Page 145 of Stalking Ginevra

“Mr. Montesano,” Zambino says, his tongue darting out to lick his cracked lips. “I’ve told your people everything I know.”

“What’s your relationship with Debbie Clark?”

His brows crease. “What do you mean?”

“Why was she picked to win? Why not your mother, a cousin, a girlfriend?”

Larry hesitates, his gaze darting to the wall. I don’t need to be a psychologist to know he’s stalling. He’s likely protecting someone because I can’t see a coward like this masterminding such an audacious, multi-million dollar scam.

My jaw clenches. “Someone in this scheme will die to warn others about the dangers of fucking with the Montesano family. If you want that to be you, I suggest you continue holding your silence.”

“Bellavista picked her,” Larry blurts, his voice hoarse. “Said she fit the profile. Middle-aged, struggling, desperate for a win. Easy to manipulate.”

“Which Bellavista?” I snap.

“Victor.”

The name hits like a punch to the gut, and I inhale through flared nostrils. This man’s fingerprints are all over this casino’s rot, yet he’s as elusive as a ghost. If I don’t find him soon, then Salvatore Bellavista will bear the brunt of my anger.

But first, I need to deal with the Debbie Clark problem before it explodes in my face.

“Are you in contact with Bellavista?” I ask.

Larry swallows hard. “Of course.”

With a nod, I rise from my seat. “Give us his number. You’re going to set up a meeting with that slimy bastard.”

I signal to the guard by the door, who steps forward to stand watch over Larry. With that handled, I make my way to the waiting room, ready to face Debbie Clark’s daughter. She’s a loose end I plan on tying up fast.

Minutes later, I’m at the other end of the casino—the public facing area that doesn’t resemble death row. I push open the door to the waiting room and step into a watered down version of our VIP lounge.

Ceiling lights cast dim illumination over the beige decor, and the strains of Sinatra muffle my steps as I walk toward the bar. The mirror-lined walls reflect me as I continue through the narrow space, passing patrons nursing their drinks.

I spot the officers first, sitting at a table by the bar beside a blonde woman with a high ponytail. She stares at me, her eyes wide with anxiety, while her companions rise from their seats.

Neither of them are Rizzo, Barzelli, or any friendly cops who might smooth out the situation.

“Is that him?” the daughter asks a blond officer with a Village People mustache, who nods.

“Mr. Montesano,” Her voice is shaky, but her pale face is set with determination. “My dad reported my mother missing. She didn’t come home after visiting your casino. And now my dad’s gone, too.”

I lock gazes with her, keeping my expression flat. “I understand your concern. We take the safety of our guests very seriously.”

She steps forward, not buying my rehearsed lines. “Don’t you think it’s a strange coincidence that they both vanished?”

The cops shift, their gazes sharpening. I lean forward, just enough to let them feel the weight of my presence. She might suspect I’m holding Mr. and Mrs. Clark and might even know why. If she brings up the slot machines, then she’ll be the next to disappear.

“Did your father mention which date and time he came to the casino?” I ask.

Her face falls. “He went missing at home.”

I glance at the dark-haired officer, my brows rising in a silent question.

He clears his throat. “Miss Clark thinks the two disappearances are connected.”

“We can release the security footage from Mrs. Clark’s visit, but there’s nothing I can do to help with a missing person who never stepped foot in my casino.”

The officers shift on their feet, at least having the decency to break eye contact. The daughter’s lips tighten, but she doesn’t voice a rebuttal. I suspect she knows her mother has stolen from the casino but doesn’t want to admit to being part of a scam.

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