Page 110 of Dishonored

“Well, then, I’m sorry for that. I remember my mother. Sometimes, I think that fucks me up more than anything else ever did because it’s warped in my head now. She chose to leave—I got fed to the wolves. Even if my mother needed help, I just … blame her.”

Hate her, Aria thought. He hated her.

His tone said that without him needing to.

Hated her like he hated most—if not all—women.

“The wolves being your step—”

“Is there a reason we’re talking about this?” Caesar asked, his tone gruff and strained. “Because I would rather not.”

“We can’t talk?”

Caesar leaned back in the chair, and glanced up at the ceiling. “My favorite color is red, and I like vintage cars. I enjoy a lot of things, actually, despite what people say about me. It’s just that none of the things I enjoy are very moral, or good. Specifically, I make a game out of irritating my father just because I can and that’s caused me more trouble than anything else ever has.”

He tipped his head to the side like he was considering something as he said, “What else? Oh, I have exactly two friends. They’re married, by the way. People think I have a kink for fucking married women, but I just tend to like anything I’m not supposed to have. I’m Italian through and through, but I could do without pasta. Unless, it was my grandmamma making it from scratch. No one made it like her, but she died from a heart attack last year, so I haven’t eaten pasta since. Your turn.”

Aria blinked. “To what?”

“Talk. That’s what you wanted to do, wasn’t it? So, talk.”

“Actually, I want to talk about Martina, and something you told me in the hotel room—”

His gaze cut to her; sharp as a knife in a blink. “We’re not talking about that.”

“You don’t know what I’m going to say.”

Caesar’s face smoothed into a mask of stone.

Cold.

Blank.

Distant.

“I know exactly what you’re going to say, and we’re not talking about it,” he murmured coolly. Standing from the table, he pulled a phone from his pocket, and set it on the table in front of her. “You’re going to be moved to a new location tonight; Angelo’s orders.”

He rattled off an address.

Another hotel.

One still in Philly, though.

“Let’s say,” Caesar said, “that somehow you got ahold of a phone, and let your husband know you’re at said hotel with only a couple of guards. He should probably show up with as few people as possible—preferably alone, but we’ll make due. He really won’t need more; we won’t have an army, and he won’t want to make a public scene.”

Guilt climbed up Aria’s spine.

Caesar wouldn’t even look at her, now.

“Caesar, wait—”

He was already turning to leave.

Already done with her.

Already hurting.

“I’m done talking,” Caesar said, heading for the entryway of the kitchen. “And you have something to do now.”