Page 105 of Stalking Ginevra

Benito’s taken my clothes, but he’s also seized my purse and phone.

My gaze darts around the suite, taking in its gleaming surfaces, mirrored walls, and the massive four-poster. I pull the robe tighter around my chest, the soft fabric feeling like a shackle.

I eye the phone on the nightstand. It’s an old-fashioned rotary, the kind you see in old movies, but it can’t just be there as an ornament.

Dialing Mom’s number on this old-fashioned contraption is near impossible. I fumble with the clunky dial, my fingers slipping over the numbers. When it finally rings, the tension in my muscles releases, and I sit on the edge of the mattress.

Benito has never lied to me before. If he says Mom went home, then I’m sure she’s safe, but I still need to hear her voice.I also need her to send me a change of clothes so I no longer feel so trapped.

On the fourth ring, the line clicks. Instead of Mom’s familiar voice, a robotic tone fills my ear: “We’re sorry, but this call cannot be completed as dialed.”

My heart stutters. I try again, dialing slower this time, as if it might change the outcome. The same mechanical voice cuts through the silence, reminding me there’s no connection. No way out.

Shit.

I slam the phone back onto the receiver, my breath coming in shallow gasps. This place is only an upgrade from last night’s cell, but I’m still more or less trapped. I clench my fingers on the silk comforter, my nails digging into the smooth fabric.

Benito can’t treat me like a prisoner.

A second glance at the phone reveals two buttons: one for the reception, the other for room service. Desperate for answers, I pick up the receiver and try again. The line rings twice before it connects.

“Room service, how may I assist you, Mrs. Montesano?” asks a chipper female voice.

“My bag and clothes are somewhere in the casino. Can you send someone to bring them up?”

There’s a pause on the other end. “I’m sorry, ma’am. We don’t handle personal belongings. Would you like to order breakfast instead?”

Frustration bubbles in my chest, and my grip tightens on the receiver. “If you can’t get my things, can you at least send up some fresh clothes?”

The next pause is even longer. “I can send someone up with fresh towels or a robe, if that helps.”

“Can you at least check with lost property or housekeeping?”

“I’m afraid that’s outside my scope, ma’am. You could try contacting the front desk.”

The line clicks off before I can respond, leaving me grinding my teeth. Anger simmers under my skin, and my pulse pounds between my ears. I’m wasting time with the staff when I need to call Benito.

I stab the button for reception, my pulse quickening as the line connects.

“Reception, how may I assist you?”

“This is Mrs. Benito Montesano,” I say through clenched teeth. “Please put me through to my husband.”

“Mr. Montesano is unavailable at the moment.”

“Can you at least try his office?”

The line goes quiet again for a second before the phone on the other end rings and rings. I stare into space, wondering if I should streak through the hotel in my robe.

Each ring stabs deeper until the receptionist interrupts with, “Would you like to leave a message?”

I swallow hard, the words catching in my throat. “Tell him his wife called.”

The line clicks dead.

Determination propels me off the bed. Fuck this. I stride across the suite to the door and yank it open. A woman in a hotel uniform strides toward me through the marble hallway, holding a silver bucket of ice.

“Excuse me.” I raise a hand.

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