Chapter 64

CESARE

Blood roars in my ears as I pound the cobblestone streets, and every instinct screams at me to call Galliano's bluff. But I can't when there's a chance he'll make good on his threats. What if someone is tracking us right now from a rooftop? There's no way to tell if that bastard knows I'm here with Rosalind and Miranda.

The connection in Helsing Island is even spottier than the reception at the top of Alderney Hill. Luckily for me, the store down the street doubles as an Internet cafe with a satellite link.

After paying for an hour, I find a corner, download an e-SIM and dial the number.

He answers in two rings, breathing hard down the phone. "Cesare?"

"I already told my brothers it's you who's killing women," I snarl. "They think you want to frame me the same way Capello framed Roman."

"Thank god," Galliano says, his voice choked. "When you stopped responding to my calls, I lost control. You make me so crazy."

My gut churns with a mix of rage and revulsion. I've only met the man once at the airport, yet he's acting lovestruck.

"This creepy shit ends now," I growl.

"Don't do this to me, son. I've already lost so much," he sobs.

I grind my teeth, wanting to reach through the phone and ring his scaly neck. This man doesn't need a son, he needs a straightjacket, followed by several sedatives and a shot of strychnine.

"Get this straight. No amount of women you kill will ever make me join your family. All you're doing is inspiring me to make your death more painful," I say through gritted teeth.

"You'd kill your own father?" he croaks.

"My father is dead," I snap. "You're just a sick fuck with an infatuation."

The line falls silent, save for his rasping breath. I can almost imagine the gears turning in his addled head. I should hang up, leave the cafe and return to the boutique. He asked for a phone call, and I complied. But the Galliano brothers never know how to quit.

After a gut-churning silence, he finally speaks. "You can't outrun your blood," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "It always finds a way back."

The line goes dead, and I collapse against the wall. If his knowledge about my life extended beyond my exes, he would know about Miranda and Rosalind. That he didn't bring them up means they're safe.

I return to the boutique, where the girls are sorting out an array of clothing with the salesclerk. The bell rings as I enter, and Miranda turns to me, her mood lifting.

The soft classical music and soothing scents of lavender and vanilla aroma do little to ease my nerves. But the sight of Miranda striding toward me with a bright smile pushes thoughts of Galliano to the background.

"You came back," she says, her eyes as mournful as an abandoned puppy.

My chest tightens. Is it my imagination or does Miranda need me as a buffer between her and Rosalind? It's impossible to tell, since I can't imagine what it's like to be in her position. I rub the back of my head and grimace.

"Sorry, love. Problems at work."

Her needy expression melts, giving way to eyes so sparkling that I preen in the light of her admiration.

"Problems at your nightclub?" she asks.

"Something like that," I mutter, not wanting to sour her mood with talk of Galliano. I flick my head to the other side of the boutique, where it looks like Rosalind is trying to reduce the pile of items Miranda chose. "Find anything nice, love?"

She shuffles on her feet, her gaze dropping to the floor. "I'm sorry about my sister."

"What do you mean?"

"She means well, but she can be a bitch."

A bitch.

Rosalind is a mother. A survivor. The only woman who captures my attention so completely. No one, not even Miranda, gets to dismiss her as a bitch.

"Don't talk about her like that," I say, my voice firming. "Life outside school is hard on women, especially those without protection. Rosalind makes more sacrifices for you than you can imagine. If her shell is hard, that's because of everything she's had to endure."

"How hard is investigative journalism?" She claps a hand over her mouth and gazes up at me through wide eyes.

"What?" I ask with a frown.

Miranda's breath quickens as if she's revealed something wrong, and it takes a few seconds to realize she also doesn't know Rosalind's true profession.

"You think she's writing an exposé on the mafia?" I ask with a smile.

Miranda freezes.

"She isn't. I already know about her job at the New Alderney Times and a lot more of her secrets. Just give her a break."

"You're just saying that because you're in love," she says.

"She's beautiful, fierce, and strong," I say with a smile, thinking about how much my pet has endured and how prettily she suffers. "Everything a man like me could ever want in a woman."

She raises her brows. "Even though she acts like you're the dirt beneath her toenails?"

"She's treating me mean to keep me keen," I say with a wink. "Has Rosalind ever raised a hand against you?"

"Of course not."

I nod. "And does she work hard to provide you with everything you need?"

"Yes..." She frowns.

"And when she gives you a hard time, what is that about?"

Miranda glares at her feet and scowls.

"Come on, love." I lift her chin, making our eyes meet. "Think."

"I suppose she wants me to study and be healthy," Miranda mutters. "But she acts like she's my mom."

My stomach flips, and it takes every ounce of effort to maintain a poker face. "Final question."

Miranda nods and gulps.

"Have you ever asked her why she did what she did?"

She turns her head to the side, which tells me the answer is no.

"Rosalind loves you more than you could imagine," I say, my voice low. "She just has a different way of expressing her emotions."

"I suppose she told you?"

"She shows me every day how much you're her priority."

Miranda shuffles on her feet, huffs and puffs and looks so sweet that I can forgive her for almost anything. "Alright," she says. "I won't call her a bitch."

We return to Rosalind's side, where I tell the clerk to wrap up everything Miranda selected and deliver the packages to the academy. Rosalind and Miranda leave with a change of clothes both for tonight and for our meeting with the head mistress in the morning.

After a short cab ride to the mountain, I check into our suite at the Brunswick Hotel under the name Charles Montague. It's more luxurious on the inside compared to its gothic exterior, and the other guests look to be parents visiting their children at the school.

Our suite is a quaint, two-bedroom affair, tucked away at the top of the hotel. There's a living area with a marble fireplace burning in one end surrounded by burgundy sofas that match the tapestries and drapes. On the other side of the room is a discreet kitchenette and dining table for the families who don't want to venture out of the mountain. An entire wall of windows provides a panoramic view of the village.

By now, the sun has set, and the streets below are lit up with warm lights. I stand by the window and lose myself in the scene. Anything right now is a distraction from thinking about that conversation with Galliano.

The man needs to die, but he's too well guarded. Every time I pull a weapon on the bastard, he has at least four men training guns on my head. He's ten steps ahead, with more manpower, more resources, and a ruthlessness that has no limits.

The worst part about this threat is I can't tell my brothers the truth. Matty Galliano was one of the people behind our family's downfall. Benito and Roman might not immediately cast me out, but our relationship would change for the worse the moment they discover I am related to those snakes.

"Oh my god!" Miranda squeals from one of the bedrooms. "This is gorgeous. Let me see yours."

She rushes out of her room and across the lounge into the second door, almost colliding with Rosalind who stands a foot away from the doorway with her shoulders hunched up to her ears.

Snapping out of my reverie, I follow Miranda into the master bedroom, where she's already flitting about, exploring every corner with the enthusiasm of a hummingbird.

The room is tasteful, with a four-poster bed along one wall that's draped in rich, dark velvet. If this were one of our hotels, Dad would want to burn the worn mahogany furniture and replace it with something modern.

"Don't you like it, Rosa?" Miranda asks, her voice giddy.

Rosalind remains in the doorway, still and silent. I glance around to find her eyes burning with the threat of violence. When I turn to see what's making her seethe, the corner of my mouth tugs into a smile.

There's only one bed.