Page 96 of Dishonored

Aria smiled. “Until someone finds me, I suppose. You should probably hurry up and do that, Caesar.”

THIRTEEN

CAIN WAS ALREADY waiting in the Four Seasons hotel room that Caesar had been calling home ever since Raffe had his penthouse—and half of the rest of the building—burnt to the ground.

“Well?” Cain asked.

Caesar tossed his wrinkled blazer over the back of the couch, and glanced at his phone. An incoming text from his father wanting an update on the situation, as Angelo kept calling it. It amused Caesar to no end that his father could so easily order the death of a woman, and yet refused to actually call it what it was. Her murder.

Except that hadn’t happened.

And he had to figure out something else.

“Well, what?” Caesar asked.

“Is it done—the job?”

Cain glanced up from the sheets he had spread out on the small kitchenette table. Caesar made an iffy noise in the back of his throat, and shrugged. Cain had been the only person Caesar let in on his little deal with his father—Aria’s life for his freedom. Cain figured it was a good trade all things considered.

Caesar did, too.

Not so much now.

“Not really,” he said.

“Jesus Christ. You fucked her again.”

“Hey.”

“What?” Cain grumbled.

“I mean, the least you could do is give me some dignity and pose it as a question. You don’t have to just assume right of the bat that I—”

“You fucked her again, Caesar. I know you did.”

Fine.

“In the midst of other shit, I may have done that, too,” Caesar offered.

“You can’t even control it, can you?”

“I can. I just choose not to.”

Yeah.

That.

That was a good way to put it.

“And,” Caesar added, drawling out the words with a leer, “if you had gotten a taste of that woman, you would go back for more, too.”

“I have a wife.”

“Yeah, shame that is.”

“Watch it, asshole.”

Shit.