Page 178 of Stalking Ginevra

“That son of a bitch should never have put you in that position,” Benito growls, his breath quickening like he’s barely holding back a storm.

“It was the sickest, most twisted thing I’d seen,” I rasp, each word scraping against my throat, leaving it raw. “The men crowded around Samson, yelling at him to stop. No one touched him because his dad was the boss. There was blood everywhere. It was carnage.”

The scene plays in my head like it’s happening again: the sharp scent of sweat and blood, the crowd’s jeers, and Samson’s sharp grin as he wiped his knuckles. My stomach churns, making me want to gag.

“Did he hurt you any further?”

I shake my head. “Gregor shoved some clothes in my face and told me to get dressed. I took an Uber home and ignored Samson’s calls until he turned up at the house a week later.”

“Did you tell anyone?”

“Mom was at one of her clinics again, and Dad only registered the part about Samson attacking Vito for touching me.” Fresh rage makes my voice shake, and I can barely form the words. “In his mind, he spun what I said into some chivalrous tale where Samson protected me from a groper.”

“What a bastard,” Benito grits out through his teeth, his body tightening like he’s trying to force himself to stay calm. “If he wasn’t already dead, I would kill him for you. If I had known…” His voice breaks, the words faltering as he glances down at me,his eyes burning with helplessness. “I should have known. I can’t believe I didn’t see what you were suffering. I would have done something—anything—to protect you.”

“Thanks,” I reply, my throat thick with tears. “It was strange. Samson didn’t like men leering at his property, yet he still put me on display. After that night, his men acted like I was the most uninteresting thing in the world.”

“He did it again?” Benito asks.

I nod. “He didn’t allow me clothes when I was in his presence, but after what happened to Vito Rinaldi, no-one dared pay me much attention.”

“I’m so sorry,” he says, hugging me tighter.

My eyes flutter closed. “It wasn’t every day,” I say with a sigh. “Samson let me live at home, go to work, have a life separate from him. He’d forget about me until there was a formal event where I had to be on his arm. The humiliation rituals usually followed.”

“Shit.”

“After his entire family died, he lost his mind. At first, he hid out at our house. He was too grief stricken to think of pulling any of his bullshit but everything changed when he regrouped.”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“He rented a house further down Alderney Hill and tried to gather a small army. With enough men, he planned to bypass your security and get his revenge. He dragged me along to serve as his punching bag.”

“He hurt you?”

“Emotionalpunching bag,” I mutter. “By then, I’d stopped resisting. What was the point of fighting someone much stronger when I’d get hurt and have to do what he wanted anyway?”

Benito rubs comforting circles on my back. His lips brush my temple, but his body remains taut with tension. “What happened?”

“By then, he’d learned Japanese bondage. While he was waiting for the right moment to attack your house, he was tying me in knots, trying to prove himself a kink master.”

“What an asshole,” he mutters.

Shifting, I roll my shoulders, trying to shrug off the memory of ropes digging into my skin. “He was always compensating.”

“For what?”

“I heard something happened to his penis shortly after we got engaged. That’s why he only raped me once.”

Benito’s entire body stiffens again, and his hand tightens on my back. For a moment, I think he might snap. “Ginevra, I’m sorry?—”

“It was more unpleasant than painful,” I say. “He was the size of a jumbo tampon. All that puffing and thrusting then a disgusting spurt.”

“He shouldn’t have touched you in the first place,” Benito whispers, his hand trembling where it rests against my back. “I should have known something was wrong. I should have been there.”

“At least that was in private. The public humiliation was the worst.” Closing my eyes, I rest my face on Benito’s chest. Memories press down from all directions, bitter and sharp. The words catch in my throat, each one clawing its way out. “I don’t know how I endured it for so long… Maybe I thought it would hurt less, but it didn’t.”

Benito’s fingers comb through my hair, each stroke a balm against the tension gripping my spine. I return to the present, bringing back all that remembered pain.

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