Page 195 of Stalking Ginevra

“He’ll kill you,” I mumble through the gag.

Ignoring my incoherent threat, he positions me in front of the camera by the shoulders, and then grabs the neckline of my shirt. I draw in a sharp breath, inhaling the mingled scents of leather and sweat.

Revulsion ripples through the lining of my stomach. Is this where he assaults me for the camera?

His excited breath rasps through the mask as his gloved fingers slide across my skin. He wrenches my blouse apart, ripping it down the middle with a force that sends buttons scattering across the floor.

The blouse falls open, exposing my bra and bare belly to the cold, damp air. My nipples shrivel, my skin erupting with goosebumps.

“What are you doing? Stop!” I yell through the gag, my voice choked with anguish.

My panic feeds his sadistic pleasure, making his eyes gleam through the slits of the leather mask. “Don’t take this personally. You’re actually a useful daughter. I would have loved to have you instead of the little bitch who brings me hotel leftovers.”

He tears at my room service apron with vicious jerks, ripping the fabric with a sound like the crack of a whip. Once thegarment pools at my feet, he hooks his fingers under the band of my bra, yanking it up and over my shoulders.

Cold air stings my breasts. I gasp, twisting away from him, trying to shield myself, but he turns my body back toward the camera.

“Stay in the frame,” he hisses, his hot breath coming in ragged huffs behind the mask.

He crouches, his fingers grazing the waistband of my skirt. Then, with a swift yank, he rips it away, leaving me naked and trembling under the blinding glare of the ring light.

“No panties?” he asks, his voice light with amusement.

Tears prick my eyes, not of terror or even shame. I’ve dealt with men more dangerous than an aging asshole who knocks women out with hammers. I’m furious. Furious at Benito for being a psychopath I was forced to escape. Furious at Victor-Valentino for using me as a pawn. Furious at myself for falling into their traps.

Stepping back, he glances at the smartphone, making sure it’s capturing every inch of my humiliation. Then he clips a device to his mask’s mouth opening.

“Benito Montesano,” he snarls, his voice garbled. “You have forty-eight hours to pay a hundred million dollars, or your pretty little wife dies on camera.”

I would say he’s bluffing, but Valentino Bossanova has murdered women for less.

He walks back into frame, looming behind my bound form like a wraith. His gloved hands roam the front of my body, making me flinch and squirm.

“Scream for the camera,” he growls in that artificial voice, his fingers closing in around my nipples.

The shock of the pinch forces out a strangled shout that makes him chuckle.

As his gloved hands release their grip to slide down my belly and cup my crotch, every instinct screams at me to fight, to run, to resist. I jerk away, but the chains pull me back.

“Forty-eight hours, or I’ll start slicing off body parts, starting with her clit.”

“Dad,” Carla moans.

“Damn it!” Releasing me, he turns to Carla, delivering a kick in her ribs, making her jerk and sob on the floor. “Now, I’ll have to edit that fucking shot.”

“Stop,” I yell, but the old man continues attacking his screaming daughter until she falls silent.

Heart pounding, and I stare down at the floor, where Carla lies unconscious. My blood heats, every hackle in my body bristling as I strain against my bindings. I would be shocked if this didn’t remind me so much of Dad beating me to submission when I refused to break my engagement.

Now, all I want to do is tear this man into shreds.

He hobbles to the tripod, seeming exhausted from this bout of domestic violence, and turns off the recording. When he unzips his mask from around the back and pulls it off to reveal that mottled face, I stiffen.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he snarls, his swollen lip curling with disgust. “I’d rather fuck Benito than get within a foot of your ginger minge.”

My mind flashes to Samson, to Bob Brisket, to Julian, and all the men who have hurt or degraded my sexuality. They’re all the same—using the easiest common denominator to break my spirit.

I shake my head, feeling his rejection like a small mercy. From this moment, nothing a man says or does will even knock my self esteem. All they have over me is more money or physical strength. Take that away, and they’re sniveling assholes, vying for my attention.

---