Page 167 of Stalking Ginevra

BENITO

Hours later, I sit in the back of the limousine, still cringing at my revelation. It’s bad enough that she lingered on my tattoo, even worse that she got me begging for crumbs of reassurance.

One simultaneous orgasm with Ginevra was enough for me to spill my guts. I’ve fucked up the balance of power. What’s next? Do I tell her Bob Brisket is really me?

The engine’s hum does nothing to ease my tension. With Ginevra staring at me like I owe her an explanation, it mounts with every passing second.

I glance out of the darkened window at the city rolling past, forcing my thoughts to stay fixed on the dinner ahead—on meeting the mysterious Emmanuel Demartini, on smoking out Victor Bellavista.

On anything but Ginevra.

She drifts closer on the back seat, her honeysuckle and vanilla scent curling into my nostrils, impossible to ignore. I clench my jaw, forcing myself to remain strong.

“It’s a beautiful night,” she murmurs. “I’ll bet the Demartini estate looks incredible under this full moon.”

I don’t answer. My grip tightens on the armrest, making the leather creak under my fingers. She’s trying to rebuild that connection we established at the boutique, and part of me wants to respond, but I can’t let her in. Not now.

“Benito, are you going to keep this up all night?” she asks, her voice tight with frustration. You haven’t said a word since we left the Dolce Vita.”

Chest squeezing, I force my gaze from the window and meet her eyes.

She’s breathtaking with her auburn hair piled atop her head with stray tendrils curling to frame her porcelain face. Makeup enhances the stormy depths of her gray eyes, accentuating her round cheekbones and luscious lips.

A frown pinches those beautiful features, and she searches my face for cracks in my façade, but I cling to the last shreds of my dignity. Every instinct wants to throw myself at her feet and assure her of my unwavering love, but she would only relegate me to being her doormat.

“Benito?”

“We’re nearly there. Focus on the meeting.” I turn back to the window as the limo veers off the highway and down a country lane.

In her reflection, she purses her lips but doesn’t push further. After a beat, she looks away. Shutting her out is a shitty thing to do and borderline abusive. But stonewalling is a misdemeanor compared to the heinous crimes I’ve committed to make Ginevra mine.

My sins against this woman are piling higher than the Tower of Babel. One day, they’ll equal the sin she committed when she withheld information that could have saved our family.

The limo slows at the Demartini estate, their wrought iron gates looming in the moonlight like the entrance to another time. My great-grandfather Paolo might have built our mansionalong the lines of a Roman villa back in Italy, but Demartini is the real deal.

His coat of arms dates back to the fourteenth century, containing four gold bulls, each in a separate quadrant on a red background with a detailed gold border.

“Did you hear that he moved his family mansion from Valencia, brick by brick?” Ginevra asks, her voice breathy with excitement.

“You think it’s true?” I ask, my gaze meeting hers.

She shrugs. “Well, London Bridge was moved to Arizona in the sixties.”

The limousine stops in front of a stone building that looks as if it’s been lifted straight out of Venice. It isn’t as grand as our home’s Roman architecture, but the weathered facade makes me wonder if it’s truly centuries old. Green shutters flank each window, except for the portico at its center, where a trio of arched French doors stretch up to a balustrade.

A silver-haired man in a white tuxedo jacket stands at the balcony, his hands resting on its stone railing. I exit the limo, help Ginevra out, and crane my neck to the pediment at the very top.

My brow pinches. They don’t even have a tower.

Ginevra places a hand on my shoulder, capturing my attention. I gaze down, admiring how the delicate green fabric of her dress hugs her curves. She’s distracting. I would have brought Roman, but Demartini said to bring a date.

Movement behind the French doors makes us both turn toward the entrance. A butler emerges from beyond a set of heavy wooden doors concealed behind the glass.

With his white waistcoat and navy jacket adorned with gold buttons, red cuffs, and epaulets, he could work for Napoleon. I glance down to find his pants striped in red, white, and blue.

Ginevra gasps. I hide my reaction behind a mask of calm.

Far be it from me to notice a man’s attire, but a lot can be learned about a family from the way they clothe their employees. Take Bellavista and his little maids, which implies he’s a hedonist… And a predator.

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