Page 221 of Stalking Ginevra

Her shoulders finally slump, her beautiful features falling with relief, and she looks at me like I’m a miracle. The raw emotion in her face chases away my doubts, and my heart soars with hope.

Maybe I haven’t completely shattered her love. Maybe—despite everything—we might be able to piece together our marriage.

“Are you alright?” I rasp.

Brow furrowing, she crosses the chasm between us and stops at my bedside. “You’re the one who got shot.”

“Bossanova hurt you.”

She stiffens, as if allergic to his name. “It wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle.”

The knot in my stomach twists tighter, making my pulse hammer. I need to know more—I need to know everything thatbastard did to Ginevra while she was his captive. I part my lips to ask, but she places a hand on my shoulder.

“Don’t,” she says, her voice thick with an emotion I can almost taste. “Valentino Bossanova is dead. What I want to talk about is you.”

I gaze up at my woman—my wife. The anguish and fury tightening her features make my chest clench. Her storm-gray eyes blaze with a raw pain that cuts deeper than anything Bossanova could inflict. Somewhere in the pit of my conscience, I know his torture is nothing compared to the wound of my own deception.

“Tell me everything you did to manipulate my life,” she says, her voice trembling with restrained fury. “I want to understand how my favorite person in the world became such a despicable monster.”

Her words sink in through the fraying edges of my hope. Lying by omission is no longer an option. It’s already over, and she deserves the truth—even if it means she’ll walk out of my life forever.

ONE HUNDRED

GINEVRA

Benito stares up at me like he’s on his deathbed, his dark eyes drinking me in with the same intensity as when we first met. That gaze never fails to make me feel like the center of his universe, even though it’s now etched with fear. Despite his raw vulnerability, I barely recognize what he’s become.

I first noticed him hiding behind the kitchen pillar while Sofia taught me to make cookies. Back then, I had no use for boys. They were loud, annoying creatures only capable of destruction.

But Benito was different. He watched with quiet curiosity, kept his distance, never charging in with demands like Roman. Before I knew it, I was drawn to this quiet, olive-skinned boy who once said my cookies tasted like heaven. That memory feels so far away, tainted by every terrible act he’s committed to keep me under his control.

We grew up together, yet I still can’t understand how the hell he strayed so far from the adoring young man who once held my hands as we slept beneath the stars.

“Where do I even begin?” he rasps.

“What’s the first thing you did to get me back?” I ask.

When his gaze darts to the door, I lower myself into the seat at his bedside, sensing he’s about to confess something incriminating. His tongue flicks over his dry lips, and the bandages around his throat shift. I hesitate, then crack open a water bottle and bring it to his mouth.

“It was years in the making.” He takes a long sip. “Dad was dead, Roman was on death row, Mom was in the clutches of Tommy Galliano. And then there was you.”

I gulp, my breath shallowing. He doesn’t need to elaborate, since we both know Dad forced me to be with Samson.

“We all had our reasons for taking out the entire Capello family. Mine was to get you back.”

“Don’t insult my intelligence,” I say through clenched teeth. “That night you stormed Samson’s hideout and found me in the closet, you could have taken off your visor and offered me a hand. But you didn’t.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, exhaling a breath so labored that I shiver. My fingers twitch toward the call button, but I resist the urge to summon help. Instead, I open the water again and give him another sip.

“Continue,” I say. “Don’t gloss over your actions.”

Nodding, he meets my eyes again. “I hated you for leaving. I hated you for moving on with another man. I hated you for being the only woman in existence I found even remotely attractive?—”

“Stop exaggerating.”

“It’s only ever been you,” he snarls. “If I’d found a way to forget about you, I’d have taken it, but no other woman held my interest. They might as well be black-and-white cut-outs because you’re the only one who’s real.”

My chest tightens, and his words stir up memories of when I thought he was the only man I’d ever love. No matter how much I push them down, they still flood back, bringing withthem a slew of happy moments. Cooking together in our student apartment, nights we spent talking about our future until sunrise, late afternoons frolicking in the treehouse.

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