Page 202 of Stalking Ginevra

A knock sounds on the door, and Roman barks at them to enter. It’s Reaper, looking rumpled from last night. Four of our boys were injured in the explosion and are recovering from burst eardrums, cracked ribs, and minor burns.

“Professor Cortese,” Roman gestures at the place at the farthest end of the table. “Take a seat.”

Reaper glances at the empty place beside my older brother but doesn’t comment. After serving as my best man, he knows that Roman poached our officiant for a sneak wedding, which backfired.

My big brother’s posture at the head of the table is stiff and motionless, so much like Dad that I tense in my seat. His food remains untouched, his eyes locked on me with that familiar calculating stare. He isn’t just watching—he’s sizing me up, and it sets my nerves on edge.

“You’re sure Ginevra’s a victim in all this?” Roman asks.

The words land like a slap. My blood freezes, then boils with a fury that tightens my throat. I shoot out of my seat, staring down at the skeptical bastard.

“What the fuck does that mean?” I snarl.

Roman leans back in his seat, his gaze hardening as if he’s ready for a fight. My brother might be jacked from his time on death row, but I’ll kick the shit out of him to defend Ginevra’s honor.

“I’ve had nearly five years to think about what went wrong,” he says. “We all know Capello didn’t just waltz in and steal our fortune. He was working behind the scenes, setting up each piece before he made a move against Dad. Every step was calculated.”

My pulse hammers in my ears. I clench my jaw, waiting for him to get to the fucking point.

“The first sign of trouble was Ginevra breaking your engagement,” he says. “She pulled away before everything went to hell. That means she knew something was brewing but didn’t say a word.”

Nostrils flaring, I glance at Cesare, who meets my gaze with a steady nod. Even he agrees with Roman. Maybe my little brother was harboring doubts all along. I grit my teeth, swallowing back the urge to yell that I’m not stupid.

“Don’t you think I came to the same conclusion,” I grit out. “Joseph Di Marco beat Ginevra into submission and threatened her mother. She didn’t have a choice.”

Roman and Cesare exchange a look, their silence screaming bullshit. The distrust in the air is so suffocating, I want to smash open a window.

“If she was so scared, why didn’t she come here?” Cesare leans back, mirroring Roman, and crosses his arms. “She practically lived with us. She would have been safe.”

“Didn’t you hear the part where I said he threatened her mother? Besides, she was young.”

Cesare scoffs. “She was twenty-four. I’m twenty-four. You think I’d stab someone I loved in the back?”

His accusation is a kick to the balls, but I don’t flinch. “It’s easy to talk shit when you’re not a defenseless woman. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t do anything to save Mom.”

Stiffening, his mouth snaps shut. The room goes still, the tension heavy and electric. Rosalind squeezes his hand, and leans her head on his shoulder as if he’s already told her about his special connection with our mother.

Leroi sighs. “We’re wasting time bickering. Whatever happened in the past doesn’t change the fact that some asshole is holding a Montesano woman hostage.”

“Finally, a sensible thought,” Sofia says, her voice sharp. Our housekeeper leans forward, turning her gaze to me. “How much money do you have?”

“Forty million in cash,” I rasp. “It’s all I can pull together at short notice. I need sixty more.”

Silence falls over the dining table. I don’t expect anyone to volunteer, since the only person more desperate to save Ginevra is Sofia. I don’t expect anything but judgment.

“I have ten,” Leroi says from his end of the table.

My head whips to the side.

He shrugs. “Any woman who spent time with Samson Capello doesn’t deserve to become another hostage.”

I glance at Seraphine, who’s sitting next to him, her expression tight. Something unspoken flickers over her blue eyes that makes me suppress a shudder. One day, I might pluck up the courage to ask her what happened in Capello’s basement, but this morning, all I feel is gratitude.

“Thank you,” I say, my words choked.

Cesare exhales a dramatic sigh. I turn to find his head bowed, his fingers tapping against the table in a restless rhythm. When he finally looks up, his eyes meet mine with resignation.

“I’ve got twenty,” he mutters.

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