Chapter 46

ROSALIND

Cesare carries me through a maze of hallways separated by security doors. Any other time, I would wonder if this underground labyrinth extended beyond the grounds, but I'm far too concerned about facing the consequences of my escape attempt.

The air thickens as we pass entrance after entrance of what might be cells. Finally, he stops at a door that opens into a stark white infirmary.

With an unusual amount of care, Cesare lays me on a cold, metal gurney and secures belts of woven nylon around my chest and waist. Once again, I feel like a prisoner, only this time, the environment is sterile.

Unforgiving lights glare down at me from the ceiling, making me squint. Another restraint tightens around my thighs and as he attaches the final one around my ankles, I sink against the cold metal with defeat.

"Is that really necessary?" I whisper.

Straightening, he fixes me with a glare so chilling that my teeth chatter. I clench my jaw, forcing back a surge of terror. This isn't like me at all. I'm usually so stoic and able to withstand anything.

But this is personal. I might have come here to aid an assassination, but Cesare thinks I'm a pet.

A pet that needs punishing.

Shoulders trembling, he glares down at me and raises a pair of shears. The blades are angled and bent, with a serrated edge and rounded point.

My throat tightens. "What are you doing?"

Without another word, he lifts the edge of my catsuit and snips the sleeve, reminding me of how paramedics cut away the clothing of their patients during emergencies.

Cool metal slides against my skin, making it pebble with every snip. My heart pounds. My stomach roils. My fingers clench in anticipation of an assault.

The air hits the exposed wound, making me wince. I glance down at my shoulder, finding it soaked with blood, and cringe at the sight of the gunshot wound. The bullet still lies embedded within a dark, glistening mass of flesh.

Cesare continues cutting my clothes past the injury and up to my neck, where the catsuit falls loose, revealing my breast. I close my eyes, once again exposed.

"You're going to be alright, pet," he says.

My stomach plummets. He's so calm, it's almost sinister.

With gloved hands that still tremble with rage, he probes the edges of the wound. I tighten my fists, trying to hold myself together as sensations oscillate between stinging, throbbing, and white-hot agony.

Suspense mounts, and the tension builds so high my body surges with adrenaline and my lizard brain screams with primal fear. Any second now, he'll plunge his finger into the wound to twist the bullet. That will be stage one of my punishment. If I lose consciousness, he'll slap me awake, only to repeat the torment.

Instead of doing the obvious, he pulls back his fingers and strides across the infirmary. I stare at the muscles rippling on his back as he opens a cabinet, revealing organized rows of boxes, bottles, and vials.

He grabs a vial and a sharp needle, then fills the syringe with an ominous liquid. I stiffen, my eyes widening. The cabinet door clicks shut, and he stalks back to my side, his eyes glinting.

"What's that?" I whisper.

His brows rise. "It's not me who drugs people in secret. When I stick a woman with a needle, she knows exactly what I'm doing."

My gaze drops to the bead of clear liquid glistening at the tip of the needle. Some psychopaths keep their captives compliant with sedatives. Others get their captives addicted to class A drugs.

Panic mounts. It's not heroin. Heroin isn't clear but brown. Maybe it's something equally devastating, like crack cocaine.

"Relax," he mutters, "It's only local anesthetic to numb the pain while I work on your shoulder."

The laugh that bursts out of my chest is shrill. "You'd dull my pain?"

"When I give you pain, it will be for my pleasure. Never from another man's wound."

Shudders course through my spine and settle into the marrow of my bones. I thought Cesare Montesano was crazy before. That knowledge hits differently as I come to terms with the fact that I'm unconditionally and irrevocably in the clutches of a psychopath.

"Take a deep breath, pet," he says, his voice soft.

As if hypnotized, I inhale, and the needle pierces my arm. Cool liquid seeps into my veins, spreading a sense of numbness that makes my shoulder sag with relief.

Cesare sets down the needle and strokes my hair as though I'm a beloved pet he's nursing back to health. I dart a glance up at him through my lashes to find his face still etched with hatred. It's like he can't decide if he wants to heal me or kill me.

Correction. He's healing me, bringing me back to peak condition, if only so I can feel the full force of his vengeance.

Shit.

The worst part about this situation is that I don't want to resist, at least until I feel better.

I lie still as he inspects the wound with his gloved fingers, which have stopped trembling. He's gone into physician mode.

The infirmary blurs into insignificance, and my entire world concentrates on this insane mafia prince who believes a few years of medical qualifies him for surgery.

His movements are deliberate, each action precise and calculated. I close my eyes, trying to block out the reality of my predicament.

Miranda is safe, even if she's in contact with this maniac. Now that I'm committed to betraying the Moirai, there's nothing holding me back from sharing information about the firm to negotiate my safety and a possible release.

It's just a question of getting in touch with a Montesano brother who isn't quite as insane.

"You're doing so well, pet," he murmurs, breaking me out of my thoughts.

My eyes snap open just in time to see him reaching past a tray of sterile instruments and taking hold of a swab. He cleans the wound with gentle strokes, removing all traces of blood.

Cold seeps into my flesh, making me want to shiver. I keep my breaths deep and slow, even as he reaches for a scalpel.

Now isn't the time to speak or any kind of distraction. I force my body to remain still as he makes incisions around the gunshot wound and then replaces the scalpel for forceps. I don't feel a thing when he extracts the bullet and drops it on a tray with a clink.

I stare straight ahead and tune out the rest of the procedure, not noticing he's finished until his fingers thread through my hair.

"All done," he says, his voice full of warmth and pulls my hair off my face. "Now, I need to tend to your cut lip and the swelling around your eye."

Cesare hums a tune as he cleans the wound with a cool, antiseptic liquid. The tremble returns to his fingers again, and his eyes harden. I don't need to read his mind to know his rage from earlier is rising to the surface.

He applies a numbing gel to my black eye and dabs ointment on my split lip. My chest lightens with the absence of pain. The relief only lasts a moment because he produces another syringe. Panic reaches through my ribs and squeezes my heart and squeezes so hard I stop breathing.

"Rest, little pet," he says as a needle enters the vein on my neck.

"What did you give me?" I say through strangled gasps.

"Just a little sedative. When you wake up, everything will be different."

My eyes flutter closed as the drug takes effect, and I sink into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The next time I awaken, I'm sitting upright with my head bowed. A ball gag lodges halfway toward my throat, and every inch of my body is strapped to a wheelchair.

Faint breaths grate along eardrums, along with muffled sobs. I'm probably so fucked in the head that I don't even realize I'm crying.

Cracking my eyes open, I stare down at my lap and let my vision adjust to the dark. Bandages encase both legs, seeming to be attached to the lower part of its frame.

My gaze wanders past my knees and I see... nothing.

Adrenaline kicks me in the heart.

I jerk forward within my restraints and crane my neck, looking past my knees for signs of my calves, my ankles, my feet. They're either bound so tightly to the chair or?—

My mind stutters.

He didn't.

He wouldn't.

He couldn't.

He fucking could.

Ice courses through my veins, making my senses break out in a panic. I thrash within my restraints, wiggling my toes to check that I still have feet. Sensation travels up my legs, but it could mean anything from tight bondage to the phantom pain after amputation.

Who the fuck knows if what I'm feeling is real?

A groan sounds from somewhere in the room, making my head snap up. Breathing hard, I take in my surroundings. The room I'm in is dark, without even the courtesy of a flickering bulb. Illumination comes from the digital display of a clock that reads 11:59.

11:59? Is that the time or a coded message?

I jerk back and forth, trying to make the contraption move a few inches, only for it to roll forward. The movement triggers a switch that floods the space with light and burns my eyes.

Breathing hard, I blink away the glare, only to find myself in a much larger room. Axel hangs suspended on a wooden X, naked save for a ball gag and a set of bandages around his chest. The other assassins from the Moirai also hang unmoving to his left and right.

Greta stares at me, her face streaked with tears. That muffled sob I heard earlier didn't come from me. It was her.

What. The. Actual. Fuck?