Page 217 of Stalking Ginevra

“And?”

“That was a poor negotiation tactic.”

“What do I do?” he asks.

My brow pinches. Is he really asking me for advice? From the way those cold eyes bore into mine, the answer has to be yes.

“Demand a simultaneous release,” I reply with a sigh. “Your hostage in exchange for his.”

He gives me an eager nod then darts his gaze to the trucks blocking the exits. “And then what?”

“Are you really the genius who ran circles around Benito and everyone else?”

His throat bobs. “My brother helped.”

Translation: Gianni is the brains behind the operation. Valentino was just the front man.

“There’s only one way to get Benito off your back,” I say.

“What’s that?”

“Refund the hundred million?—”

“No.”

“Then you can take your chances.”

He pulls out a gun and points it at my head. “Or I can just kill you now.”

The threat falls flat, making me purse my lips. Ignoring the icy shiver snaking down my spine, I maintain eye contact, refusing to be intimidated by a maniac high on drugs.

“Killing me will only make things worse for Gianni,” I say. “I once saw Benito tear out a man’s heart for doing less.”

“Valentino,” an unfamiliar voice says through a bullhorn.

His face drops. “Gianni?”

“Val, it’s me,” the voice replies. “Let the girl go. Roman’s brother was good enough to send a chopper to the penitentiary this morning. We can be together, now. I’m free.”

My eyes narrow at the phrasing, but I shrug off my suspicions. Now isn’t the time for speculating.

Valentino winds down the window and yells, “Where are you, Gianni?”

A man steps out from behind the truck blocking the escape route. He’s what Valentino would have looked like without the hard living.

Vibrant, with salt-and-pepper hair swept behind a strong brow, and a trim beard accentuating classically handsome bone structure. He seems taller than his brother, and broader, with muscles bulging beneath his black-and-white prison uniform.

My breath catches, and strangely, so does Valentino’s.

“Gianni,” he whispers.

The brother raises his bullhorn. “Let the girl go, Val. I already negotiated our escape with the Montesano family.”

I sit straighter in my seat, my fingers hovering over the door handle.

“What do you think?” Valentino mutters. “Is he telling the truth?”

My jaw drops. Did that cocaine come from 1980 as well as the outfit? And why the hell is he asking me? Smoothing my features into a neutral mask, I nod.

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