Page 99 of Dishonored

Angelo gave his son a side-eye. “In case you missed the goddamn memo, I indulge you far too often. It’s every reason why you are the way you are.”

“That’s not the reason,” Caesar returned, “but you can keep thinking that way, if it’s easier on your conscience.”

His father opened his mouth to speak, but quickly shut it. Really, it was a smart move on Angelo’s part, but Caesar opted not to point it out. Frankly, he had probably stretched his father’s good graces just about as far as he could for the evening.

“Where’s Martina?” Caesar asked.

Her name came out a little twisted—dark and bitter with his tone. He hated the taste it left behind on his tongue, too.

Still, he had to be sure …

Angelo gave him another look; surprised, likely, that he’d asked about his step-mother. Caesar never did that, if he could help it. Most times, he made every fucking attempt to act as if the woman didn’t even exist. It didn’t escape Angelo’s notice, but the man rarely said anything. And only if Martina mentioned it.

She was like a weed.

Growing where she shouldn’t.

Impossible to be rid of.

A fucking pest.

“Out with friends,” Angelo settled on saying.

“For how long?”

“Until someone brings her home, I imagine.”

His father offered the words dryly—unaffected, even. Like the fact his wife was probably out at some bar or club plastered and making another one of her scenes wasn’t even the smallest blip on his problematic radar.

It disgusted Caesar.

And amused him.

“Well, good,” Caesar said.

“Why is that good?”

“I wouldn’t want her walking in on this. I don’t think she’d do well standing up against this one.”

“What—”

Caesar’s phone dinged with an incoming message before his father could ask more. He checked the message to find the men had parked the van, and were coming up to the front door. He sent back a confirmative text for them to come right in, and not to bother with knocking as they were already waiting.

“So, fair warning,” Caesar said to Angelo, “I didn’t exactly do what you wanted. I think you’ll have more fun with this option, though.”

“Didn’t do what I—what?”

Caesar tipped his head toward the door as it started to open. A woman entered first—Aria—although with her head covered by a black hood, and her arms pinned behind her back by the hands of one of the men leading her inside, it was nearly impossible to tell it was her. Except he could tell.

A body like hers …

All that anger and tension …

Her rose perfume …

How could he not know her?

Caesar knew the moment his father realized exactly who was being delivered to his home hooded and captured like a prize—when Aria spoke.