Page 193 of Stalking Ginevra

I could never love a man like Bob Brisket.

My grip tightens, crumpling the paper. Before I can fully process her words, my gaze lands on the groin protector on the bedside table, placed atop a stack of catgirl manga. Next to it, a tablet plays one of the strip club videos on repeat.

It’s the one where I removed my helmet and exposed my face to the camera.

She knows. Knows I’m Bob Brisket. Knows I set her up. Knows I’m the Machiavellian bastard who engineered her fall from grace.

Dropping to my knees, I squeeze my eyes shut, collapsing in on myself with a choked gasp. My chest splinters with the weight of my betrayal, letting in a tight fist of guilt that squeezes my heart.

I’ve lost her forever. There’s no coming back from such an elaborate stunt.

She’ll be back in Victoria Gardens, crying on her mother’s shoulder, telling her she was right never to get involved with a Montesano. And this time, I won't disagree.

I could have sent a bunch of flowers after her father had died, offering my condolences and support. Wormed my way back into her heart with kindness and charm. But I was so determined not to be the simp she’d left in the dust that I plotted her downfall.

Now, it’s all backfired.

Winning her back will take more than groveling. It’ll take something monumental.

I’m about to call Reaper, but my phone rings. I pull it out of my pocket, finding an incoming call from the casino.

“What is it?” I bark.

“Montesano,” a voice says through a changer. “You have disrupted my operations for the last time.”

I go still, the edges of my focus sharpening. “Victor Bellavista.”

He laughs, a mocking, mechanical sound that grates on my nerves. “Correct. And you’re about to compensate me for your meddling with a hundred million dollars.”

A simmering heat builds under my collar, and I tighten the phone. “Or I could just kill your associates and continue draining your accounts until you’re left with nothing.”

“Check your email.”

The line goes dead, leaving the threat hanging in the air like the blade of a guillotine.

“What the hell is he planning?” I open my email app.

An unread message sits at the top of the inbox, its subject line reading,Evidence.

As if a bastard like that will trick me into opening a potential virus. I would laugh at his audacity, but I’m still reeling from losing my wife. After forwarding the email to my team at Mortis House, I fire up the surveillance app. It was careless of me to leave Ginevra in a penthouse containing evidence of my misdeeds.

Making a mental note to ask Cesare for advice on initiating Stockholm Syndrome, I scrub through the security videos. Carla from room service enters the penthouse, pushing a trolley laden with silver cloches, and a bottle of champagne chilling in an ice bucket.

When the two women exchange tight hugs, my eyes narrow, and I turn up the volume. Carla encourages Ginevra to eat agrilled cheese sandwich before handing her a complete change of clothes.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I snarl at the screen.

My phone rings, interrupting my viewing. It’s Reaper.

“Did you open the email?” he asks.

“The one I forwarded for a virus check?” I growl, my gaze still fixed on the screen where Ginevra settles inside the room service trolley. “No.”

“Open it,” Reaper says. “It’s clean.”

“What’s inside?”

“Benito—”

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