Page 226 of Stalking Ginevra

He shakes his head. “You want to know why Rosalind stayed?”

I nod.

“I’ve been called a psychopath my whole life. Never pretended to be anything different. You hid in the shadows, playing games, and she left you in the dark.”

His words slice through my heart, cutting so deeper that I have to squeeze my eyes shut.

“Cesare,” Roman hisses.

“He asked, so I’m answering,” says my little brother. “Get help. Both of you. Either become the men your wives fell in love with or leave them the fuck alone.”

His chair scrapes back, and his footsteps disappear through the door and down the hallway. Silence settles in the hospital room, broken by the monitors’ incessant beeping. I glance at Roman, who shifts on his seat, his arms crossed like he’s holding something back.

“Do you agree with him?” I ask, my voice choked with emotion.

Roman drops his gaze to the floor. “My wife tied me to a torture rack, smashed a meat tenderizer into my balls, carved LIAR into my chest, and left me for dead. Cesare carves his initials into Rosalind and wins an instant family. Maybe he’s onto something if he says we should get help.”

A weak laugh escapes my throat, but it feels like swallowing glass.

Roman sighs, crossing his arms tighter. “All I can do is watch Emberly from afar. Make sure she’s okay. Maybe that’s all you can do for Ginny.”

The weight of his words settles over my chest, crushing my lungs. I can’t give up on Ginevra. Not before I can prove that I’ve changed—that I’m worthy of her love.

ONE HUNDRED TWO

BENITO

I didn’t follow Cesare’s advice right away—I sought a second opinion from Leroi, whose relationship with Seraphine seemed idyllic until he confessed that she’d stabbed him in the gut for withholding information.

Rosalind also shot Cesare in the chest and stayed, but Ginevra left without so much as slapping me across the face. Based on the small sample of men I consulted, it looks like a woman’s level of violence is directly related to the depth of her love.

So what does that say about us?

Divorce papers arrived the morning the Salentino twins visited. Ginevra already signed on the dotted line. Painkillers numbed the ache on my neck but did nothing to ease the sensation of being stabbed in the heart.

I asked them for advice. Elania laughed, saying Ginevra should have cut off my balls. Aria took my hand and said I was the most twisted bastard she’d ever met and told me to seek psychological help.

So, that’s how I find myself standing in front of Dr. Monica Saint’s office. It’s a glass front with a view of the reception area, and only a few doors down from Cesare’s sex shop.

I have nerve damage, trauma to the muscles in my neck, and a reduced range of motion, but nothing means more to me than restoring my marriage.

Casting a glance over my shoulder toward the Phoenix, I check that the coast is clear before stepping inside. The receptionist’s desk is vacant, but the door at the end is ajar.

My pulse quickens, but I force my features into a tight mask. Talking about what’s in my heart shouldn’t be so nerve-wracking, but my ears still ring with Elania’s mocking laughter. I should have spoken to Aria alone, but the sisters are inseparable.

When I step inside, the smell of leather and old books hits like a slap. The office is more like a living room with its shelves, low lighting and plush velvet chairs, but the desk is set suspiciously close to the door.

Dr. Monica Saint sashays into the room, gazing up at me through her square glasses. She’s tall, about the twins’ age, with dark hair falling loose around her shoulders.

“Benito Montesano,” she says with a sharp nod. “Have a seat.”

I sit without a word, already feeling like I’m under the microscope, my fingers gripping the arms of the chair. Talking to strangers about my failed marriage is insane. I solve my problems with bullets, blackmail, or bribes. But none of that works when the problem is rooted in my psyche.

Dr. Saint moves around her desk and sits. “What can I do for you?”

“How do I make my wife come back?” I ask, the words scraping my raw throat.

“Why don’t you start with why she left.”

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