Page 215 of Stalking Ginevra

A heavy fist bangs on the door. “If you’re not dressed in the next ten minutes, I’ll drown you in the toilet.”

It sounds like a bluff, but he’s not above holding my face in a dirty pan out of a sense of twisted revenge. With a groan, I get up and walk to a wardrobe filled with garish outfits, adorned with sequins, shoulder pads, and side-splits. I sift through them, trying to find something in my size.

As I pick out a safari suit, still encased in dry-cleaning plastic, a heavy object falls free, landing on the floor with a muffled thud. I glance down, finding a long item encased in leather.

A knife.

My breath catches. This is my chance.

I’ll wait for the moment when he least expects it. When his guard is down.

And then I’ll strike.

NINETY-EIGHT

GINEVRA

After the world’s most refreshing cold shower, my mind is cooler, calmer, clearer. Stabbing is too good a death for a depraved creature like Valentino Bossanova.

He’s responsible for the suffering and demise of more women than I can count. That old bastard deserves agony, and I know exactly how to deliver it.

I step out of the avocado-colored bathroom a new woman, bolstered by the shoulder pads on my safari jumpsuit and the thin covering of makeup over my bruises.

They used to call this power dressing, and I understand why: it feels like I’m channeling the strength of every 1980’s vixen. Even my hair is more voluminous.

And with the knife in my pocket, I no longer feel like such a victim.

A heavy fist pounds again on the bedroom door. “Time’s up,” he snaps. “We’re leaving.”

I walk across the room, turn the handle, and step out, nearly bumping into Bossanova. With a new dark rinse covering hisgray hair and a thick layer of fake tan over his bruises, he looks more like the killer Casanova I’ve grown to despise.

“You clean up well.” He flashes his teeth, revealing a mouth full of dentures. His gaze travels down my jumpsuit, but he’s too busy staring at my cleavage to notice the knife-shaped bulge in my pocket. “Are you planning on giving me any trouble on the ride back?”

“No,” I rasp. “Just glad to be going home.”

He snorts. “Follow me. Try anything stupid and you’ll lose a kidney.”

That’s a bluff, but I’m not about to take any chances. I remember how he stormed the office years ago, crying tears of blood when his brother was sentenced to death. Dad told him there was nothing he could do this time because the evidence had been so damning, but Valentino swore revenge.

Maybe this is why he’s treating me so badly. Because he thinks Dad could have done more to save his murderous brother from the electric chair. Or maybe it’s because I looked down on him when he was pretending to be Mom’s fiancé. Either way, I hope his desire to be reunited with Gianni outweighs his grudge.

I follow him down the staircase, back into the glitzy living room, and out through another exit where a black Bentley awaits beneath covered parking. My heart pounds, my hands curl into fists, and every instinct screams at me to fight, flee, or find a way to take him out. I clench my teeth, forcing myself to move forward, and slide into the back passenger seat.

The car’s interior is as luxurious as it is suffocating, filled with the mingled scents of leather and expensive cologne. Nose wrinkling, I secure my seatbelt and try to stay small.

Bossanova casts me a filthy glance as he enters. “I’m not your fucking chauffeur. Sit in the front.”

Grinding my teeth and unbuckling, I clamber over the console and deposit myself into the seat beside my enemy.

With a satisfied grunt, he starts the engine, making the Bentley roar to life. He pulls out from the car port and continues down a long driveway.

“I suppose you want to know why I have so many hideouts,” he says.

“Not really,” I mutter.

“My brother and I have specific tastes in women,” he replies as if I’m interested. “We only dabble with the most beautiful, stylish, and wealthy bitches.”

Is that why you fucked your own daughter?

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