Page 68 of Dishonored

CAESAR SLIPPED HIS hand into the pocket of his slacks, and silenced the phone that wouldn’t stop vibrating with one call after another. He didn’t even bother to check who the caller was, but no doubt, it was his father asking if he had made his flight.

To Canada, that was.

Caesar glanced down the familiar city street of Philadelphia, and grinned.

Nope.

He sure hadn’t.

And he wouldn’t.

As long as he could avoid Angelo for a while, then he wasn’t too worried about whatever his father might have to say or try to do about Caesar refusing to follow through on his orders. Besides, for the moment, Caesar had other things to do.

Better things to do.

He couldn’t do them in Canada.

Angelo wasn’t going to understand that his son was practically obsessed with knowing and understanding every little detail he could about Aria De Rose—only so that he could use it against her, of course. She thought to use Caesar like a pawn in her game, whatever it was that she was playing, and he had news for her.

It wasn’t happening.

The woman was smart, though.

Keen, really.

Deceptive.

Manipulative.

Quick as hell.

Any other time, and he might have appreciated the cunningness that was Aria, but not so much when it was his ass on the line.

Who do you think really killed my father?

Caesar hadn’t been able to forget those words since she told them to him three days earlier in a graveyard. It had been with those words that his decision was cemented—he wouldn’t be leaving Philly, and his business with this woman was far from fucking finished.

He had killed her father. He had put it into motion, and paid the hefty goddamn price for the job. He had done all of that.

But now he was left wondering … why?

Nothing with Aria was what it seemed to be—her surface was not even close to being similar to what was inside. He had figured out she was quick to direct people to the things she wanted them to see, or know about her, for that matter. And she made a very careful effort to hide her real motives, and actions.

Caesar had gone after her father because she mentioned him; she had made sure to bring the man into her conversation with him, and plant the seed. Like a fucking weed Caesar hadn’t even known it was there, it grew, and he chose to use it against her.

But had it really been against her?

Or had it been for her?

A part of him was amazed, and another part of him was infuriated.

And all for a fucking woman.

Across the street from Caesar’s position, a black Mercedes pulled up along the side of the road. The windows—tinted a dark black—kept the passengers from his view. That was fine as he didn’t need to see who was inside to know who it was.

After all, these people were creatures of habit.

Or so he was coming to learn.