Page 235 of Stalking Ginevra

As I approach the turning, my phone rings. “What?”

“Mr. Montesano, this is Frances from the Matthias Clinic. You asked me to inform you if Mrs. Di Marco skips her meeting with the sober coach. She was supposed to meet her at nine this morning?—”

“I’ll take care of it,” I say through clenched teeth before making a U-turn.

Ginevra is finally happy, relaxed, carefree... Even if she spends an inappropriate amount of time with another man. I’ll be damned if I allow her mother to spoil that peace by relapsing.

It’s time to march Losanna Di Marco back into sobriety.

But first, I’ll call home. Based on what I saw this morning, Ginevra might welcome a hangover recipe.

The Matthias Clinic is bright, sterile, and utterly soulless. According to Reaper’s sister, it’s the best addiction treatment center in the state. I stride through the stark white hallways, my anger building with each step. How dare Losanna jeopardize her recovery and make herself a burden to Ginevra again?

In between ranting about my mother-in-law I call the florist and order a bouquet of honeysuckles and roses. The man watching her apartment confirms later they were delivered, but there’s no message from my wife.

My lips quirk, despite the pang of disappointment. The mere fact that she’s accepted them is promising. She’s lowering her defenses, opening up to my advances. It’s only a matter of time before she lets me back into her life.

The door opens, and Losanna exits looking irritated but sober enough, her auburn hair catching the late-morning light.She sweeps past me with her nose in the air, pretending I don’t exist.

I follow her out into the street and open the car door. “Good meeting?”

Lips tightening, she settles into the front seat. “Don’t expect me to thank you for dragging me here.”

“Skip another appointment with your sober coach, and the next man I send after you won’t be so respectful,” I reply.

Her nostrils flare, but she doesn’t reply. For once, she understands her place.

When I call home, Sofia tells me she delivered Ginevra’s hangover remedy herself and even encouraged her to make cookies together like they did when she was eight. Encouraged by yet another good sign, I resist the urge to send her a text.

She’ll hear from me tomorrow.

The next morning, as I’m leaving the casino, I text:

How’s the hangover?

Seconds tick by, stretching into a full minute. I sit in the back seat of the car and wait, my entire existence hinging on her response. Finally, my phone buzzes with a reply:

Better.

A single word, curt and to the point, but it fills my chest with warmth. Lips curving into a smirk, I lean back, wanting to hug my phone. It’s progress.

I decide to push further:

I’d hate for you to suffer without me to bring you ginger tea.

Three dots appear then vanish. I hold my breath, hoping she’ll call my bluff, issue a challenge, drop any kind of hintfor me to cross town and appear at her doorstep. Seconds pass before her next message comes through:

If it’s anything like the sludge you made on the campfire, then I’ll pass.

Smirk widening, I recall my failed attempt at making nutmeg tea when we were fourteen and message back:

I learned my lesson. Ginger root only. No ingredients pilfered from Sofia’s pantry.

Another long pause before she replies with:

Thanks for the flowers.

That’s it. No invitation for more, but it’s enough to keep me fueled. She’s still lowering her walls, one cautious step at a time.

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