Page 144 of Stalking Ginevra

She’s ignoring my presence, a final act of defiance even as she catches her breath, stripped bare on the floor.

Silence stretches for several heartbeats, and I wait for her to speak. She doesn’t look in my direction, doesn’t even flinch when I shift closer. She closes her eyes, as though trying to escape from the reality of her new life.

Isn’t this what she wanted? To stay married to me by any means?

I should order her to open her eyes, command her to speak. What would be the point? She’s made her choice. Now, she can stew in the aftermath of her submission.

A sharp knock at the door turns my attention away from my wife. Annoyance flashes through my veins like acid. Ginevra tenses, but she doesn’t move.

“Stay here,” I say.

Without waiting for her reaction, I stride to the door and ease it open, coming face to face with Vitale. He stands as stiff as a soldier, his features tight.

“What?” I snap and step out into the hallway, making sure to close the door.

“Debbie Clark’s daughter is here.” Vitale rubs the back of his neck. “She brought some cops.”

“Who the fuck is Debbie Clark?”

He grimaces. “The slot machine jackpot winner.”

A sharp breath whistles through my teeth. We’ve had that woman locked up for days, along with the husband who made the first police report. Not to mention that maintenance man who rigged the machines, Larry Zambino. It was a problem I’ve been meaning to deal with before my brothers went missing.

“What does she want?” I ask with a frown.

“She claims her mother came to the casino and never returned home. She’s also saying her father’s missing.” Vitale’s gaze flicks to the side, back toward the elevator. “Now, the cops are asking questions.”

I grind my teeth. Of course, they are. “Send her to one of the waiting rooms. I’ll deal with her myself.”

Vitale nods, but his eyes flicker with uncertainty. “And the officers?”

“Keep them busy,” I reply. “Let them tour the casino floor, offer them drinks. Whatever it takes to keep them out of my way.”

Vitale gives a tight nod, but he lingers in the hallway, seeming to wait for further instructions. When I raise a brow, he flinches.

“Right.... I’ll make sure everything stays quiet,” he says before turning on his heel and heading toward the elevator.

Once he’s gone, I take a deep breath, trying to shove down a surge of irritation. It gnaws at my gut, reminding me that managing a casino is rife with bullshit. If the employees aren’t running scams, then it’s the patrons. Or the suppliers. It will take time to weed out the corruption but I need to remember this isn’t the underworld, where relatives know not to call the police.

I glance back at the door of our suite, where Ginevra lies inside. A good husband would stay behind to administer aftercare, but Ginevra was technically unfaithful. I can’t revert back to that simp she dumped without an ounce of consideration.

Turning away, I head down the corridor to handle the situation with Debbie Clark’s daughter. First, I need to see how her mother is connected to Larry Zambino.

I navigate the maze of hallways, my thoughts turning back to my game plan with Ginevra. It’s an improvement on Roman’s attempt to ensnare Capello’s daughter. My brother defrauded her of assets she didn’t know she inherited. He also married her without her consent and tried to impregnate her without her knowledge.

Apart from the Brisket situation, I’m operating out in the open. Everything that’s happened so far has been with Ginevra’s enthusiastic consent.

Granted, my agents brought her to my doorstep. The loan sharks invented Di Marco’s outstanding debt, and Valentino Bossanova had no intentions of marrying Losanna. The situation with Nick Terranova wasn’t entirely manufactured. He only kept Ginevra employed at my request.

By the time I reach the back offices, the irritation curling through my gut has sharpened into anger. Anger at a bunch ofassholes thinking they can steal from my casino and still have human rights.

The guard at the door stands to attention. My gaze drops to the water bottle on his belt, and I hold out my palm. Puzzled, he unclips it and hands it over.

I push open the door to the cell where we’ve been keeping Larry Zambino, and grimace at a burst of body odor. My brows rise. He’s younger than I imagined, a weasel-faced man in his early thirties with at least three days of stubble.

Zambino jerks up from where he’s laid his head on the table, rattling the shackles keeping his wrists attached to the arms of his chair. The thieving bastard stares up at me through lifeless eyes, looking like he’s spent the week stumbling through the desert.

I cross the room, my gaze fixed on his trembling form, and settle into the chair opposite. When I place the water bottle on the table, his eyes widen.

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