Page 205 of Stalking Ginevra

“God sent me a little blessing,” Valentino murmurs, his voice husky.

Carla leans into him, her eyes half-closed, drinking in the affection like it’s the life that animates her veins. “You mean that, Dad?”

His lips crash onto hers in a savage kiss that makes my stomach leap to the back of my throat. Every fine hair stands on end, every nerve ending screams that I’m in danger. I want to crawl out of my skin and escape. I gag, finally realizing there’s something worse than seeing Valentino Bossanova smooching with Mom.

The kiss continues, with Valentino sliding his bony thigh between her legs. A scream lodges in my windpipe, but they’re oblivious to my terror, oblivious to the grime and filth of the basement, oblivious to the world that exists outside their bubble of perverse affection.

When they both exchange throaty moans, I freeze, unable to look away, unable to stop the unfolding of this horror show. As Carla’s hand disappears into that red robe, several realizations hit me at once.

She’s just as twisted as her father and caught in an incestuous cycle of validation and victimization. She’s beyond my paltry help. And most importantly, she must have known Valentino didn’t persuade her to help the wife of the man who beat him bloody out of the goodness of his heart.

He finally breaks the kiss and turns back to me with a wide grin of missing teeth. “Why would I want you or that drunken hag you call a mother when I have my little girl?”

My lips part, but my brain can’t muster up a response.

Valentino scoops Carla into his arms, making her shriek with delight, and carries her out of the room like she’s his blushing bride.

Truth hits with brutal clarity: when Benito gets me back, I won’t just be the woman who betrayed him, but the wife who cost him a hundred million dollars.

He’ll make me repay him in a dozen humiliating ways for the rest of my miserable life.

I would rather die than entangle myself in the same cycle that’s devoured Carla. I’ve been there before, and I won’t let it happen again.

Since I can’t convince Carla to set me free, then I’ll have to save myself before the ransom drop.

NINETY-THREE

GINEVRA

I lean toward the door with my eyes closed, listening to the sound of the key turning in the lock. No matter how much I try, it’s impossible to scrub out the image of my kissing captors.

Through ragged breaths, I wait for their footsteps to groan up the stairs. I still don’t have a plan to escape, but I’ll die trying. Carla’s high-pitched squeal echoes down the stairwell and through the locked door, setting off waves of revulsion.

How could she? How could he? I can’t understand.

Turning away, I force back a swell of anger. All that effort I wasted, trying to convince Carla to leave her father, and they’re romantically involved. I was right the first time when I assumed ‘her old man’ was her significant other.

Stop this.

I need to focus. Need to find a way out of this hell. And dwelling on that unnatural association won’t magically unlock my cuffs.

My eyes snap open, and gaze lands on the breakfast tray still sitting on the box. Ignoring the garish display, I grab a smallbottle of water, twist open the cap and take a long, desperate swig.

Cold liquid rushes down my tongue, soothing and sharp, hydrating the parched membranes of my throat and jolting me back to the present. It dribbles down my lips and onto my chest, catching a draft that makes me shiver.

Once I’ve drained the bottle dry, I set it aside and reach for the napkin, ready to wipe the spill.

Something metallic clinks on the tray, making me freeze. I glance down at the napkin, my breath quickening as I notice something hidden beneath the smooth fabric. It’s a ring of keys.

For a millisecond, I still, and my mind goes blank.

What. The. Hell?

My heart lurches, slamming against my ribs, urging me to reach down and snatch the cold metal. The first key looks small enough for the cuffs on my legs, while the second is large and rusted and could fit a door.

Carla must have left them when she set down the tray, but was it on purpose or a mistake? Does it even matter when I have everything I need?

Gripping the smaller key so tight that the edges bite into my skin, I fit it into the lock of the ankle cuff and twist. It jams, the movement digging into my raw skin. After jiggling it back and forth, the cuff clicks open, releasing my foot.

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