Page 20 of Stalking Ginevra

Movement downstairs makes my heart jump into my throat. I slide out of bed and rush to the door, pressing my ear to its surface. At the sound of a high-pitched, feminine giggle, every knot of tension in my belly melts, and I step out into the hallway.

Mom is staggering up the stairs in a red dress with its straps falling down her arms, exposing more than the appropriate amount of cleavage. Bossanova follows behind her with his hands on her hips, wearing a tuxedo and an overly bright smile.

“Have you been drinking again?” I hiss.

She stares up at me through bleary eyes, blinking as though clearing spots from her vision. Her gray eyes are bloodshot, with pupils so wide they may as well be bottomless pits.

“Ginny,” she slurs. “We’re celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?” My gaze bounces to Bossanova.

The leathery-skinned asshole smiles so widely I can see his gold molars. “Show her, baby.”

Mom raises her hand, revealing the largest, most ostentatious diamond engagement ring. It’s twice the size of the stone Benito gave me, which was ten carats.

When it slips off her finger and bounces on the faux-marble stair, my eyes narrow.

“Careful, babe.” Bossanova releases her hips to pick up the fallen ring. He slips it back on her fingers and plants a kiss on her lips. “We’ll get it resized tomorrow.”

“Which dead wife did it belong to?” I snap.

He flinches, his crocodile grin morphing into a grimace. “That’s a dangerous assumption to make, Ginny.”

“Ginevra.”

As quickly as the grimace appeared, it melts back into a fake smile that freezes halfway to his eyes. “Come on, baby. Let’s get you to bed.”

Mom staggers up the stairs, wobbling from side to side, with him holding her steady. All the while, his hateful eyes try to penetrate my defenses.

“Thanks for bringing Mom home, Mr. Bossanova. I’ll take care of her from now,” I say, facing down the back-stabbing coward, daring him to object.

“But the fun has only just begun,” he croons.

“My mother is too drunk to consent to sex,” I grind out through clenched teeth.

“Ginny!” Mom says, sounding scandalized. She turns to her future murderer, her cheeks flushing. “I’m sorry, Valentino, darling. We taught her better than to be so crass.”

Bossanova flashes his teeth again. “It’s alright, baby. She’s protective of her mama. I’ll see myself out.”

Mom murmurs something about wanting him to stay, but the glare I shoot is fierce enough to make Bossanova plant another kiss on her cheek and retreat downstairs.

I round the bannister, meeting Mom halfway, and help her to the landing. She blows sloppy kisses at Bossanova before he opens the front door with a jaunty salute and exits.

The moment the door clicks shut, she collapses on the top and sighs. “I thought he’d never leave.”

Brow pinching, I sit beside her and ask, “Mom?”

She shakes her head from side to side, her curls bouncing. Mom’s hair is almost the same shade of auburn as mine, although the henna rinse she uses to cover the gray makes it darker. She rubs her temples as if chasing away the last traces of alcohol.

“Don’t interfere with Valentino, darling, he’s a dangerous man,” she says.

I splutter. “Of course, he’s dangerous. Do you know what happened to all his wives?”

She reaches into her purse, extracts a silver cigarette holder, and flips it open. Inside are a lighter and three tightly rolled joints. My jaw drops. Since when did she smoke?

“Femicide,” she finally answers.

“If you know Bossanova is a murderer, what are you doing with him?”

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