Page 168 of Stalking Ginevra

Demartini’s man, on the other hand, is dressed with a level of precision that signals a family clinging to old-world elegance. Emmanuel Demartini values control, tradition, and a rigid hierarchy—qualities that reveal his need to assert power, not through indulgence like Bellavista, but through the meticulous preservation of his nobility.

Dad armed all our people, down to the gardeners and kitchen maids, with automatic weapons. But then, the Montesano family built itself up from nothing. As such, we've been at war since we crossed the Atlantic.

“Good evening,” says the butler, who can’t be younger than seventy, even with the dye job. “I’m Rinaldo. Mr. Demartini is expecting you.”

I give him a curt nod, intending to keep up my guard. Rinaldo gestures for us to follow, and I place a hand on Ginevra’s lower back, guiding her inside. The interior is less grand than the outside, with crystal chandeliers casting dim light on gilded portraits hanging among golden mirrors.

We trail behind Rinaldo down a vast entrance hall of uneven marble tiles, passing dark furniture that has seen better days. Ginevra keeps her gaze forward, her frame fraught with tension. People describe us as old money, but this place and its relics make us look nouveau riche.

“Mr. Demartini appreciates the information you’ve shared thus far,” Rinaldo says over his shoulder. “He is looking forward to discussing your mutual concerns.”

Ginevra and I exchange a glance, though neither of us speaks. Emmanuel Demartini has always been a myth who looms large over New Alderney’s elite. Our grandfather,Giovanni, met him in person in the eighties when he was less of a recluse and more of a power player. Demartini refused multiple offers of partnership, dismissing them with the quiet arrogance of an aristocrat. He claimed that power rooted in bloodlines endures far longer than anything built on fear.

We stop in front of a set of heavy wooden doors, which Rinaldo pulls open with a creak.

He steps into a candle-lit dining room. At the head of a table large enough for six sits an elderly man dressed in a white tuxedo jacket. I can only assume he’s Emmanuel Demartini.

He doesn’t rise, but the younger man beside him stands. He’s in his mid thirties—about Roman’s age, with a slender build that reminds me of Cesare.

“Welcome.” The old man’s voice is gravelly, as though years of fine cigars have eroded his vocal cords. “Benito Montesano, I presume. Who is your lovely date?”

“My wife, Ginevra Montesano,” I reply.

His white brows lift. “I wasn’t aware you had married.” He gestures at the younger man. “This is my son, Marcello.”

“Mars,” he says and offers me his hand.

I shake with the son, who then kisses Ginevra’s knuckles, but Demartini only clasps his hands. A man that age probably has a compromised immune system, so I don’t take offense.

Rinaldo seats us near Demartini and his son, pouring red wine from a crystal decanter before departing with a bow.

“But I didn’t ask you here for pleasantries.” The old man takes a sip of wine, his eyes sharpening. “There’s trouble brewing in our world, particularly at our casinos.”

Mars sits straighter. “Victor has plagued our casino for years, but no one from our end ever tied him to the Bellavista name.”

“Our security staff have ways of making people talk.” I pick up my glass.

The two men exchange glances. Emmanuel Demartini never wanted to associate with a known gangster like Grandfather Giovanni. I expect they’re having second thoughts about letting me into their family home.

Mars chuckles. “Does breaking bones always get answers?”

“It works. And after that, no one wants to come back for more.” I offer the smug bastard a tight smile. Just for that sarcastic remark, I won’t bother to share how we’ve already recouped over half our losses.

“What did Salvatore tell you about this Victor character?” asks the old man.

“He claims not to have a relative of that name,” I reply. “Yet the explosion behind my casino came with a note warning me to stay away from the Bellavista family.”

“Why would an impostor care if you were going after Salvatore?” Mars asks.

My thoughts exactly.

“Because someone is trying to put our heads together.” The old man raises a finger. “You, Salvatore Bellavista, and I have a shared enemy. The only question is who.”

“You and I have nothing in common apart from our casinos,” I say.

“You have BV Holdings in common,” Ginevra adds.

We all turn to meet her gaze.

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