Page 233 of Stalking Ginevra

Fuck.

My mind spins. I gave her space. I stayed back, let her make her choices. Nearly a year of therapy has taught me to respect her autonomy and to become the kind of man who sets aside his selfish desire for possession. Approaching her now would undo all that progress and only push her further away.

But now I’m watching her live a life without me. A life where she’s smiling, free, where Marcello Demartini—that fucking aristocrat—is making her laugh.

I should be pleased to see her in better spirits, but the ache in my chest is a bitter reminder of the love I lost.

Reaper follows my gaze and murmurs, “She looks happy.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, my throat tightening. “She does.”

Giving her space only pushed her into the arms of another man.

Watching her laugh with him feels like a final goodbye I wasn’t ready to confront, but I’ve lost my wife.

And it’s time to get her back.

ONE HUNDRED FIVE

GINEVRA

This hangover is kicking my ass.

My head pounds as if there are loan sharks at the door, and my throat is lined with gravel. Two separate riots break out through my insides, and the morning sun sears through my eyelids.

This is all Marcello’s fault.

He has a crush on the restaurant’s sommelier, so he drags us out there every other night to try their selection of wine. It’s the same each time, with Marcello impressing the man with his vast knowledge of vintages, and us ending up drinking hours after the place shuts.

Groaning, I drag my carcass into the shower and wash away last night’s excess. Hot water pummels my back, scalding away the regrets, and steam wraps around my senses like a forgiving embrace.

My skin tingles, the heat working its way into my muscles, loosening the ache from too much wine and too little restraint. I love my bestie. I really do, but he’s such a terrible influence.

“Marcello.” I huff a laugh.

We’re each other’s emotional support. He’s one of the few people who truly understands what it’s like to survive an irresistible, toxic man.

Finally, the pounding eases to a background ache. I step out of the shower, slip into a fluffy robe, and wrap a towel around my hair into a makeshift turban.

The woman staring back at me through the foggy mirror looks like a scalded cat—red eyes, red skin, red wisps of hair. I make a mental note to drink more water and step out of the bathroom, only to find a man sitting on my living room sofa.

I freeze, my mind turning to sludge. The sight of him in my space sends my pulse skittering. Benito doesn’t belong in my new apartment, yet his presence dominates the room.

He’s dressed in black, with the morning sun coloring his dark hair a rich shade of mahogany. With his regal features and that imposing posture, he may as well be Hades.

His molten eyes lock onto mine, boring into my soul.

Breath catching, I lose my footing and stumble backward, the lapel of my robe slipping down to expose my shoulder.

I pull the fabric together with a snap. Rage wells up in my chest, sharp and hot. I’ve spent months clawing my way out of a pit of heartbreak and helplessness, convincing myself that I’m stronger without him. Now he’s here, and it’s like nothing’s changed.

“What are you doing in my living room?”

“Don’t hide from me,” he drawls, his dark eyes raking over my form. “I’ve seen it all already.”

His arrogance grates against my nerves. How dare he brush off my boundaries like they don’t exist? This is classic Benito. Fire burns through my veins, making my cheeks heat. I would dismiss his presence as a post-alcoholic hallucination if I wasn’t so infuriated.

“Answer my question,” I snap. “What the fuck are you doing here? Get out!”

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