Page 194 of Stalking Ginevra

“Fine.” I pull the phone away from my ear and tap Victor’s email. There’s no content, just a video attachment. I press play, and freeze.

Ginevra lies unconscious on the floor of a dark room. She’s wearing the room service uniform, with blood pouring down her temple.

I stare at the screen, my veins pulsing with murderous fury. Carla delivered Ginevra into the clutches of my enemy. How the hell did I not know she was working with that bastard?

Victor Bellavista can corrupt my employees, steal from my casino, and bomb my hotel, but taking my wife crosses a line he and anyone connected to him will regret.

That bastard has gone too far, and I will tear down the world and reduce it to ashes to get back my wife.

EIGHTY-EIGHT

GINEVRA

Pain splinters through my skull, dragging me from darkness. Blinking, I force the world into focus, trying to make sense of my surroundings.

Something thick and rubbery lodges in my throat, making it difficult to breathe. I’m lying on my side in a concrete basement with walls stained by water streaks and mold.

My wrists are encased in cuffs fastened so tightly that the metal bites into my skin, and a chain connecting them to the ceiling bolt forces my arms into an awkward stretch. Bindings also encircle my ankles, their cold steel pinching my bones.

Groaning, I roll onto my back, taking in my new prison. Carla lies on my other side, her body limp against the stained concrete. Blood mats her temple, but her chest isn’t rising and falling with breath.

My stomach tightens. She’s looking more like a fellow victim than an accomplice. I shuffle closer, wincing through the cuffs digging into my skin, and nudge her with my shoulder.

“Carla,” I mumble through the gag. “Wake up.”

She doesn’t stir.

Panic pulses through my gut, cold and sharp, and I scan the room for inspiration. Rusted tools hang on the wall beside a pile of splintered crates, and wires snake along the ceiling. There are no windows, just a bare lightbulb that casts shadows on the grimy walls.

How the hell am I going to save us both?

Before I can even think about whether Benito can pay a hundred-million-dollar ransom, the door opens with a groan that sets my teeth on edge.

Stiffening, I peek through my lashes, pretending I’m still unconscious.

A tall figure strides in, clad head to toe in black leather from his head mask to his clunky boots. It’s like something out ofPulp Fiction, only infinitely more sinister because I’m not watching from the comfort of a movie theater.

He glances down at me through a pair of eye slits that match the zipper over his mouth, and I hold my breath.

Is this an accomplice or Valentino Bossanova himself? No, not Valentino… Victor Bellavista.

Under his arm is a ring light on a tripod, which he sets on the floor with a clunk. He disappears through the door, returning within seconds, holding a smartphone, which he sets up on his apparatus.

Shit. Since when did this old man learn the intricacies of social media? How old is he, sixty? It’s hard to tell when he’s always covered in fake tan or bruises.

His movements are rough, impatient, as though this is the first time he’s recorded something without help. He fiddles with the settings, grumbling under his breath, until the red light blinks to life.

With a flip of a switch, the basement floods with light, and he swaggers across the room.

“Showtime, Mrs. Montesano.”

He grabs the chain attached to my wrist cuffs and yanks it taut, hoisting me up like a pulley. Pain shoots through my forearms, electric and sharp, as I’m hauled up to sitting. I swing my feet, trying to kick him off balance, but he steps out of range.

“You’ll have to do better than that, Ginny,” he sneers.

The bastard continues pulling me to my feet with a force that sends a searing jolt through my shoulders. I stagger to my knees, not wanting to dislocate anything, and stand.

“Here’s how it’s going to work,” he says. “You stand there like a good girl, while I prove to your husband that I mean business.”

---