Page 102 of Stalking Ginevra

Skepticism twists in my gut. “I don’t believe you.”

Without a word, he pulls out his phone, taps the screen, and holds it out for me to see. The footage is distant, taken from a security camera. It shows one of the casino’s bars. Benito punches Bossanova in the face, following him as he stumbles back. In the next moment, there’s a flurry of strikes, followed by him crushing the old man’s throat.

I don’t need sound to understand the message. Benito’s made sure Bossanova won’t come near Mom or me again.

The sight of Benito overpowering Bossanova releases some of the fear tightening around my chest, making it easier to breathe.

Benito tucks the phone away and offers me his hand again, but now, my mind dredges up that spine-tingling kiss. Knowing Mom is safe gives me the courage to accept his offer.

With a gentle grip, he pulls me to my feet. My legs buckle, but Benito catches me, his hand steady on the small of my back.

“Can you walk?” His voice is unusually soft.

I nod, even though the edges of my vision blur and blacken from exhaustion and the relentless gnaw of hunger. The last thing I want is to show more weakness.

Forcing one foot in front of the other, I walk to the door, even though every step feels like I’m wading through molasses. Benito guides me out of the cell with an arm around my waist as if he’s worried I’ll collapse. We move through a narrow service corridor, avoiding the bright lights and prying eyes of the casino floor.

The quiet hum of the hallway soothes my senses, broken only by the distant clatter of dishes and the muffled voices of staff. It’s a relief not to be paraded past the gamblers, avoiding their judgmental eyes. Benito keeps his pace slow, matching my faltering steps, and I’m grateful for the small mercy.

Eventually, we reach the hotel and take an elevator to the top floor. Benito leads me into a room that reeks of coldluxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows flood the space with daylight, reflecting off the mirrored furniture. A king-sized bed dominates the center, complete with a headboard made of silver bars. The mirrored ceiling above it makes the space feel surreal, like a stage set for a porno shoot.

I glance at the glass table, laden with fresh pastries, chopped fruit, and coffee. The sight of it makes my stomach churn.

The sweet smell turns my stomach further, mixing with the coppery stench of dried blood still clinging to my fingers, and the filth stuck to my skin. The room’s polished luxury feels like a cruel joke, mocking the horror of last night.

But I can’t forget. Not with blood still encrusted beneath my nails.

My mind dredges up Brisket tearing through Julian’s guts, the twitching weight of his heart shoved into my hands, my fingers slick with warm blood.

Breath catching, I tear my gaze away from the breakfast and meet Benito’s eyes.

“What happened to the body?” My voice comes out tight, almost strangled.

“I sent a cleaning crew to the penthouse. They took care of everything. No trace of the blond man remains.”

His detached tone is jarring, as if Julian’s death were just another task on his to-do list. I don’t know what I expected—some horror, a flicker of remorse, maybe even a promise to handle Brisket.

Shaking off those thoughts, I focus on my filthy hands. “I need to wash.”

Benito gives a sharp nod, my cue to escape. I rush to the bathroom, desperate to scrub away the blood, the memories, the fear that clings to my skin.

Inside, I close the door and finally let out a breath. The bathroom gleams under the harsh lights—white marble andchrome, spotless and sterile. Too perfect. Too clean. I feel like a stain.

Not daring to look in the mirror, I fumble with the boned dress, struggling with the zipper until it gives. The fabric pools at my feet, a glittering heap of humiliation.

I turn on the shower, scalding hot, and step under the spray. The water burns, but it’s exactly what I need. Grabbing the shampoo, I lather it into my hair, scrubbing hard enough to wash away the blood, the shame, the fear. Conditioner follows, then enough shower gel to make my skin as slippery as a baby seal.

Steam clouds the cubicle, and the hot water pounds against my flesh, making my head spin. I grab the loofah and scrub every inch until my skin burns. But no matter how hard I wash, I can’t purge the memories.

The water runs red at my feet, but it’s not enough. I can still feel Julian, the loan sharks, and Bob Brisket. Only this time, he’s forcing his cock down my throat and making me hold the pulsing heart to my pussy.

My hips move with every imagined thrust, and my fingers slide down to rub my clit. I’m slick with arousal, twitching with need, empty and desperate to be filled. I press harder, circling faster, chasing that sharp edge as my breath shudders. Heat coils low, a knot of tension winding tighter. Then I double over, coming in a hot rush, my fingers still working frantic circles.

A sob catches in my throat. Has Bob Brisket warped my mind so badly?

I stumble out of the shower, my skin stinging and raw. After turning off the hot spray, I scramble into a robe hanging by the door.

The rest of the suite is empty. Benito’s gone, and so is my appetite. I can’t stomach more than a few bites of croissant, so I move away from the table and head for the closet. Hopefully,Benito had yesterday’s clothes laundered, but when I pull open the door, it’s empty.

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