Page 119 of Stalking Ginevra

“Sometimes, fighting like an animal is the only way to survive.”

She states this brutal truth as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, leaving me gaping, not knowing how to respond. What the hell can I add? My problems feel so trivial compared to her childhood when mine was so idyllic.

I open my mouth to say something—anything—but Carla shifts in her seat and asks, “Have you ever tried brie with fig jam?”

“No,” I murmur.

Smiling, she picks up a knife, spreads a dark substance on top of the brie, and passes it to me on a slice of bread. I take it,biting into the sweetness of the jam and the creamy cheese. After such a heavy subject, talking about food seems so strange.

“Good, right?” she asks with a wink, like we’re just talking about flavors, not how she learned to fight for her life.

We sit in silence for a while, picking at the board and sipping prosecco. I can’t stop thinking about how much of Carla’s life must have centered on survival. Sure, mine took a nosedive when I broke off my engagement with Benito, but before that, I was a princess. I had my father’s protection, his wealth, his connections.

Now, I’m tangled up in something darker than I ever imagined. And Carla’s been living under that shadow for years.

I should feel guilty for even trying to compare our situations, but something in me feels connected to her. I know what it’s like to feel trapped, to have to fight to protect yourself. It’s primal, desperate, all consuming.

We spend the rest of the meal picking at the food and talking about lighter things—movies, books, stupid celebrity gossip. It’s a welcome distraction, and for a little while, I almost forget I’m a prisoner.

Eventually, Carla glances at the leftovers and nods toward a plastic container. “Mind if I stash away some of this for my old man?”

I glance down at her left hand, finding a slender band. Curiosity scratches at the edges of my mind, wanting to know when she got married. My throat constricts. Asking nosy questions about her husband will only lead to a conversation about mine.

“Take whatever you want,” I say, waving her off.

As she packs up the food, my gaze flickers to the black box on the sofa, which reminds me a little of the one Bob Brisket sent to the house. I shift on my seat, trying to push away thoughts of that monster, but they linger.

I’m trapped in this suite, married to a man who holds my life in his iron fist. Everything about my world feels out of control, like I’m teetering on the edge of something I can’t escape. Even now, a part of me misses Brisket’s twisted sense of pleasure.

Shit. I can’t be pining for a psychopath.

“Well, thanks for the company.” Carla pulls me from my thoughts and stands, clutching a tupperware box crammed with leftovers.

I smile back, though my mind is still swirling. “Thank you for everything, and for saving me.”

As she reaches the exit, she turns to me, her eyes softening. “It was my pleasure. Anytime.”

The door clicks shut behind her, leaving me once again alone in this suite. Forcing myself to move, I stand up and stretch, wandering over to the black box. My pussy clenches, and my fingers twitch toward the dildo still encased in cardboard.

No.

Tearing my gaze away from the offending item, I snatch the newspaper off the coffee table and skim through the headlines. Ignoring the report about an explosion across town, I flip straight to the business section.

There’s an article on the Di Marco Law Firm, reporting Nick Terranova’s appeal. It says that his chances of being reinstated look good, and my heart sinks. The moment he’s back in charge, he’ll change its name, erasing everything Dad built. We’ll lose the last remnants of our legacy.

Maybe it’s for the best.

Sighing, I toss the paper onto the floor and scrub a hand over my face. Why am I sympathizing over a predator and crook? Because he’s the only father I know? I shake off the frustration and roll my shoulders. Every corner of this suite feels suffocating.

I need a distraction, anything to pull me out of this downward spiral.

Grabbing the remote, I flip on the TV, hoping to catch something to give me a sense of what’s going on in the world outside these walls. But all I see is the hotel’s room service menu. No channels, no connection, no escape.

Fury simmers beneath my skin. They’ve even cut off the internet.

Stomach churning, I toss the remote. Isn’t it enough for Benito to keep me cooped up in this room? Now, he has to imprison my mind?

Grinding my teeth, I yank the silk blindfold off the bed and pull it over my eyes, trying to block out my predicament. But the darkness only amplifies my thoughts, sending me careening back to yesterday.

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