Page 219 of Stalking Ginevra

Gunshots tear overhead, cutting through the echo of my pulse. Reaper’s lips move, but I hear nothing. The sound has become distant, a dull thudding in my ears, drowned out by the rapid, weakening beat of my heart.

We were stationed in the rusty truck, using it as a hiding spot for when Valentino arrived with Ginevra. The plan was to capture him before putting a bullet through his brother’s skull.

Hours after extracting Gianni Bossanova from Alderney State penitentiary, Roman’s pet prison officer called. There was a sweep of his room, and inside she found documents linking Gianni to a number of scams executed at our casino.

Gianni explained that he’d only stolen from our casino after it had fallen into Capello’s hands, but the evidence Officer McMurphy handed us said otherwise.

So our plan was to play along with the Bossanova brothers until Ginevra was safe. Then they would pay for their crimes in blood.

But then Ginevra stabbed Gianni, unleashing chaos.

I moved without thinking, already knowing where Valentino’s gun would strike. The bullet missed my kevlar vest and lodged in the base of my throat, but I would do it again in a heartbeat.

“Benito?” Ginevra’s voice cuts through the haze, bringing me back to the present.

I try to rise, but my limbs are heavy, my body sinking deeper into the ground. Blinking the world back to focus, I meet her beautiful gray eyes. She’s wearing thick makeup to cover her bruises, and her auburn hair is styled into a strange bouffant, but she’s still the most beautiful woman in the world.

“Why?” she cries.

“Because I’ll go to any length to keep you safe,” I say, my throat burning, my eyelids heavy. “Even if it means my death.”

She grabs the lapels of my shirt. “Don’t you fucking dare,” she growls. “You’re going to stay awake. You’re going to live.”

“I’ve always loved you, Ginevra.” Each word scrapes against the raw pain. “From the very start.”

Her tears splatter on my face, warming my heart. If life were a fairytale, her love would be enough to bring me back. But Ginevra despises Bob Brisket, and therefore despises me. In the time she’s spent with Bossanova, he’ll have already told her I was behind the loan sharks, the law firm, and that scheme to endanger her mother.

I won’t fool myself into believing those tears are out of love or longing or loss. They’re pure, unadulterated rage.

Cold sets in my bones, spreading from my neck down into my chest. My heart sinks. This is it. I’m about to die and I didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye.

Just as the edges of my vision go black, the crowd parts, and Cesare shoves his way to my side. Relief sweeps over my senses, and I exhale a rattling breath. My little brother is the patron saint of reviving torture victims from the brink of death. Maybe I’ll survive this long enough to tell Ginevra I’m sorry.

When I regain consciousness, it’s to the sound of beeping hospital monitors and not to the snap, crackle, and pop of hellfire. I inhale, filling my nostrils with the sterile scent of antiseptics, mingled with the sweet scent of honeysuckle.

The air reaching my throat is cold and sharp, each breath aggravating the dull ache radiating from the base of my neck.

I knew Cesare wouldn’t let me die.

Moving my arms is a struggle, as if my body has been fused together with lead. A persistent, throbbing pain, hard to pinpoint, beats in time with my pulse. I shift on the bed, my stiff muscles protesting, and the slight movement sends a wave of soreness across my chest and shoulders.

“He’s awake,” Cesare says.

I crack open an eye. Light sears into my retinas, sharp and unforgiving. I squint against the glare, my vision blurring as if I’m still stuck halfway between dreams and reality.

Cesare hovers beside the bed, staring down at me like a puzzle he’s still piecing together. Disheveled hair frames his bloodshot eyes, the look of someone who hasn’t left my side. If the night’s sky in the window behind him is any indication, then the entire day has passed.

“We almost lost you,” he says, his voice tight with emotion. “The bullet lodged just below your throat, nicking the carotid artery. You were bleeding out fast. I had to clamp it myself.”

“That bad?” I rasp. The words scrape out of my throat, rough and raw, like I’m trying to talk through sandpaper.

He nods. “By the time we got you on the operating table, you were seconds away from joining Dad. I had to take over and stop the surgeons from ending you with their textbook bullshit. There's no way I'd let them kill my big brother.”

Heart twisting, I imagine everything he did to keep me alive. For the first time in forever, I meet his eyes, the same color as Mom's, my chest clogged with gratitude. “Thank you, Cesare," I say, the words rough in my throat. "I never doubted your talent for doing the impossible.”

He blinks, exhaustion giving way to a flicker of shock, then delight. Cheeks darkening, he mutters, “The bullet did a lot of damage. You’re going to be sore for a while, and your voice might never sound the same again.”

A knot forms in what’s left of my throat, but I manage a faint grin. “I'm just glad to be alive. Guess you didn’t need that medical degree after all.”

---