Page 223 of Stalking Ginevra

“Ginevra,” he says with a sigh.

“I’m not finished,” I snarl. “You made me feel like a shameless slut, while setting yourself up as a benevolent husband, for what? Having sex with my own husband?”

“There’s no excuse.”

“Did you ever respect me?”

He jerks his head in my direction and winces. “More than anything,” he says, the words breathy. “That was my trouble. I put you on a pedestal. You were my goddess. The only woman in existence. If I took you back, I’d become that hopeless simp again, then you’d get bored with me and leave.”

“What’s wrong with us?” I dip my head and stare at the blood splatters on my lap.

“Ginevra?”

“This relationship is toxic.”

“But we connected at the treehouse,” he says, his voice imploring. “And there were moments when it felt like time had never passed.”

“Don’t—”

“I would die for you. Kill for you. Get on my knees for you. You want me to admit I was wrong? One hundred percent. Thisis all absolutely, irrevocably my fault. But I was driven by love. A twisted, unhealthy love, but I can change. We can move past it.”

“Our love is a prison,” I whisper, my shoulders sagging.

“It won’t be like that anymore,” he replies, his voice choked. “I know the truth now, and you know all my secrets?—”

“Who killed my dad?” I ask.

“The same assassin who killed the Capello family,” he replies without missing a beat. “He was hunting Samson.”

“So it wasn’t you?”

“No.”

“Alright.”

“Ginevra?”

“While I was in captivity, I got an up-close look at an abusive relationship. Valentino Bossanova was screwing his own daughter, beating the shit out of her, and brainwashed her into believing it was love.”

He swallows. “What are you saying?”

“She was trapped in a cycle of affection and abuse, pain and empty promises.” My chest tightens, making me force back a wave of grief. “I saw it from the outside, and when I tried to intervene, it got her killed.”

His face pales. “You can’t compare us?—”

“Why not?” I shoot back, my chest heaving. “Because the pain you inflict isn’t physical?”

Flinching, he glances away, the sight of his agony making my chest ache.

“I’ll change,” he rasps.

My gaze rakes over his handsome features. Features I’ve loved half my childhood and my entire adult life. Despite everything, my heart still flutters at his dark brow, molten eyes, perfectly straight nose, and luxurious lips. He’s perfection, the epitome of masculine beauty, the only man I’ve ever wanted.

The gaze boring through mine is earnest—he means every word about wanting to change. Because the Benito I know never pleaded. Hope warms my chest for a heartbeat, bringing up the future we carved for each other in the tree house.

But how can one man profess such love while ruining my life and Mom’s from the shadows? Benito set all our troubles in motion to manipulate me into coming back. He’s the reason we got involved with Valentino Bossanova.

I think of Mom suffering everything I endured with that crazy old bastard and shudder. Then I dredge up the horror and terror and disgust from when Brisket tore through Julian’s entrails and cornered me in the bathroom.

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