Page 13 of Stalking Ginevra

She nods toward the flutes. “Drink those.”

I pick up the first one, let its contents slide down my throat, and stare at my best friend. She points a manicured finger at the second, so I choke it down.

“Ready,” I say, bracing myself for the worst.

“Pamela told me she visited the firm the morning after Joseph was killed,” she says, her voice thickening with grief.

I exhale a shuddering breath. The Di Marco and Mancini families go back decades. Our grandfathers were business associates, and Dad went to law school with Martina’s parents. When Martina’s sister dropped out of college to work for a publisher that produced porn, Mrs. Mancini came to visit Mom in floods of tears.

“She said everyone was in shock and confused about how to react,” Martina continues. “I wasn’t there. I couldn’t leave the house for a few days because I thought the gunman would come after me.”

“Why would he target you?” I ask.

She raises a hand, accepts her buck’s fizz from the sommelier, and takes a long sip. “It looked like he was targetingeveryone connected to Frederic Capello. Joseph and I were working on their high-profile case.”

I tune out her detailed recounting, waiting for her to take a breath before bringing the conversation back to my question. “And Terranova?”

“Sorry.” She shakes her head. “While I was at home, fretting for my life, he filed a petition for liquidation.”

“What?” I squawk.

She nods. “The court acknowledged that Nick owned a hundred percent of the equity, having inherited it from his father and uncle. Joseph never owned the firm.”

My stomach drops. “No.”

“It’s true.” She reaches across the table and grabs my hand. “Nick had to leave after being disbarred. Joseph was supposed to buy out his share of the firm, but the money never materialized.”

I shake my head. “Dad wouldn’t…”

Martina gazes across the table, her eyes shining with pity. “Joseph kept you away from the worst of his dealings, but it’s not difficult to imagine one of his mafia associates putting pressure on Nick to walk away empty handed.”

She’s right.

If Dad can help Capello steal nearly a billion dollars worth of assets from Benito’s father and entertain a client like Valentino Bossanova, then robbing a man of his legacy is plausible. I reach across the table and pick up her buck’s fizz.

“So, that’s why nobody warned me?” I ask.

“If I’d been at the firm when the shit hit the fan, I would have tracked you down.” She cocks her head. “Where have you been?”

After the waiter takes our orders, I tell her about how Samson came to us the morning after the massacre, and how he decided to hide in plain sight directly under the Montesano’s noses.

More drinks arrive, along with a brunch platter containing a selection of pastries and fruits. Picking at my food, I skip over how I spent days with Samson parading me in front of his guards, using me as a shield to hide his impotence. I fast forward to the part when his enemies found the hideout and how he stuffed me in a closet while gunmen raided the house.

“That was considerate of him, I guess,” she says, her brows pulling together. “Were you hurt?”

My gaze drops to the platter, but my mind is elsewhere. The gunman hadn’t hurt me physically, but he left emotional scars. I’d imagined my first taste of pleasure would be with Benito—not with a masked man, bartering my life for fellatio.

She leans across the table. “What happened?”

“One of the Montesano men found me at the end of the night.” I peer up at her through my lashes.

Face falling slack, she rakes her gaze over my body as if checking for bullet wounds. “Did he recognize you?”

I shake my head.

With a hand over her chest, she exhales an audible breath of relief. “I’m glad he let you go. Imagine if he dragged you up the hill to face the brothers. Roman’s out of Death Row now.”

I stuff a mini saccottino in my mouth and chew. Dark chocolate invades my senses, doing nothing to calm my nerves.

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