Page 128 of Stalking Ginevra

“Mom,” I say, my voice sharper. “What do you mean by that?”

She reaches the ground floor, saunters down the hallway and descends to the basement kitchen. It’s as if she’s accustomed to throwing barbs and not backing them up with words.

Leaving the case behind, I rush after down the stairs. After all the sacrifices I’ve made for her, I won’t let this go. I reach the bottom, which is dark, save for a stream of light filtering through the front door window.

By the time I catch up with her in the basement, she’s already disappearing into the pantry. I use that word loosely because it’s a tall closet with shelves filled with unused appliances. She reaches behind the snow cone maker and extracts a bottle of gin.

My lip curls. I thought she said she wasn’t an alcoholic.

Mom shuffles across the kitchen to the counter and opens another cupboard. Before she selects a glass, I snatch the bottle from her loose fingers.

“What do you mean, ‘like mother, like daughter’?”

She whirls around, her gaze falling to the gin. “Jennifer also thought she had it all figured out. She thought Joseph loved her... but look where that got her.”

The name stings. Jennifer. My birth mother. A woman I don’t even remember, reduced to a cautionary tale.

“Wasn’t she just a child?” I ask.

She walks to the refrigerator as if I haven’t spoken, and opens it to pull out a jug of iced tea. After pouring herself a glass, she finally makes eye contact with me and brings it to her lips.

“What are you talking about?” I step closer, the pulse between my ears pounding.

She downs her glass and sighs. “Jennifer was grown when she took up with Gianni Bossanova. She thought he would give her a better life and look where she ended up.”

“Murdered,” I rasp.

Inclining her head, she fills her glass again. Something tells me there’s more to that concoction than just sugar and tea, but she parts her lips to speak. “Men in that world don’t love. They use women. Just like your father did to me. Just like he did to you and your little friend, Martina.”

I stumble backward, my head spinning. “So, you knew?”

She shakes her head. “First I heard of Martina and your father was from you.”

“But Benito isn’t like the Bossanova brothers or Dad,” I rasp. “He wouldn’t hurt me.”

Her gaze sharpens, her lips curling into something between pity and scorn. “Who killed Samson? Or the Capellos? Or your father? You really think those deaths came from nowhere?”

I shake my head, trying to block out her words. “It wasn’t Benito.”

“Someone from the Montesano family did it,” she says, her voice as cold as her beverage. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking he’s different.”

My throat tightens, the kitchen cabinets spinning with the truth of her words. “But the Capellos started the war when they killed Uncle Enzo and stole his?—“

“How can you call that man your uncle?” she snaps.

Every ounce of frustration I’ve held in my heart from the moment Mom admitted to faking her alcoholic episodes cracks. “Where were you when Dad dragged me into criminal households, setting up arranged marriages with mafia princes?”

She rears back, hissing, “What?”

“You heard me. You didn’t do anything! Didn’t lift a finger to protect me! But now, you have the nerve to stand there and spew out lectures?”

The overhead lights flicker, casting shadows across the kitchen walls, making us both freeze. It feels like the house’s shitty electrics can’t withstand the tension.

But then the power cuts, enveloping the room in darkness.

My stomach plummets. “Mom?”

Less than a heartbeat later, a large hand clamps over my mouth from behind, yanking me backward into a solid chest. Panic slams through my heart, and I release a scream.

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