Page 172 of Stalking Ginevra

“I didn’t.” Antonio gasps, his breath shallow. “The person I dealt with was a woman.”

My jaw tenses. We've been going round and round in circles with this family. The security built into each chip's production means a low-level employee couldn't steal a box without detection. Only someone with Salvatore or Antonio's access to the factory could produce this many counterfeits.

“Who?” I snap.

Antonio doubles over and clutches his chest. “I never got her real name. She was careful. Always spoke on the phone. Always paid in cash.”

I crouch down in front of him and grab his chin. “Your whole family’s lives depends on what you tell me next.”

Tears well up in his eyes, and he squeezes them shut, letting them roll freely down his round face. “I swear, I don’t know anything else! I already told Dad and your man at the hospital, but nobody will listen. It was a woman. She sounded older, or maybe she was disguising her voice.”

He reels forward, collapsing onto the grass, and convulses. Salvatore rushes to his side, screaming his son’s name, cradling him like a broken doll.

I step back, my lips tightening with disapproval. Why would Antonio go so far to protect this woman? My gaze darts to Salvatore’s young bedmates, finding no sign of an age appropriate wife. What if she’s his birth mother? It would make a sick sort of sense.

Behind me, Reaper steps closer. “What now?”

I glance around at the compound at the terrified faces. “We question everyone here. Check their bank accounts for unusual transactions. At least another one has to be connected to the woman who supplied the chips to Victor.”

He nods. “And if we come up with nothing?”

“I’ll wait for Ginevra to unravel Bellavista’s offshore assets. Once they’re identified, Salvatore will give me control. If that doesn’t cover the compound interest from the amount we lost, I’ll go after BV Holdings.”

Reaper nods.

The old man’s wails penetrate my helmet, making my ears ring. I force back a shudder. “Call an ambulance for Antonio. And while he’s recovering, have one of our men go through hisphone records. If there’s any trace of his woman, I want her brought to me in handcuffs.”

SEVENTY-NINE

GINEVRA

When Carla knocks on the office door to take me to lunch, I wonder if Benito assigned her to be my guard. Vitale and Lorenzo join us on the walk through the casino’s back hallways until we reach a private dining room near the kitchens.

The chef brings us a vibrant panzanella, brimming with onions, tomatoes, cucumbers, basil, and toasted ciabatta soaked in olive oil and vinegar. When I find capers and anchovies in my salad, my breath catches. This is so typical of the old Benito—always remembering my favorites, always paying close attention to detail to make me happy.

I glance across the table, finding Carla staring at the salad with a frown. “Everything okay?”

“It’s my dad.” She shakes her head and sighs. “He won’t eat, won’t get dressed, won’t leave the house. He’s depressed.”

“Has he seen a doctor?”

Her mouth twists. “I’ve set up appointments, but he’s too stubborn to go.”

“Keep working on him.” I place a hand on her arm. “Men are like boulders. You need to wear them down, little by little. One day, you’ll break through, and they’ll listen.”

She gives me an absent nod. “Maybe that only applies to the younger ones.

My thoughts drift to Dad and how he forced me to end my engagement to Benito with his fists, and I shudder. For five years, he did nothing—said nothing—while I suffered under Samson’s abuse. He could have intervened, but his association with the Capello family was too lucrative.

It still stings, the way Dad treated me like an asset—something to be bartered and leveraged. Carla has a point. Just because Benito has stopped treating me like a caged bird, it doesn’t mean all men are malleable.

Shoulders sagging, I drop my gaze to the salad. “You could be right.”

We continue eating in silence, my mind still circling back to thoughts of Dad’s betrayal. Later, the chef returns with a vanilla panna cotta topped with a raspberry coulis. He hovers by the door, clasping his hand, his eyes fixed on me like he’s waiting for the final judgment.

I take a bite, and hum. The panna cotta melts on my tongue, a perfect contrast of silky sweetness against the tart sharpness of the raspberries.

“It’s wonderful,” I say with a smile.

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