Page 214 of Stalking Ginevra

The sound of a door opening snaps me back into the present. Heavy boots hit the ground, growing louder as he approaches. There’s a click of the trunk, a creak, then a burst of sunlight bright enough to sear my retinas. I squint against the glare and groan.

Rough hands grab my shoulders, yanking me out of the car. I hit the gravel with a thud, the sharp stones digging into my raw skin. I clench my teeth, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a scream.

Bossanova stands over me, dressed in a stained wife beater, his bruised chest heaving. Gray hair sticks to his flushed face, his eyes wide with desperation.

My breath hitches. Did Benito find a way to claw back the money? Last time I saw the crazy old buzzard, he was stuffing Carla’s severed head into a box. He said Benito would payanother hundred million when he saw what could happen to his precious wife.

He hauls me up by my hair, slamming my head against the bumper, making me see stars.

“How the fuck did Montesano find out?” Spit flies from his mouth, hitting my cheek. Bloodshot eyes burning with insanity, he jerks my head back and forth with a grip tight enough to rip the scalp off my skull. “How?!”

Wincing through another explosion of pain, I stutter, “Wh-what are you talking about?”

“Liar!” His foot smashes into my solar plexus, knocking the wind out of my lungs. I double over, wanting to curl into a ball, but his fingers tighten around my hair. “Tell me how Montesano found Gianni,” he snarls, his voice shaking with unrestrained fury. “Tell me!”

“I don’t—” Another kick cuts off my words, this time to my ribs. Sharp pain radiates through my side, and dark spots swim in my vision as I try to make sense of his accusations. What’s he saying? That Benito pieced together the link between Victor Bellavista and Valentino Bossanova?

He reaches into his pocket, extracts a phone, and shoves it into my face. “Look!”

The device is too close for me to focus, so I draw back, blinking over and over to clear my vision. Benito appears on screen, holding a gun to the head of a man dressed in a prison uniform. He looks so much like Valentino that he has to be Gianni.

My heart stutters, and every muscle in my chest tightens to the point of pain. That’s the man who murdered my birth mother.

“You have four hours to deliver Ginevra to my gates,” Benito says, sounding more like Bob Brisket than the man I married. “Or I’ll send your brother back to prison in pieces.”

My eyes widen. Benito must have broken into death row to hold Valentino’s older brother hostage.

All to save me.

When the video loops back to the beginning, Bossanova tightens his grip around my hair, trying to pull each follicle out by the root. “This is your fault,” he snarls, his voice cracking. “You must have left him a clue.”

As he continues an unhinged, accusation-filled rant, my mind conjures up a dozen replies. I was escaping a manipulative husband with the help of what I thought was a friend. If I’d known Carla was the daughter of a psychopath, I would have found another way to leave Benito. How the hell was I supposed to communicate with him while tied up and held hostage?

The tirade continues, but I force my thoughts to still. This diatribe tells me only one thing: Bellavista is unraveling. If I stay alert, I might even find an opening.

He slams his phone into his pocket and drags me like a rag doll across the gravel to the car’s back door.

“Get inside. We’re going to rescue my brother.”

After opening the door, he bundles me in the back seat and orders me to stay down. Even if I wanted to sit up and scream for help, no one would see me on this deserted road.

We pass large expanses of land, some filled with orchards, others with corn, and a few left for cattle. I coil on the back seat, readying myself for the first opportunity to escape.

After about thirty minutes, we stop at a large farmhouse. It’s a nondescript building of brown bricks with clouded windows. Strangely, the land around it looks tended.

Valentino exits the car and flings open the door. Before he can drag me out again, I’m already out and on my feet. He shoves me across the courtyard and up the farmhouse's stairs, his breath hitting my bare back in ragged gasps.

If my hands weren’t cuffed, I’d knock him back on his ass, but I bide my time, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Inside, the house feels like a forgotten relic from the ‘80s. Mirrors with gaudy gold frames reflect faded floral wallpaper. He bundles me through a living room, where a velvet couch sits with its plump cushions untouched. The air is thick with dust and the faint musk of aging fabric, giving the space an almost suffocating stillness.

We climb the stairs and reach a doorway leading to a woman’s bedroom. Valentino pushes me into the edge of a vanity cluttered with cosmetics. I hit my head and grimace through another burst of pain. Before I can recover, he’s already unlocked my cuffs.

“Get dressed, cover that shit on your face with makeup. We’re going to trade you for my brother.” He disappears through the door and turns its lock.

With a groan, I stumble to my feet, met with a wall of mirrors reflecting gaudy décor dripping with retro opulence. The bedspread is a swirl of pastel pinks and purples, with a golden chandelier hanging closer than the blade of a guillotine.

Did this belong to one of his dead wives? The thought turns my stomach, but at least it distracts me from my reflection. I look like I’ve spent a night battling a monster in a pit, when I’ve been battling through terror and grief.

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