an electrocardiogram to tell he's trying to calm his racing heart.

I press the scalpel into his eye socket. "Answer my question."

"Yes," he hisses.

"Yes, what?" I reply.

"We keep a file on each target, including a psychological profile of their habits, weaknesses."

"What does the Moirai say about me?" I ask with a sneer.

"Your choice of sexual partners is limited to your employees," he says through ragged breaths. "Is that because you can only get it up with women under your control? Is that what you did with Rosalind?"

Is this asshole trying to goad me into flying into a rage and giving him a quick death?

"What else?" I ask, my voice tight.

"You have a drug problem. It's why you dropped out of medical school."

I clench my teeth. That bullshit is in the past. "Anything else?"

"The reason you've never had a girlfriend is because the only woman you ever loved was your mother."

"Where did you learn that?"

He raises a shoulder. "The file."

"Whose file?"

"The one Rosalind kept when she gathered intel on your family."

Betrayal floods my senses, stinging my sinuses and filling my senses with the scent of blood. Did she overhear that bullshit from Leroi or the shit-talking guards?

"According to the files, you're the Montesano family's weakest link," he says with a dry chuckle. "Roman was unreachable on death row. Benito was unreachable because of his impeccable conduct. You, on the other hand, would stick your dick in anything under the right circumstances."

"And what would those be?"

He huffs a laugh. "Not too bright, I see."

"Interesting," I say, my voice sounding far away.

"What?"

"The distraction technique," I reply. "All you assassins use the same tactics. Do you even have an ounce of personal flair, or are you running through a checklist?"

His jaw clicks shut.

"Here's what's going to happen," I say. "You're going to stop talking about Rosalind and making her punishment worse."

He flinches. "She's alive?"

My lip curls into a smile. "What did your intel say I would do to her?"

When he doesn't speak, my smile turns into a cheshire grin. "What's wrong, shooter? Cat got your tongue?"

I wait several heartbeats for him to say something taunting, but he remains silent.

"Are you working out that the information you memorized might be wrong? That I'm not a hot-headed, drug-addicted manic who will kill you for speaking out?"

His Adam's apple bobs up and down.

"That would be partially right," I murmur.

He stares into my eyes, his pupils dilating. I nod, recognizing the rush of adrenaline that comes with the fight-or-flight response to anxiety. This asshole is realizing that he can't goad me into cutting his throat.

"You shot my brother. Then you had the nerve to brag about fucking my pet. I'm sick of hearing your voice, so I'm going to make sure you can't speak."

He sucks in a sharp breath.

"That's right." I trail the scalpel down to the edge of his mouth. "I'm going to take your tongue."