Chapter 8

CESARE

Fuck. My. Head.

My cranial nerves throb in sync with my heartbeat, pain spreading down my spinal cord. Every drop of moisture has vacated my throat and mouth, leaving me parched. Even my kidneys ache with dehydration.

Did I get wasted last night?

No.

I've been clean for three years, with no access to anything stronger than alcohol, and almost never get drunk.

So why does it feel like I have the world's worst hangover?

With a groan, I roll to the other side of the mattress, only to tumble onto the tile floor. Agony radiates across my back from the impact, making me wince.

"Since when do I sleep on the wrong side of the bed?" I mutter.

I inhale a deep breath, still too fucked up to consider shifting my carcass. Mingled within the scents of antiseptic and leather is something sweet and floral with a hint of citrus.

Is that magnolia?

Bitter memories rise to the surface, and I force them back to the recesses of my mind. It's been fifty-eight months since she left, thirty-four since she died, and thirteen since I destroyed the estate's magnolia trees.

No. This must be an olfactory hallucination brought on by a migraine... or a more ominous pathological process.

I clutch my head.

Stop this, Cesare.

You're falling into a hypochondriacal spiral.

Despite the searing agony, I manage to crack open an eye, only for the morning light to sear my retina.

"What the fuck?"

I sit upright, blinking over and over to adjust my gaze. Eventually, my vision clears, and I find myself in the playroom.

That explains the leather scent, but since when do I fall asleep in the place where I fuck?

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to concentrate through the pounding headache. What happened yesterday?

Roman got released from prison, and we fucked up some traitors, what else?

My chest tightens, and I gasp for breath, my vision tunneling as my body floods with adrenaline. I'm losing control, and on the tail end of a full-blown panic attack. I haven't had a blackout in eighteen months.

A cold sweat breaks out across my brow. Is this another relapse?

Shit.

Shit.

SHIT.

They're going to lock me up again and force me to go cold turkey. Or maybe this time, they'll send me to an institution. There will be doctors, blood tests.

If they get their hands on my DNA...

My insides twist with nausea. I scramble to my feet and stumble to the bathroom, but the door jams. Before I can jiggle its knob, my stomach revolts, and I bolt out of the bedroom, across the living area and go straight to the kitchen sink, where I dry heave.

Through the spasms and convulsions, my hindbrain screams that something is amiss. If I had drunk so much alcohol to warrant this blistering hangover and blackout, then where's all the liquid?

What the fuck happened after the waterboarding?

My stomach riots, but I hold on to that thought. I got changed and looked through the monitors. Roman was going to hook up with that woman and then there was Cousin Leroi...

I turn on the tap, stick my mouth under the spray, and wash out the taste of bile.

Leroi walked in with a tiny woman in a gold dress, and then his stalker arrived…

Realization hits me in the solar plexus, my head snaps up, and I stare at the kitchen tiles. Last night, I rushed out to the club to see fireworks and ended up spanking the bunny boiler's pussy on my desk.

My dick throbs at the memory. I didn't just spank that bare pussy. I whipped it with my belt, and she loved every minute.

A distant scream pierces through my musings. I shut off the water to hear a woman shouting. My stomach drops. I brought the stalker home to tie her up and...

And what?

The next scream has me running out the French doors. I pause at the pool, my heart palpitating, and cast my gaze across the lawn.

It's like looking through a haze. My perceptions are distorted, but I'm not hallucinating. It's like standing on the edge of a dreamscape, only it looks like the estate is in a state of emergency.

Guards rush toward the mansion, and my sympathetic nervous system kicks me in the gut. Montesano men don't kill innocent women. Especially not their cousin's exes.

I run toward the gathering crowd, wondering what the hell I did last night and why I can't remember. Did I choke her to death? Did I get so fucked up that I hung her by the entrails?

Black fog creeps along my periphery and thins across my vision to form a thin haze. Memories assault my psyche in a blinding rush. Her, crawling on her hands and knees. Her, lying strapped to the bench with my hands around her throat as she struggles for air.

And then...

And then...

I run into a hard body, which flinches.

"Hey," a deep voice snarls. "Oh, it's you." He chuckles. "Didn't see you there."

My vision clears and I lock gazes with Gil. He's grinning, which must be a sign that what he's looking at can't be so bad.

He flicks his head up toward the tower. "Take a look."

I tilt my head. A half-naked woman stands on a balcony ledge, wearing torn sheets around her crotch and breasts. Her hair is a mass of wild curls that stand out in all directions.

Relief courses through my veins, melting away the tension. I stumble forward, barely catching myself on Gil's arm.

That's not her.

Leroi's stalker's hair was straight. And she had much larger breasts.

"You okay, Cesare?" Gil asks with a frown.

"Fine," I rasp.

He leans in close, his nostrils twitching the way he does when he's trying to sniff me for traces of alcohol. "You sure?"

I step back. "Yeah."

"Gil," says a sharp voice from behind us.

I whirl around and lock gazes with my brother, Benito, the one with the Ivy League law degree and a stick up his ass. He's dressed in a three-piece suit and wearing spectacles with plain glass lenses.

He looks past me as though I don't exist. "I need you in a car out front to take Roman to the gates. The police are on the other side, wanting answers."

I scowl. "For what?"

Benito tilts his head toward the hysterical spectacle on the balcony. "There's a warrant out for her arrest. Multiple witnesses, including a detective, saw her disappearing last night with Roman."

With a nod, Gil bolts around the side of the house.

"How can I help?" I ask, still not sure if this is a lucid dream.

Benito's features pinch. "Stay out of the way and keep that woman you brought home in your playroom."

My stomach drops to the paving stones, and a chill rushes down my spine. Any offense I might take about being called a nuisance vanishes. Benito knows. The guards at the gate would have told him if she had left, which means she's somewhere on the grounds.

But in what state?

I can't let this become a repeat of the situation with my pet rabbit.

After shooting me a disapproving glower, Benito storms away, his shoulders bunching. I watch him disappear around the corner before rushing back toward the pool house, determined to find what's left of that woman.

I hope to fuck she's still alive.

By the time I trudge across the lawn and back to the pool house, my legs are dragging like they're made of lead and my arms hang heavily at my sides like clubs. I try sifting through my memories once more to dredge up what might have happened to the woman, but it's blank.

The morning sun scorches my skin like a crackling fire, making sweat trickle into my eyes. My vision blurs, and I stumble forward, light-headed and dizzy from the heat. I'm clinging onto consciousness, on the brink of passing out.

This is no ordinary hangover. This is the work of narcotics.

All the symptoms point toward a date rape drug: fatigue, headache, nausea, dizziness, and memory loss.

Leroi's stalker must have drugged me with something potent, but when? Was it during a struggle? Is she dead? I'm still coming down from a sedative, which means I wouldn't have had the time or capacity to hide a body.

So, where the hell did she go?

I shuffle alongside the pool, which reflects bright sunlight that sears my eyes until I squint. Grimacing, I run through the possibilities based on personal experience and what I learned on the job and in medical school.

It can't be GHB. That only lasts a few hours. I've taken that shit before with no lingering aftereffects. Roofies? I shake my head. Rohypnol would make me groggy, like I've just come out of sedation, not make me feel like the walking dead.

What the fuck did that woman do, and why? To make Leroi jealous? If she wanted a rebound fuck, all she needed to do was ask, but drugging me is a step too far.

I shove open the door and step into the air-conditioned pool house. Cool air hits my skin, and I inhale a deep breath to calm my churning stomach. I glance around for signs of the woman, but all I find is a single empty tumbler on the coffee table.

Is that how she administered the substance? There are dozens of less obvious ways to drug someone. Surely, I would have noticed something?

I pick up the glass and sniff, but it only smells of vodka. Not that it matters. Most date rape drugs are odorless. The sound of the shower coming from my bedroom makes me lumber inside. Earlier, when I wanted to hurl my guts, the bathroom was locked. Has she been in there the entire time?

My instincts tell me to wait and see what she does next. I stumble to the bed and lie back as though I'm still unconscious from the drug.

Eventually, the shower turns off, the door opens, and soft footsteps pad across the tiled floor. My pulse thuds in my eardrums, its beats heavy and sluggish.

Closing my eyes, I leave a thin line of vision to observe her moving into my periphery. She calls my name, but I remain still to reel her in.

The mattress dips as she climbs onto the bed, and there's no spike in my heart rate, no surge of adrenaline. The drugs have dulled my reactions, but I'm aware of what's happening.

She leans over me, filling my nostrils with the scent of sweet magnolia, and all I can think of is another woman who was equally treacherous. With the proficiency of a trained medic, Leroi's stalker examines my pulse and pupil, confirming that she not only administered a drug, but one she expected would keep me incapacitated for a few more hours.

My blood boils, and my empty stomach roils with bitter rancor. What will she do next?

It takes every effort not to flinch when she brushes the hair off my face, and my breath catches when she kisses my forehead.

I study her through my lashes. The morning sun shines through her mahogany strands, coloring her flyaways a vibrant shade of burnt orange. I have no fucking clue why my mind focuses on her beauty, but when light glints on the tip of a needle, my hand shoots out to snatch her wrist.