Page 118 of Stalking Ginevra

My lips part with a gasp, and my mind races a hundred miles an hour, struggling to catch up with his mood swings. Before I can muster up a reply, he turns on his heel and leaves.

FIFTY-FOUR

GINEVRA

The next morning, I sit cross-legged on the sofa overlooking the casino’s fountains. At this time of the day, sunlight streaming through the clouds colors the spray a pale shade of gold.

One good thing has come from marrying Benito, apart from the obvious protection. It looks like I’ve made a friend. Carla, the woman from room service, stayed for breakfast and let me rub ointment on her neck. She’s actually quite fun when nobody’s strangling us to death.

She’s a refreshing change from Martina, who hid her resentment for me behind a veneer of friendship. If she had even hinted something was going on between her and Dad, I would have intervened.

Carla bounds across the suite to the small closet beside the minibar. After flinging it open, she extracts a black box large enough to hold a birthday cake.

“Did you ever open it?” she asks with a smirk.

My lips twitch. “That toy box?”

She brings it to the low table and opens it with a faint pop, releasing the faint scent of leather and plastic. Chuckling, she sifts through its contents and pulls out a box containing a dildo.

“That’s so unhygienic,” I say with a shake of my head.

Her laughter fills the suite. “They come to us sealed, and housekeeping replaces these after every stay.”

I snort. “Even if they’re unused?”

She nods. “If you open the box, the room gets charged.”

I shake my head, remembering how I rifled through its contents, looking for something to wear and finding a peephole bra and panties. The only thing I found useful was the silk blindfold, which helps block out the light.

Lunch arrives, and it’s the largest, most ostentatious charcuterie board. The man from room service sets it up on the dining table, filling the air with the rich scent of cured meats and cheeses. I rise off the sofa, my jaw dropping.

“Told you it was good,” Carla says with a proud smile.

I shake my head, marveling at the selection. Half the items are new to me, but I recognize prosciutto, soppressata, brie, manchego, gouda, and cheddar. Breaking up the display of cheeses and meat are tiny bowls of figs, dates, grapes, sliced apple, olives, cornichons, and sun-dried tomatoes. They’ve even provided condiments, a selection of nuts, crackers and baguette slices.

My hands land on my chest. This is a work of art.

“What are you waiting for?” Carla asks. “Eat!”

“You first.” I sweep my arm toward the display.

Carla takes a plate and picks through the selection, careful not to disturb its symmetry. I follow after her, not wanting to make a mess. You’d think I’d be used to fine dining, but Dad kept me out most of corporate dinners. Benito’s family always sat around the table and passed around bowls. Even though the food was top-tier, their style was always informal.

Once our plates are full, we take our seats, and Carla pops open a bottle of prosecco and pours us each a glass.

Watching her place a slice of gouda on a cracker without a care in the world, I blurt, “How did you do that yesterday?”

Carla looks up at me with a frown. “What are you talking about?”

I sit back, pushing a grape around my plate with the tip of my finger. “I mean, you jumped on that brute like it was nothing.”

Carla shrugs, her eyes hardening. “You do what you have to.”

“But he was huge,” I press. “You didn’t even hesitate.”

She leans back in her chair, popping a pickle into her mouth and chews. For a second, I think she’s going to ignore my question until she speaks. “I grew up in foster care. You either fight or get eaten alive. I guess I’ve had a lot of practice at not letting guys like that scare me.”

Throat tightening, I freeze, waiting for her to elaborate, but she doesn’t. Her gaze stays fixed on the charcuterie board, and she reaches for a slice of brie and places it on a cracker. Silence between us stretches, the weight of what she’s said pressing down on my chest.

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