Page 37 of Dishonored

Besides, he had his own shit to work out about all of this. He had been fucking blindsided, too. Like a goddamn deer staring at bright headlights.

Carina was not Carina.

He’d spent a week following the woman before he’d killed the man guarding her, and then another week gathering as much information on her as he could before the meeting between their respective organizations. And not once in that time had he seen her face, or even managed to get a picture of her. He’d thought it was nothing more than circumstance why he hadn’t been able to see her face, but now he knew that wasn’t the case.

Aria had tricked him.

No, manipulated him.

A part of him respected it and even took a thrill in her effort—the fucked up part of him that found it a habitual need to do the same thing to others. No one ever said he was a saint, after all, and a woman like that with the guts to do what she had deserved some kind of praise. Even if it was the fucked up kind that Caesar tended to use.

The other part of him was pissed. Christ. She hadn’t needed to lie to him at all. He would have bent her over and gotten a taste of what was between her thighs regardless of who she was, and probably simply because of who she was. That just tended to be his style. He wasn’t going to apologize for it.

No, it was her lies.

That pissed him off.

That made him feel dirty.

And he didn’t like dirty.

Not that kind.

Her blackmail still weighed heavily on the back of his mind, and it wasn’t letting go. According to her, she wanted territory, and he needed to help his father be amicable to handing it over. That was never going to happen—Angelo didn’t hand anything over unless it was pried out of his cold, dead hands.

It went beyond that, though.

Beyond the blackmail.

Why blackmail him at all?

The De Rose Camorra clan had been doing fine all on their own taking over street by street, and block by block. The clashes and run-ins with the Accardo organization seemed like barely a blip on their radar.

They kept on coming.

It was only Angelo finally exploding—at the sight of Daniele strolling through the opened office doors—that drew Caesar from his thoughts. “Where were you?”

Daniele’s gaze slanted in his father’s direction. “Therapy with Alice.”

Caesar made a noise under his breath—an oh, Jesus Christ, kind of noise—and ignored the glower his half-brother shot him. “Bet that’s going fucking swell, huh?”

His brother opened his mouth to respond, but Angelo beat him to the punch when he snapped at Caesar, “Chiudi la bocca!”

Shut your mouth.

Caesar mustered up something that might pass for an apologetic look, and shrugged his shoulders. “Apologies.”

Not his apologies, though.

Alice had been willing. She barely took anytime to convince at all, and had a great time bent over her husband’s side of the bed while Caesar fucked her from behind. She wasn’t even his type, really—too thin, and too … whiney, really.

Didn’t matter.

It was over, now.

It was done.

“I take it the De Rose meeting didn’t go as planned?” Daniele asked, giving Caesar a glare that warned him to shut up.