Page 124 of Stalking Ginevra

Silence.

My throat tightens. “Benito. We’ve been together since we were eight. Who walks away from a lifetime of happiness?”

Finally, he looks up, his dark eyes piercing mine, searching for the truth. “Explain.”

His voice is low, dangerous, sharp as a blade.

The truth spills from my lips. I tell him how Dad slapped and kicked me when I refused to break it off, and how he threatened to do the same to Mom. Benito’s lips part, and I already know what he’s going to ask. I speak first, before he can hurl theaccusation. “You want to know why I didn’t come to you for help?”

He nods.

“That would mean leaving Mom. I couldn’t let her take the brunt of his rage. All it would take was him plying her with drink, ignoring her when she was passed out, and letting her choke on her vomit. Someone needed to make sure she didn’t self-destruct.”

His gaze hardens, and for a moment, I think I’ve lost him.

“That week, Mom was at a twenty-eight day detox retreat in Switzerland. The staff wouldn’t put me through to her. I was frantic. Not thinking straight. They were all putting pressure on me?—“

“Who?” he asks.

“Dad. Frederic Capello. Samson. Even Gregor.”

His lips twist at the mention of the Capello twins.

“It was five years of hell,” I say. “And I regretted every minute, but that engagement was the only thing keeping my mom alive.”

When he glances away, my heart flips like a crepe. “Benito, I’m sorry. I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done to help us, but please, stop keeping me a prisoner. I’m not going anywhere.”

Something shifts in his eyes—a flicker of understanding, of the old Benito, the one who would have done anything to make me happy.

He sighs. “Go back to your seat, Ginevra.”

Gulping, I retreat to the other side of the table, just as the waiter arrives with a domed tray that smells so familiar that I melt. He lifts the lid, revealing chateaubriand.

Happy memories rise to the surface like steam, making my chest swell with warmth. I glance across the table at Benito, wondering if there’s meaning behind his choice of dish. “This is just like my 21st birthday. Do you remember?”

His eyes soften, and for an instant, he looks like the eager young man who bent down on one knee and asked me to make him the happiest man on earth. I resist the urge to glance at my ring finger.

Before he can answer, the phone on the table buzzes .

He glances at the screen, his face hardening. “I have to take this.”

My chest deflates at the sudden distance, but I nod.

I strain to hear his conversation with Cesare. There’s something about the Galliano brothers and a sister. When Cesare mentions Roman being held hostage at a BDSM hotel, my heart sinks. Whatever’s happening on the other side of the line is more urgent than the moment I’m trying to salvage.

Benito ends the call, his jaw clenched. He doesn’t need to speak for me to know something’s wrong. When he turns to me, his face is unreadable. “Something has come up. Can I trust you to finish your meal and return to the suite?”

“Go,” I say, waving him away. “Take care of your brothers.”

He hesitates for a second, his eyes lingering on my face as if he’s trying to catch me in a lie. I hold my breath, trying to convey my intentions to be an obedient little wife. When his phone rings again, he turns and walks away, leaving me alone at the table.

I’ll finish my steak, drink my wine, and return to my luxury cage.

But first, I’m going home to pick up some clothes.

FIFTY-SEVEN

BENITO

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