Page 203 of Stalking Ginevra

All the air escapes my lungs. I blink, trying to comprehend his offer.

“Why?” I croak.

Cesare’s features soften. “Because you love her,” he says with a shrug. “And you’re important to me.”

Rosalind wraps her arms around his chest and plants a kiss on his cheek. Everything I said about the assassin’s Stockholm syndrome vanishes. Her love has brought out his compassion.

All eyes shift to Roman, who sits unmoved with his fingers steepled. My big brother controls nearly a billion dollars in assets, including a loan company, and at least a hundred million in cash.

Every second he hesitates feels like a noose tightening around my neck. Victor Bellavista already bruised Ginevra’s face, stripped her naked. He could be violating her in ways I can’t bear to imagine. My chest tightens, with ropes of anticipation pulling every nerve as I wait for his decision.

“Alright,” Roman growls.

The noose snaps, and the tension around my throat eases with a breath of relief. Emotion clogs my lungs, tears prick my eyes, and all I can do is nod.

I look across the room at my family, my heart swelling. Roman matches my nod, Cesare grins, and Rosalind beams up at me with a warm smile. Next to her is Gil, who gives me a thumbs up.

At the far end of the table, Reaper offers a tight smile. It’s bitter sweet, as he’s probably thinking about the five years his sister, Isabella, spent as Tommy Galliano’s hostage.

Sofia wipes her tears with a handkerchief, her eyes shining with relief. Next to her, Seraphine’s blue eyes are hopeful and bright. Leroi brings her hand to his lips and offers me a tight nod, making me wonder if it was Seraphine who bore the brunt of Samson’s sadism.

“Thank you.” My voice cracks, the words barely enough to convey the depth of my gratitude. “I’ll repay you all. Every cent.”

Roman glances away and grunts. I can’t tell if it’s out of regret or frustration that winning back his wife won’t be so easy.

Silence falls across the room for several heartbeats. When this is over, I’ll fall to my knees and beg Ginevra for forgiveness. This mess is completely my fault, and I’ll spend a lifetime making amends.

Reaper clears his throat. “Now that we have the ransom, I think we can discuss our plans to track Bellavista.”

The room erupts into a flurry of chatter, with Roman and Gil coordinating the Montesano men, and Reaper the Mortis House boys. Cesare and Rosalind are a team, as are Leroi and Seraphine, who want to participate, even though Leroi is still injured.

I return to my seat, watching my family rally around to save Ginevra despite their reservations. Appreciation floods my heart, threatening to overflow. They’ve given me the lifeline I needed. Now it’s up to me to make sure it’s enough.

With every ounce of determination, I make a silent vow. I will bring Ginevra back and we will roast that bastard on a spit.

NINETY-TWO

GINEVRA

I blink awake, groggy and disoriented, my head pounding to the beat of my sluggish pulse. Everything aches from spending the night on the concrete floor in torn scraps of clothing.

Shivering, I pull the tattered fabric closer, but the chill still seeps into my bones. No matter how much I knotted together the remnants of what Valentino destroyed, I still can’t stop feeling vulnerable and exposed.

My gaze roams around the basement’s decaying walls toward the locked door. I inhale, feeling clusters of spores invade my lungs. The room presses in, dark and oppressive, squeezing out the terrifying thought that I might never leave this place alive.

Mom will be distraught and drown her grief in vodka. No one will be there to pull her out.

Benito will… Shit. I don’t know.

He’s just like Martina. Friendly one minute but hiding years of bottled up contempt. I can’t tell if he’ll rejoice at my downfall or rage that someone else got to destroy me first.

The door opens with a creak, and my head snaps up. Carla steps in with a silver tray, dressed in a tight black bodice, frilly apron, fishnet stockings, and heels.

My jaw drops. I have to blink to make sure I’m not hallucinating her dressed like a sexy maid, but she walks toward an upturned box. After moving it closer to me with her stilettoed foot, she sets down her tray.

“Room service,” she says, her voice strained.

My gaze drops down to an elaborate breakfast of poached eggs drowning in hollandaise, grapefruit halves dusted with sugar, and a parfait glass filled with bright pink Jell-O topped with whipped cream and a cherry.

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