Page 10 of Stalking Ginevra

“You didn’t just summon me here to introduce the boys to their intern supervisor. What’s up?” Reaper asks.

“Has the team completed their surveillance of the casino targets?”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a thumb drive. “We have car registrations, timetables, addresses, locations of their lovers, the works. Say the word. We’re ready to move.”

“Stand by. We strike the moment Nick confirms transfer of the casino ownership to the family.” I take the drive and plug it into the laptop.

“When do you want to finish your surveillance project on the Di Marco girl?” he asks.

“When she finally makes it to the office.”

“Doesn’t she live with her mother?”

“I’ll time your man’s arrival with mine.”

He smirks. “What are you planning?”

“Let’s just say that Losanna Di Marco is about to discover her late husband died with so much debt, she’ll have to sell her home to cover the installments.”

“So, they’ll be destitute?”

I meet Reaper’s sharp eyes. He was our Constitutional Law professor and observed my devotion to Ginevra first hand. When she broke our engagement, it didn’t just break my heart. I dropped out of law school entirely.

“The key to taking control of Ginevra is through her mother,” I say. “If she’s in peril, Ginevra would do anything to save her, including selling her soul.”

And with enough pressure, I’ll have Ginevra on her knees, exactly where she belongs.

FIVE

GINEVRA

I pull into the office parking lot the next morning, my head pounding. In between erotic daydreams about that man fucking me doggy-style, I keep freaking out about Mom.

Shouldn’t there be a rule that says a woman should wait until her first husband is in the ground before marrying the next? Mom can’t even make a decision on Dad’s funeral, and she’s already entertaining men.

Not just any man but the worst kind of mass murderer.

They laughed when I refused to give my blessing, and Bossanova scooped Mom into his arms then carried her out of the house. I spent the rest of the day off-balance, waiting for Mom to return, but she stayed out the entire night.

Someone’s ostentatious convertible is parked in Dad’s old space, so I drive around to find all the lots full. Something must be happening at work. We usually have at least six empty places. I drive around the block and have to park on the street, only to find that I have no change for the meter.

Making a mental note to send Pamela out later, I exit the car and walk to the office on foot. We have the nicest, most efficientreceptionist. When Dad was murdered, she organized a hotel for Mom and arranged for her sobriety coach to visit so she didn’t relapse.

Bossanova must have interfered and got Mom drinking again to make her susceptible to his dubious charm. Why else would she entertain someone so morally corrupt?

The Di Marco Law firm occupies the top floors of a 34-story Beaux-Arts building overlooking the park, with an arched entrance and ornate sculptures adorning the facade. The security guards incline their heads to me as I step through its grand doors into a lobby of marble floors and intricate moldings.

An ancestor of Dad’s former partner, Paolo Montesano, built it in 1929 for his youngest son, who wanted to fight the prohibition law. Dad joined the firm as a junior associate and worked his way up to partner. When Paolo’s great-grandson was disbarred, the firm appointed Dad as the managing partner.

Now, at the tender age of twenty-eight, it’s all mine.

It’s not all offices—we have the most extensive law library in the state, a fully equipped gym, a cafeteria, a rooftop garden, a media room, state-of-the-art IT facilities, and Dad’s penthouse for when he works late.

The lining of my stomach flutters as I take the elevator to the 30th floor. I don’t know if I should be myself or act like a managing partner.

I haven’t been to work since the Capello massacre. Technically, I’m still mourning the death of my fiancé. Samson wanted everyone to think he’d died with the rest of his family, at least until the firm of assassins he hired had taken out the lone gunman. I should be at home, grieving Dad’s death, but I can’t be alone with my thoughts.

Before I can even contemplate that dilemma, the doors open and I step out on trembling legs. The first person I spot is Pamela at the reception desk. Raising a hand, I smile, expectingher to return the gesture, but she looks through me like I’m invisible.

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