Page 108 of Stalking Ginevra

A breath catches in my throat. It takes every effort to suppress my excitement. If Ginevra’s mother attacked Bossanova with a knife, how would she react to discovering I could be corrupting her precious daughter?

I turn my attention to Vitale. “Finish this up.”

He steps forward, towering over the older woman, who shivers.

Without waiting for a reply, I stride out of the cell and head to the casino, letting the hum of chatter and clinking chipsfade in the background. Ginevra likes to think of her mother as an innocent victim to the ravages of alcohol, but all I see is weakness.

The woman was always in and out of retreats, trying out different therapies to curb her addiction, but she never once seemed to make much of an effort. Ginevra wasted half her life trying to rescue Losanna. Even her marriage to me is another attempt to protect her mother.

As I round the blackjack table, I can’t help thinking about Cesare. After our mother abandoned us to marry Tommy Galliano, my younger brother became addicted to his own crystal meth. Gil and I locked him in a room with Sofia and Dr. Moretti taking care of his needs.

His detox was brutal, painful, yet he hasn’t relapsed once.

Unless he’s swapped drugs for serial killing.

Shaking off that intrusive thought, I reach the reception area. Losanna Di Marco sits on a sofa with a clutch. Strangely, she’s brushed her hair, straightened her clothes, and is showing no traces of her infamous cleavage. When she rises off her seat and glares into my eyes, I wonder if Bossanova’s rejection was what it took to get her sober.

Tension ripples through her posture as I approach. She puffs out her chest and asks, “What’s this about you marrying my daughter?”

My lips curl into a slow smile. “Want to see Ginevra?”

“Naturally,” she clips.

I offer her my arm and smirk. “Should I start calling you ‘Mother’ now?”

Features tightening, she slips her hand into the crook of my arm. Her face might display annoyance and strength, but there’s no mistaking how her fingers tremble.

I could elaborate by explaining that the machinations of her husband killed Dad and drove my mother into the arms of amaniac, who coerced her into undergoing unnecessary cosmetic surgery. Surgery she would never have contemplated if she’d stayed with her sons.

But why use words when I can show my displeasure with actions?

Savoring the fear she’s trying to hide, I steer her out of the reception and through the hallway.

This reunion will be delicious.

FORTY-NINE

GINEVRA

I move from one side of the suite to the other, gripping the edges of the cotton robe. Sunlight heats one side of my face, trying to sap my strength. Every step is a fight to gather much-needed courage. Benito has taken everything—my clothes, my freedom, my sense of control—but he won’t take my dignity.

When I stop in front of the mirror, the woman reflecting on its surface looks unhinged. My hair is still damp from the shower, settling into tangled waves from all the times I clutched at my scalp.

Unease gnaws at my gut with razor-sharp teeth, but I shrug off the sensations. I’ve faced worse and survived. Benito might think he’s in control, but I can’t allow him to think of me as weak. The moment he returns, I’ll demand to know why he’s treating me like a prisoner, and tell him this stops now.

After all, I’m his fucking wife.

The door bursts open. Mom stumbles into the room, her features twisting with anguish. My heart leaps to my throat. What the hell?

“Mom?” I step forward, ready to tell her everything until Benito fills the doorway.

Freezing, I clutch my chest. His gaze sweeps the room before locking on my eyes, making my pulse stutter under the weight of his stare.

Mom rushes forward and grips my shoulders with trembling fingers. “Ginny, oh my God, are you alright?”

My throat dries to the consistency of legal parchment. I’m far from okay. A part of me still reels from seeing Julian murdered. My fingers still feel the twitch of the heart Brisket pushed into my hands and no amount of showering could wash the sensation of that warm, sticky blood.

Hell, even if I wanted to tell her everything, I couldn’t with Benito watching over us like a jailor. Instead, I force a smile.

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