Page 232 of Stalking Ginevra

My eyes narrow. “The only way you’re leaving this casino is via rehab. No more skiing vacations. No more yoga retreats or whatever else you used to tell Ginevra. She doesn’t need to hold herself hostage over you.”

Jaw tightening, she glares across the table, as if mustering a snide remark. Whatever she says will undoubtedly be true. I’ve already faced my demons. Dr. Saint diagnosed me with Obsessive Love Disorder, stemming from a sense of abandonment before Cesare was born. I was three or four when Mom got pregnant and withdrew from the family, and I must have transferred that need for female affection to Ginevra.

I meet Losanna’s stare with one of my own until she finally slumps back in her seat, defeated. “Alright. I’ll go.”

Not wanting to give her the satisfaction of a response, I nod to the man at the door and walk out of the interrogation room, leaving Losanna behind.

She’ll be safe in rehab until the shit with Scali blows over. Hopefully, when she returns, she’ll no longer be a burden on Ginevra.

Even more weeks pass, and Losanna is still in rehab. She and her daughter haven’t spoken since Ginevra moved out, making mewonder if that drunken stunt she pulled at the casino was a ploy to get Ginevra’s attention.

An employee at the Demartini Casino lets me know when Ginevra’s firm is scheduled to visit, so I time my trips to see the old man. We’ve moved from eyeing each other from opposite sides of the gambling tables to exchanging nods. Every instinct wants to close that unbearable distance, but I’m giving her time.

She needs to see that I’m a better man. The patient type who doesn’t push too soon. Doesn’t demand more than she’s willing to give. But every time she breaks eye contact, turns away, or dismisses me with cold indifference, it hurts worse than a bullet through the jugular.

One evening, I’m seated at the center table of Chez Aquitani, Beaumont City’s most exclusive French restaurant. Reaper is on my left, and we’re both across from the Dean of Alderney State University.

Sweat rolls down his brow, which he blots with a napkin. Being seen out in public with a Montesano can’t be good for his reputation, which is precisely why I summoned him to meet me in such a high-end establishment.

The old man clears his throat. “Your scholarship students are missing too many classes. The university has standards?—”

“They’re getting a real education to set them up for the business world,” I say, cutting off his bullshit. “Which is better than sitting through hours of lectures.”

A waiter sets down plates of foie gras with a soft clink. The Dean shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes darting around the other diners. Intimidating him won’t take long.

“They need more time in lectures to balance the curriculum,” he says, his voice edging on desperation.

“Let’s not kid ourselves.” I pick up my glass of Sauternes and take a sip of the sweet wine. “The workload you’re pushing is filler. Their real work’s out in the world.”

His cheeks darken. “Absolutely not. The university has principles, guidelines, and expectations of its students.”

Reaper reaches into his jacket and slides a folder across the table. The older man hesitates, but one glance inside and his face drains of color. We have pictures of him tangled up with his brother’s wife in a situation a lot messier than skipping classes.

The Dean squirms, pulling at his collar like he’s about to expire on his Michelin-star meal. “What is this?”

“Our curriculum is fine.” Reaper places his palms on the table.

With trembling fingers, the old bastard closes the folder, his Adam’s apple bobbing. I take another sip of wine, letting the silence do the heavy lifting.

“Where did you…” He shakes off the question. “We’ll reevaluate the attendance policy for your scholarship students,” he says, the words choked.

I’m about to steer the conversation back to business when the door to the restaurant opens. Marcello Demartini walks in with an auburn-haired date.

It’s Ginevra.

She’s too busy laughing at his witty repartee to notice me at the restaurant’s center, and the sight of her happy with anyone other than me hurts like a knife to the chest.

I try to turn away but my eyes won’t cooperate. She looks radiant, happy, more alive than she ever did with me, and the fibers of my heart twist.

The Maître D walks them to a cozy booth, and Demartini rests his hand on the small of her back as he settles her in. He scoots, sitting so close to her that she may as well be on his lap.

Then he leans in and whispers something that makes her giggle. Her face lights up like the sky on New Year’s Eve, and she radiates with the glow of a woman in love.

My fingers curl around the stem of the wine glass, and I force another sip, but the sweet liquid tastes as sour as fermented shit.

I turn back to the Dean, but my mind still remains in that booth, where my wife is having the time of her life with another man.

She’s moved on, and here I am, forced to accept that nothing I do will bring her back.

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