Page 204 of Stalking Ginevra

If I wasn’t chained in a psychopath’s basement and still throbbing from a physical assault, I’d think we’d traveled back to 1974.

Instead, I gaze up at Carla, taking in her split lip, the bruise blooming on her cheek, the way her shoulders slump as if she’s carrying the weight of a thousand regrets. She lowers her lashes, her eyes darting everywhere but at me.

Anger rises hot in my chest, directed at Bossanova. But beneath it roils something colder—an all-encompassing dread. Dread that Carla is beyond reach. If she’d absorbed anything I told her last night, she’d be dressed to escape, not to serve.

“Thanks,” I murmur. “You didn’t have to make something so elaborate.”

She shrugs, her gaze fixed on a spot to my left. “It’s nothing. Dad likes to breakfast like a king, and there were leftovers.”

My eyes drift back to the absurd costume. From the angle where I’m sitting, I can’t just see her lacy stocking tops, but also the bruises spreading beneath the fishnets.

“What’s with the outfit?” I ask, trying to keep my tone neutral.

She shuffles on her feet, her cheeks flushing. “Dad appreciates a full service.”

My stomach drops. “What does that mean?”

Carla’s blush deepens, and she glances away, her shoulders curling inward. “He says I look pretty dressed up.”

Maybe it’s the confinement, or even the concussion, but did she just confess to wearing sexy outfits for her dad? Silence hangs for several shocked seconds as I try to muster up a reply.

How old is she? Twenty-five, twenty-six? She caught up with her father right after leaving foster care, when she turned eighteen. Maybe I’m jumping to the wrong conclusion, but something about this situation is off.

My gaze bounces to her wedding ring, and I force in a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. “Carla, fathers don’t ask their daughters to serve them breakfast in fishnets. This isn’t normal.”

Annoyance flickers across her features. “You don’t get it,” she snaps. “He’s my dad. I can’t walk away from him. He needs me.”

I squirm on the concrete, thinking of Martina, whom Dad had groomed to become his plaything. She didn’t provide full details, but the abuse started early and continued long after she’d graduated law school and become an adult.

“Look at the bruises. This isn’t a healthy relationship. It’s not love.”

Her eyes harden, and her nostrils flare. “And you’re the expert? Mr. Montesano threw you in a cell just like this on your wedding night. He locked you up and left you without clothes for days, yet you love him, so don’t pretend you’re any better.”

Her words are a punch to the throat. I reel back, my eyes widening. She’s right. Benito caught me in a cycle of terror and manipulation. Breaking his heart changed him for the worse. All I did was cling to the memory of the boy who once loved me with all his soul.

“At least my dad is honest about what he is,” she says, her voice taut with fury. “He doesn’t pretend to be perfect.”

Knowing that she’s right fills my gut with the chilling realization that Carla isn’t just trapped in this twisted form of abuse—she’s committed. An ache settles in my chest, and I press my free hand into my sternum. I’m not equipped to pull her out of this delusion. No words can break through this kind of brainwashing. She’s too far gone to help.

The door bursts open, and Valentino strides in, dressed only in a red silk robe. A flush spreads across his bruised face, and the eye not swollen shut glows with a manic light.

“Montesano agreed to pay up!” he bellows, his voice echoing across the basement walls. “A hundred mil. We’re rich!”

My stomach drops—not just at Benito pulling together a hundred million dollars so quickly, but because he’s willing to pay this much to get me back. Surely I can’t mean so much to the man behind Bob Brisket?

Valentino looks me up and down, his gaze lingering over every exposed patch of skin. “He must love you a lot to pay that kind of money,” he sneers. “What’s so special about that ginger minge?”

Skin crawling, I press back against the wall, every muscle tensing in anticipation for an attack. He steps closer, breathing hard and fast through his swollen lips, reaching out a pale hand, eager to claim what he’s just ransomed for a fortune.

“Dad?” Carla squeaks, her voice wavering with desperation.

Valentino’s head snaps to the side, making her flinch. My breath catches. Is she trying to save me?

He crosses the distance between them in two strides, wraps an arm around Carla and pulls her into his wiry frame. With a snarl, he leans down and pecks her on the lips. “You, my sweet angel, are the gift that keeps on giving.”

Carla’s face lights up, her cheeks flushing despite the bruises, and she gazes up at him like he’s the sun.

I shrink against the wall, my hackles rising, my insides twisting into painful knots. It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion. I don’t know if I should cringe or scream.

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