Page 192 of Stalking Ginevra

“To tell him I needed some chips for a private game.”

“Stop crying and tell Mr. Montesano how to find Victor Bellavista!” Teresa screams.

Bianca wipes her eyes and hiccups. “Victor always emails me his latest number.”

I flick my head at Lorenzo, who walks to the corner of the room and picks up a laptop. He places it on a table, flips it open and slides it in front of Bianca.

“Find it,” he says. “Now.”

Trembling, she taps on the keyboard, bringing up a series of emails with attachments. She double-clicks the latest one, firing up a spreadsheet filled with strings of numbers.

“What the hell is that?” I ask.

She shivers. “It isn’t very sophisticated, but no one’s going to look too closely at petty cash requests.”

My lip curls. How many other documents are circulating the casino, communicating ways to drain us dry?

She reads out the number, which Vitale enters into his phone to send a request to the nerds at Mortis House. If we can trace the burner phone before Victor changes his number, then we have a shot at pulling him into our net.

Leaning over, I grip the back of Bianca’s chair. “Call him and say you’ve found a stash of genuine chips you want to sell.”

She flinches, swallowing hard. “What if he realizes it’s a setup?”

“He will if you keep sniveling. Play it cool, and maybe you’ll survive the night.”

She nods, and Lorenzo slides a phone across the table. Steeling her features into a hard mask, she dials, but the call goes straight to voicemail. Hesitating, she glances up at me with pleading eyes, so I give her a curt nod to continue.

“"Hey, Victor,” she says, her voice steady despite her shaking hands. “I’ve found something you might be interested in. These chips are genuine and still activated. Get back to me.”

She ends the call, placing the phone onto the table as if it might explode.

“What now?”

“Wait for him to respond, and help set up an ambush in exchange for your life,” I say.

The walk back to the penthouse feels longer than usual, weighed down by unfinished business. Silence stretches, pressing down on my shoulders. Victor might find Bianca’s proposition too good to be true and set up a counter-ambush the way he did with Larry Zambino.

I’ve never encountered anyone so slippery.

When the elevator doors slide open, I step into the penthouse, expecting to find Ginevra crashed out on the sofa. It’s empty, and the place looks untouched, save for the faint scent of hot chocolate. My chest tightens. I hoped she would wait up.

“Ginevra?” I call out, but there’s no answer.

I cross the living space, passing a spotless kitchen. The dining chairs are exactly where I left them, and across the room, the sofa cushions are still smooth and undisturbed. Everything’s too still, like the whole place is holding its breath.

She’s probably having an early night.

Continuing toward the bedroom, I force down a roiling sense of dread. Ginevra and I are in a good place. We’re married. In love. She wouldn’t leave the moment I turned my back.

Would she?

The thought coils in my gut like a python. Its thick tail of paranoia wraps around my neck, threatening to pulverize my rational thoughts. Ignoring it, I pause at the bedroom door, telling myself I’ll find her curled up under the covers.

My cock stirs at the prospect of Ginevra clad in my shirt, her auburn hair spilling across my pillow like a halo. Afterconnecting so deeply with her at the treehouse, she has to be there, waiting.

I turn the knob, push open the door, only to find an empty bed. On its surface is a letter, scrawled in her handwriting.

Cold dread spreads across my chest, inching toward my heart. Crossing the room, I pick it up and read:

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