Page 11 of Stalking Ginevra

Is she having a bad day? I cross the space to pause at her desk, only for her to turn her head and pick up the phone.

Dismissing her behavior as peculiar, I walk around the cubicles. No one acknowledges my presence, except for clingy Julian, who rises from his cubicle and opens his arms for a hug.

“Ginny,” he says, his voice breathy with exaggerated sympathy. “Welcome back!”

His imploring gray eyes, a shade darker than mine, set within sallow features and muddy blond hair, are off-putting enough to make me pivot toward Dad’s office. I don’t want to be cornered so soon after being bound and shoved into a closet by one man and then freed by another in exchange for my throat.

Julian is a hardworking attorney who makes insightful contributions in client meetings, but he spends more time looking into my eyes than focusing on the discussion. Now that I’m newly single, I expect his behavior to become worse.

I open the door to Dad’s office, finding it occupied. The man sitting behind his desk has his head bowed, pouring over a stack of documents. He’s in his late 40’s to early 50’s with a receding salt-and-pepper hairline, and a matching beard. He’s vaguely familiar, but I’m certain he isn’t an employee.

Flanking him on his left and right are two college-aged men in sharp suits who comport themselves like soldiers.

“What are you doing here?” I fold my arms over my chest.

He raises his head, sweeps his gaze up and down my form, and rests his hands on Dad’s desk. “Ginevra Di Marco, I presume?”

“Yes,” I say, my spine straightening. “Who are you?”

“Niccolò Terranova. Practice Manager and true owner of this law firm.”

I rear back, my breath catching. The Nick Terranova I remember from the past was younger, sharper, and handsome. The man in front of me has aged at least fifteen years.

“But you’re?—”

“Disbarred?” He rises from his seat, his shoulders broadening within a pale blue shirt.

“You’re…” I gulp. “Forbidden to practice law.”

“For now,” he says, his voice cold.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

He smirks. “Do the rules say I can’t enter a building I own?”

My mouth opens and closes, but I can’t muster a counter argument. Dad once mentioned the building belonged to the firm, which Terranova had to relinquish when he lost his license to practice law.

“Do you have any proof of your claims?” I ask, trying to keep my voice from trembling.

Terranova’s smile morphs into a full-on grin, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “Rimaldo, give Miss Di Marco the documents.”

One of the men standing behind him walks to a bookshelf and picks up a stack of lever-arch folders. Without meeting my gaze, he asks, “Want me to take it to your desk?”

My jaw clenches. “This is my office.”

“Capri,” Terranova drawls. “Help the young lady out.”

Capri, a man the size of a wardrobe, lumbers forward, making me step back. I won’t be manhandled by these interlopers in my own law firm.

Grabbing the door handle, I step out into the bustling office space. Every attorney, paralegal, and administrative assistant in the cubicles stops work to stare.

A lump forms in my throat. What the hell is happening? Who allowed this hostile takeover?

I walk to the other private office, which Dad let me occupy, only to find it containing four desks. Two of them are occupied by college-aged men in the same sharp suits as the pair orbiting Terranova.

They glance up as I step in, their eyes flicking over my face without a hint of recognition.

“This is my office,” I say.

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