Chapter 44

CESARE

I'm not cold-blooded like my brothers and Leroi. My anger runs hot.

Think of it like a clock. At twelve, I'm neutral. Three, annoyed. Six, furious. Nine, incandescent with rage. It rises until about eleven, then once it heads back to twelve, my head clears, and I regain control.

That's when I'm capable of the cruelest and most calculated acts of violence.

When I was younger, Dr. Brunelli told Mom it was a dissociative state, saying that my mind disconnected to deal with intense anger. That was his explanation for why I supposedly killed the rabbit and tore out her unborn kits.

They were all wrong.

And not because I would never hurt anything I deemed innocent and cute.

Sometimes, a man gets pushed too far.

These days, a man can't enjoy his pet without some other bastard trying to spoil his happiness.

I straighten my surgical gloves and turn back to the shooter. He was extremely talkative while I was preparing him for surgery, told me his name and spilled a slew of facts about his mission, but I was beyond the mood for mercy.

Axel thrashes within his restraints on the leather operating table, his mouth wedged open with two steel cheek retractors that I attached to his head brace.

His mouth is packed with cotton gauze to soak up the blood. If I gave enough of a shit, I would crack open the box containing the suction wand. Since I don't, I'll have to rely on my leather apron to keep me clean.

"Tell me more about how you fucked Rosalind in Paris," I say, my voice coming from afar. "Tell me again how you made her come all over your cock."

Axel's eyes widen, and he tries to shake his head within their restraints. As I shift the table, adjusting his position to a more upright angle, his breathing becomes loud and strained.

A strangled noise echoes from his throat, sounding almost like an apology. He's already proven himself mentally weak and can't hide his emotions like my pretty little pet.

My lip curls. "Next time someone tells you to shut up or they'll cut out your tongue, don't call their bluff."

At the first sight of my new Bard-Parker No. 4 scalpel, he screams.

"Enough of that," I snap. "It's too late for explanations."

I grab his tongue with the forceps, pulling it taut. With my free hand, I make the first incision along the floor of Axel's mouth. My blade slices through the tissue, releasing a pool of blood which gets soaked up in the sterile gauze.

Carefully avoiding the major arteries, I cut the sides of Axel's tongue, replacing the soaked gauze to maintain a clear field of vision.

Blood runs down the sides of Axel's mouth, down his chest, and into the leather.

"This isn't working," I mutter. "You're bleeding too much."

After pulling out the gauze, I pick up a kitchen torch and grimace. "This was all I could get at short notice."

Axel doesn't reply because he's lost consciousness. I make a mental note to see if I can acquire a drug to keep prisoners awake during torture.

Frowning, I cauterize the wounds and continue slicing through the organ, releasing heat and the stench of burning flesh. Sweat beads on my brow as I seal the major arteries and coagulate the blood.

Once I've freed his tongue, I place it on the tray and focus on suturing the wound. Even though the torch has taken care of the bleeding, I need to minimize the risk of any postoperative infections.

"You still with me, Axel?" I ask.

He remains silent. If I had to guess, he's experiencing vasovagal syncope or neurogenic shock—both conditions strongly associated with pain.

I wipe the blood off his chest with antiseptic wipes, clean up the tongue, and attach it to his shoulder with staples.

Axel's eyes snap open.

"Welcome back," I say with my widest grin. "The fun has only just begun. Before you tell me what I need to know about the shooting, you're going to answer a few questions about my pet."

He groans, his eyes streaming with tears.

I give him an encouraging nod. "Don't worry. I've worked through my issues. This time, I'm prepared to listen. One blink means yes and two means no."

The entire night passes, as does most of the morning, and I still haven't had the chance to deal with my pet. She's more formidable than I anticipated. It's as though she is immune to the psychological effects of Stockholm syndrome. Her shooting me in the chest is the clearest sign that I need to change tactics.

Roman comes in to conduct his own interrogation and maims my shooter, so I have to call on our family physician to repair the damage.

Cardiac surgery is more complicated than a glossectomy and isn't something I can learn on YouTube. Besides, this shit-talking assassin needs to survive long enough to teach Rosalind a lesson.

The LED lamps above us shine down on the man's chest, while casting the rest of the basement in shadow. I hand the surgical stapler to Dr. Brunelli. He hasn't spoken a word to me since he entered the room and found the man with a gunshot wound to the chest.

I can tell he's pissed by the way his brow pinches. His thick mustache twitches behind the mask as though he's muttering under his breath.

After closing the chest wound, he says, "Explain to me the point of performing surgery on a man already marked for death."

My lips tighten behind my mask and I bristle. "I didn't shoot him. It was Roman."

The old man gives me a familiar narrow-eyed look, just like he used to when I was a child. He thinks I'm lying. If anything goes wrong with the family, it's always my fault.

"Ask Roman if you don't believe me." I flick my head toward the unconscious man. "Better still, ask him."

"You going to tell me Roman also removed his tongue and attached it to his shoulder?" he asks.

I shrug. "He was talking shit."

With a weary sigh, Dr. Brunelli pulls off his gloves. "Have you thought about what we talked about?"

"How can I return to medical school when there's a contract on our lives?" I ask. "The assassins already shot Roman. They won't stop coming after us until they're dead."

The doctor frowns but doesn't speak. I already know what he's thinking. It's not difficult, considering he and Mom concocted the plan to make me a surgeon to stop me from becoming a serial killer.

I pull off my gloves and toss them in the medical waste bin. "Before you accuse me of making up excuses, let me remind you that I never wanted to be a doctor."

"Yet you have enough surgical supplies to equip a clinic," he says.

"Can't a man have a hobby?" Rolling my shoulders, I shrug off my gown and head toward the exit.

"You're not staying to finish?" he asks.

"I left my pet unconscious upstairs." I wave a palm over the security scanner, and the door unlocks with a soft click.

When I step out and ascend the stairs, Sofia ambushes me with a trolley of panzerotti that fills the hallway with the scent of melted cheese and garlic.

My brow furrows. Last night she was so relaxed and happy in her black gown with her hair nicely styled and make-up. Now, she's tense, the lines on her face looking harsher after witnessing Roman's recent brush with death.

Roman's welcome home party was supposed to mark the end of our family's run of bad luck. Galliano and the Moirai assassins ruined Sofia's joy.

"You okay?" I ask.

Her gaze roves up and down my leather apron, her lips tightening with disapproval. "You're too skinny. You should eat more."

"There." I grab a pastry, take a huge bite, and offer her a smile that makes her eyes soften.

She gives me a pat on the cheek before wheeling the trolley toward the surveillance room, where I imagine everyone is still scouring how the hell the Moirai Group could get past our security.

I continue to the room where I left my treacherous pet. Four naked people sit huddled together, trying not to make eye contact with the six armed men.

As though outcast from her group, Rosalind lies unmoving on her side, bound with an excessive amount of zip-ties.

Adrenaline surges through my arteries, making my eyes bulge. My heart pounds hard enough to trigger a myocardial rupture. When I carried her upstairs, she was only mildly concussed. Now, her beautiful face is marred with a contusion around her eye and a laceration on her lip.

This isn't the work of a barrel falling on her head. Someone punched her in the face. Some filthy bastard damaged my pet.

"Rosalind," I say, my words hardening. "Who did this to you?"