Chapter 57

CESARE

Daughter?

I freeze, the word ringing through my ears and muffling her tirade. The scar above her pubic bone wasn't from a hysterectomy but a cesarean, which means…

An iron bar hits me over the head before I can even form my next thought. Pain explodes across my cranium and my vision fills with a constellation.

The world tilts on its axis, not just because of the blow, but because of the devastating news that Rosalind is Miranda's mother.

But how?

I stagger backward just as she swings the iron bar. Another blow lands across my shoulder, the impact jarring me back to the present. Rosalind is a wild, feral creature, protecting her young. I've got to restrain her before she does any more damage to me or herself.

Adrenaline surges through my veins, momentarily dulling the pain of her next strike. I charge at her, aiming to grab the iron bar, but she sidesteps and swings it again. This time, it connects with my ribs, and I release a strangled grunt.

"Rosalind, stop!" I yell above her barrage of screams.

She's beyond reason, and I can't blame her. Rosalind is reliving every fucked-up thing I did to her and imagining me inflicting it on Miranda. How could she know I would never corrupt a child?

All she sees is the monster who imprisoned her, humiliated her, who enjoyed seeing her suffer.

I raise my arms to block another strike. The iron bar hits my ulna bone with a sharp, tingling sensation. Ignoring the pain flaring across my forearms, I lunge forward, wrap my arms around her waist, and throw us both to the floor. Finally, the iron bar clatters to the ground.

She struggles beneath me, her fists pummeling my chest and face with ruthless precision. The time she's spent in captivity has weakened her punches, but I still take the blows. The pain is nothing compared to the shock of her revelation.

Pinning her down by the shoulders, using my superior body weight keeping her in place. "You want to kill me, pet?"

"I want you dead," she screeches, her eyes ablaze with hatred.

"Then do it," I say between panting breaths. "Give me everything you've got."

She lashes out with renewed vigor, her blows relentless, her insults slicing through the chaos like serrated blades. "Monster, sick bastard. Child molester… Just like him."

Him who? I flinch, my lips forming a denial, but I'm silenced by a fist to the mouth. Thank fuck we're in the tower where nobody can hear her slander.

When her punches lose their impact, her hands scrabble for my throat and she squeezes. The pressure is constricting, but I don't resist.

"Let it all out, pet," I say through clenched teeth.

"I'm going to tear off your cock," she yells, her voice shrill.

Her knee connects with my balls. Shock barrels through my insides in a continuum of pain and nausea. All the air leaves my lungs, and for a moment, I can't inhale. As my body goes slack, she rolls me off her and scrambles to her knees.

When she picks up the iron bar again, I groan.

Once again, I underestimated Rosalind's skill. Still reeling from the groin strike, I barely manage to grab her ankle in time to pull her back down to the floor tiles.

She lands beside me with a grunt, and I take advantage of her disorientation to snatch her weapon. I toss it across the room, where it lands against the wall with a clatter.

Rosalind lands a fist at my temple, but I wrap my hand around her throat and squeeze.

Tears stream down her cheeks, and her pretty features contort with more anguish than I saw during the time she spent with me in capacity. Remorse punches me in the heart. I wanted to see her break, but not like this. Never out of maternal anguish.

"If you've gotten her pregnant?—"

"Look at me, Rosalind," I command, my voice rough. "It's not what you're thinking. I never touched Miranda."

She screams, the words incoherent. Nothing I say is getting through. She won't listen to the truth. Why would she when the sounds and images I sent were so incriminating? She should want me dead.

Keeping my grip tight around her throat, I move us both across the floor to the dresser, where I keep my supplies.

She thrashes beneath me, her fists pounding against my chest, her nails digging a bloody trail across my forearms. Rosalind's rage is only picking up speed, each attack landing with increased desperation.

When I reach the dresser, I stretch out with my free hand, pull open a drawer, and grope around for something, anything, to knock her out and give me time to think. I don't want to use my fists because she's only just recovered from the bruises from her last attempt to escape.

Finally, my fingers close around a bottle of somnochlorate, a drug similar to chloroform, but more powerful. Rosalind bucks and rears beneath me as I unscrew its cap with my teeth, and I hold my breath to avoid inhaling the potent fumes.

She's too blinded in her rage to even notice the bottle. I tighten my grip around her throat and splash the liquid over her face. As she gasps for air, she inhales the drug, and her punches grow feeble.

Her eyes widen, and she rasps, "No…"

"I'm sorry, pet," I say, meaning every word. "But this is the only way I can make you listen."

"You bastard," she sobs.

I swallow, gazing into her fiery eyes, which still blaze with defiance, even as they grow heavy with the effects of the drug. It's a look that fills my veins with ice, a silent promise of retaliation.

"I know, love," I whisper, my voice barely audible over her heavy breaths. "I know."

With each passing second, her struggles fade until her arms fall to the floor tiles like lead weights. Her eyes glaze over, the flames in her irises fade, and the rest of her body falls limp.

As soon as she's out, I scramble to my feet and pace the room, carefully avoiding the wreckage. In her rage, she smashed the television set I left on the dresser, dismantled the four-poster, and splintered the unbreakable glass windows.

How the fuck can I subdue this enraged mother? More importantly, how the hell can someone as young as Rosalind have given birth to a grown-up child?

I never asked Miranda her age, but she must be at least fourteen.

My gaze drops to Rosalind, where her borrowed shirt has ridden up to her waist, exposing the barely visible scar. I drop to my knees and study the subtle groove. Someone got her pregnant when she was Miranda's age or younger, but who?

Based on the accusations she screamed, I can only conclude it was an older man. No wonder she couldn't stand for it to be touched. It's the embodiment of her trauma.

I scoop her up in my arms and carry her out of the destroyed room, down two flights of stairs, and into the hallway that leads to the family bedrooms. The first rays of sunlight stream in through the windows at the end of the corridor, reminding me that neither of us has slept.

When we reach my room, I place her on my bed and pick up the shackles permanently attached to the metal headboard. Rosalind will be furious when she awakens and will start a fight. I lie beside her, ready with my questions.

I'm not ready to think about why it makes a difference to me that she gave birth to Miranda. When I thought they were sisters, I already knew Rosalind was her only guardian.

Dr. Brunelli would twitch his mustache and tell me I had lingering mother issues from being abandoned when I needed her most. He might even suggest that seeing my rabbit with her kits torn out of her belly has made me put mothers on a pedestal.

No, he wouldn't because he still doesn't believe the Capello twins disemboweled my beloved pet.

As soon as I hear Rosalind's sharp intake of breath, my hand shoots out to clamp over her mouth to muffle a scream.

She glares across the mattress at me. The flames in her eyes have returned and burn hot enough to singe my stubble.

"Calm down, pet. I don't want to hurt you again."

An incessant clanking takes my attention away from her face to the cuffs around her wrist, and my stomach drops. Since I didn't bind her fingers, she's now breaking out of her shackles. I rise off the mattress and straddle her hips. These escape attempts are the reason I immobilized her hands. The woman is unstoppable.

"I want to help you," I say loud enough to cut through her muffled rant. "Just answer my questions. Are you really Miranda's mother?"

Her nostrils flare, indicating that she's listening, even if she keeps twisting the chains instead of answering.

"How?" I ask.

She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to block out my question. The answer to my question was in her tirade when she implied I'd gotten Miranda pregnant.

"Let me guess. You were abused."

She sucks in a sharp breath.

"And your mother either knew at the time or didn't protect you when she discovered the truth, which was why you killed her, too."

Tears leak from the corners of her eyes, but she continues twisting the chains, the muscles in her forearms bulging with exertion.

"Rosalind, who is Miranda's father?"

She jerks her head to the side, as though the thought of the man who raped her as a child is too much to bear.

My breath shallows. Growing up, I didn't have a sister. My cousin, Jennifer, doesn't count because she and Leroi left before I was two. I can't imagine Dad abusing his own daughter, but I know that sort of shit happens in other families.

"Was it a teacher?" When she doesn't respond, I add, "Your parent's friend? Was it your father?"

Her answer is a muffled sob that's like a knife through the heart.

Pieces click together, both from everything I learned from speaking to Rosalind and Miranda, as well as what I know about the Moirai. They recruit their people young, which means she must have given birth before training to become an assassin.

"Miranda told me you came to the house when she was four to kill your parents and take her away. Did you join the Moirai to become strong enough to take back your child?"

She finally nods, her body convulsing with sobs.

I try to think of a girl as young as Miranda being forced to endure abuse, only to get pregnant by her own father. My mind can't even form the image. It's too horrific to even contemplate.

Rosalind finally opens her eyes and glares up at me with a hatred that burns brighter than the entire time she spent in captivity. That's when I understand the source of her strength. Nothing I did to her could ever compare to what she endured as a child.

"I swear to you, I didn't touch Miranda," I say.

The snap of metal resounds in the room as she finally breaks through the first of her chains. Instead of clawing at my eyes, she uses her free hand to work at the shackle around her left wrist.

"She was telling the truth about the prank. I asked Miranda to wear a prop for the first set of photos. All the crying and screaming she did for the camera was an act. That conversation you heard earlier was me teaching her to make hot chocolate. Those noises were because she was eating snacks."

Rosalind jerks her head to meet my eyes.

"It's true," I rasp. "You can ask her yourself. She's across the hallway."

When she stops struggling, I think it's because I've finally reached her with the truth, but she lurches at me with both arms outstretched and wraps her hands around my throat.

"Calm down, pet," I say through choked breaths. "You don't want to look disheveled when I take you to your daughter."

"You're going to let me see her?" she says in disbelief.

"As soon as we agree to a truce," I reply.