Page 126 of Stalking Ginevra

“Montesano residence, what do you want?” Sofia answers, her voice tighter than usual.

“It’s Benito. Where’s Roman?”

“Dr. Brunelli had to sedate him. He’s on an IV.”

My stomach churns. Sedation? That’s not like Roman, who survived nearly five years on Death Row. Something’s wrong.

“What happened?”

Sofia hesitates before responding. “He was there for days without food or water. He’s disoriented, weak, and needs his rest.”

I grit my teeth. “What did Brunelli say?”

“He’s sleeping on Roman’s sofa, just in case.”

My breath hitches. Sofia ends the call, not elaborating on whether my brother’s condition is completely physical or mental.

The yacht’s engines thrum beneath my feet as I wait on deck, my eyes fixed on the approaching skiff. Cesare emerges from the lightweight boat cradling the dark-haired girl in his arms as if she’s made of glass. She’s thin, and can’t be more than fourteen, but my brother gazes down at her with wonder like she’s a newborn.

Rosalind emerges right behind him, scanning the deck like she’s ready for another fight. My gaze flicks between the two women. The girl could be a younger version of Rosalind with the same sharp features, but something in the curve of the girl’s jaw, and the set of her eyes is all Cesare.

I shake my head, wishing my brother had kept Galliano alive long enough to explain his actions. As well as what happened to Mom.

Reaper strides over, his features grave. “Drones are over the wreckage. No bodies found.”

My jaw clenches. “Shit.”

“Yes,” he replies with a sigh. “I’ve got my men patching into surveillance feeds from around the marina. We don’t have any footage of the helicopter’s explosion.”

“I was looking right at it and didn’t see a parachute.”

“He could have worn black,” Reaper mutters. “Or just jumped.”

“Or he was broadcasting from somewhere else.”

“Anything is possible,” Reaper growls.

It takes a split second to remember the extent of Reaper’s burning hatred for Galliano. That old bastard kept his sister hostage for five years. “Keep searching. When Cesare gets a minute, he might give us a few places to look.”

Reaper walks back toward the bridge.

There are too many moving parts: Roman’s condition, Cesare’s newfound paternity, Galliano potentially alive. Not to mention a casino riddled with scammers.

I pull out my tablet and flip through the surveillance feeds. The camera monitoring the honeymoon suite displays an empty room. No Ginevra in bed, no trace of her in the bathroom. A muscle ticks in my jaw, and I switch to the camera at her old house.

She’s in the dressing room, yanking clothes off hangers, shoving dresses and shoes into a suitcase with frantic urgency. My breath stills as the image tightens around my heart, each click of the hangers echoing like a countdown.

Cold realization kicks me in the gut. Ginevra is leaving me.

Again.

A slow, burning fury coils through my insides, filling my veins with liquid outrage. I shove down the surge, molding it into something more controlled.

Turning on my heel, I head straight for the yacht’s armory, my pulse pounding in my ears. Inside, I search for bulletproof armor in my size. I pull it on, one piece at a time until I’m no longer recognizable as the man who loved that little traitor.

Tonight isn’t just about stopping Ginevra from leaving. It’s about making sure she never escapes me again.

By the time the last strap clicks into place, the man who loved her has burned to ash. I roll my shoulders, testing the weight of the gear. It’s familiar. Comforting.

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