Chapter 63

CESARE

The last leg of our flight to Helsing Island is strained, and not just because of the turbulence. I don't know what happened between Rosalind and Miranda in the restroom, but the tension between them hangs in the air like a noose.

The more time I spend with them, the more I feel like a piece of shit. Miranda isn't just a replacement for the younger sibling I always wanted, and Rosalind isn't just a beautiful and challenging little toy.

They're people with complicated emotions and a strained connection. Their relationship was already fragile, and my interference only made it worse. Miranda's resentment comes from her believing she's an orphan being controlled by her callous abductor. The poor kid doesn't realize she has a loving mother who sold her soul to keep her safe.

And I can't believe Rosalind's strength.

After everything I did to her, she's still willing to work with me for the sake of her daughter. I know in the pit of my gut that this truce will end with a bullet through my head, which is why I need to convince her I'm more valuable to her alive.

I'm not just saying that out of self-preservation. There's something about seeing a mother trying to protect her child that makes a bastard like me want to do better, be better.

The airport in Helsing Island is so drab and small that threats would stick out like flashing neon signs. That doesn't stop Rosalind and me from walking through the terminal with our head swiveling for any hint of Galliano's goons.

All we find are eco-tourists kitted out in mountain gear and parents escorting teenage kids. According to the posters adorning the terminal's walls, we're in some kind of nature reserve. The entire place is a paradise for hikers and birdwatchers.

By the time we step outside into the cool, damp air, the sun has already dipped behind a distant mountain, painting the sky with streaks of blood. This place feels a world away from Beaumont City.

Miranda keeps her eyes downcast, and her posture slumped. I place a hand on her shoulder and murmur, "This is temporary. We'll pull you out as I've dealt with that man."

Rosalind bristles. It isn't my place to make these promises, but Miranda can't spend her life locked away.

She nods and offers me a tight smile that slices into me like a dagger. Once again, I feel like an asshole for straining their relationship.

We take a cab to the island's north side, passing lush hills to reach a village where every other store either caters to the school or sells souvenirs. I would compare the street to something out of Harry Potter, but the school looms from a hill, casting everything in shadow.

Since Rosalind spent the morning ordering Miranda's school supplies online to be delivered to her room, the only thing left for us to do is pick up a uniform and some casual clothes she's going to need for the evenings and weekends.

The woman running the school outfitters ushers Miranda into a changing room and makes Rosalind and me wait in the parents' seats. I don't correct her because the thought of being anything to Miranda warms my heart.

Rosalind sits a chair away from me, but I scoot beside her and lean into her side. "Tell me about the Moirai. What's the threat? How many assassins?"

She shifts further into the wall. "Sixteen full assassins, four team leaders, eighty support staff."

"I thought they were bigger."

"So did I," she mutters. "I also thought there were offices all over the country and overseas. Now, I think that was bullshit."

"What do you mean?"

"Every time someone doesn't return from an assignment, our supervisor says they were promoted or demoted to another office."

"But you think they're dead."

"Or abducted," she says, her tone sharp with accusation.

"That's what he said about you before your escape?" I ask.

She nods. "Britt told me he announced I'd been transferred to Zurich."

My brows rise, and I glare at the side of her face, incredulous that my clever little assassin could allow herself to be hoodwinked. "How the fuck did you people not notice anything until now?"

"Operatives don't just disappear into thin air," she snaps. "They're still available via email, text and on video conferences. They just never physically return to the local HQ."

"AI?"

Her lips tighten, and she stares down at her lap. "The firm has enough material on us to make it seem like we're in another location. It's all just a huge illusion to make us think we're invincible."

"Is that why the asshole in HQ doesn't give a shit about the hostages?"

The door opens, and Miranda appears from the changing room, dressed in an all-gray uniform that's even more dour than what Roman had to wear on death row. And she understandably looks pissed.

"Turn around." Rosalind says. "Is it comfortable?"

Miranda places her hands on her hips. "That's not the point. Look at me."

The woman sniffs. "Our uniform is designed to make all students equal."

Rosalind rises off her seat. "What can we do to make the uniforms look more unique?"

"Individuality within the classroom is discouraged."

"Answer the question," I growl.

The woman flinches. "Each student is permitted hair accessories in the regulation colors, as well as stud earrings in white gold or silver, along with one discreet necklace."

"Pack up the uniform and have them sent to the academy," I say.

When Miranda and the women disappear behind the fitting room door, Rosalind turns to me and hisses, "Did you have to be such an asshole?"

"Yes." I fold my arms across my chest. "Now tell me how the Moirai can survive if its assassins keep dying or getting captured?"

She bristles as though I've insulted her family, then runs her fingers through her hair, seeming to realize her misplaced loyalty.

"There's a whole academy of teenagers waiting to fill in the gaps," she replies, her voice low. "Every time a student graduates, they join as an analyst. Think of them like fully trained apprentices, who provide mission support."

"And they get promoted when one of their superiors either dies on the job or gets transferred?" I make air quotes.

She clears her throat. "That's right."

I rise off my seat and walk to the cash register to settle the bill when Miranda emerges from the fitting room. Afterward, we walk through the village looking for a store that sells more than colorful sweaters knitted from the local wool.

Questions rattle through my mind as they enter the first boutique offering something close to women's fashion. How the hell did Rosalind get sucked into an academy for assassins, and how did the Moirai keep something like that hidden?

My phone buzzes, so I lean against the wall and check who's sending messages. It's a voicemail from an unknown number. Holding my breath, I press play, and hope to fuck it isn't my stalker.

"Cesare, it's Dad," says a voice sounding hoarse with tears.

I grind my teeth, wanting to delete it, but I force myself to listen in case he says anything that might endanger Miranda.

"You didn't call me about the gift I left in your parking lot, so I'm giving you forty-eight hours to call me back or I'll deliver another to your gates."

A sharp breath hisses through my teeth. Fuck the Moirai. Those assassins can wait. This sick bastard needs to be the first I kill. I replay the voicemail, memorize the number he gave me, and walk out into the street.

The worst part about Galliano's ultimatum is that I can't call him back from Helsing Island, not even from a burner phone, in case he traces my location.

But I also can't allow another of my exes to die.