Page 236 of Stalking Ginevra

We continue like this for several months. I send carefully chosen gifts to remind her of better times. A first edition copy of Jane Eyre, which she once read out to me in our apartment while we were at law school. A replica of the green cashmere blanket she used to snuggle in on the sofa. Silk scarves with her favorite prints, and vinyl records of our favorite songs.

I check in on Ginevra via text and short phone calls. Sometimes she accepts my offer of a drink if I bump into her at the Demartini casino. I bring her gourmet coffee in the mornings, escort her to work, and take her out for the occasional lunch.

With the help of Dr. Saint, I’m always careful not to push her too far. Every interaction feels like a high-stakes negotiation, a delicate balance between showing her I care and avoiding the mistakes that drove her away.

It’s maddening.

Every day, I fight my baser instincts, the ones screaming at me to demand more, to remind her of what we had, of what we could still be. There’s no Capello organization standing in my way, no threats hanging over my brothers. I’m free to claim my wife.

Dr. Saint says I should let Ginevra come to me, but it feels more like holding my breath. I might suffocate before she remembers where she belongs.

Every passing day, another thread of my patience unravels. I’m not sure how much longer I can survive on crumbs without snapping.

One evening, as I’m watching over the casino, I get a call from the man I stationed at Ginevra’s workplace. “Mrs. Di Marco worked late until eight,” he says. “She’s having dinner with a man at the new French bistro on Juniper and West.”

My brow furrows. “Marcello Demartini?”

“No, sir.”

Before I can even ask who, my phone buzzes with a message. A video arrives of Ginevra sitting in a booth with a man I don’t recognize. Mousy hair, clean-cut, corporate, and very much heterosexual, he’s leaning in with an intensity that turns the edges of my vision red.

Who the fuck is this man and why is he having a cozy dinner with my wife?

“Mr. Montesano?” My man’s voice breaks me out of my thoughts.

“Who is he?” I snarl.

Dr. Saint’s voice echoes through my mind, cautioning me about falling back into old habits. But this isn’t about controlling Ginevra—it’s about protecting what’s mine. Nobody but me gets to worm their way back into her life.

“We don’t have a name, yet?—”

“Tail him,” I growl, my hands clenching into fists. “And get backup. Call when you’ve broken into his home and have him hog-tied.”

ONE HUNDRED SEVEN

GINEVRA

At the office after a workout, I bump into my colleague, Ian. We worked late last night and finished off a productive evening with dinner.

He walks around me, avoiding eye contact, but something’s wrong. Deep bruises mar the left side of his jaw, and there’s a new stiffness to his movements.

“Ian, are you okay?”

“Fine.” Jaw tightening, he adjusts the strap of his laptop bag. The movement shifts his sleeve, revealing wrists covered in livid red marks.

My stomach drops. I move around him to block his path. “Ian, talk to me. What happened?”

He flinches, his eyes darting toward the exit like a trapped beast. “Look, I’m really sorry about last night. I didn’t mean anything by that hug. I didn’t know you were married.”

“Married? What are you talking about?”

Fumbling with his bag, he pulls out a piece of paper. “Here, take this.” He thrusts it into my hands. “I’m resigning. Effective immediately.”

I stare at the letter, my mind reeling. “What? Why? But you only just joined. How can you leave us so soon?”

With a shaky breath, he mutters, “I was attacked. Last night. At my apartment. Your husband told me to stay away from you or else…”

All the blood drains from my face and floods my pounding heart. Benito attacked a man for taking me out for a meal? Before I can react, Ian bolts toward the door. My voice catches in my throat, and by the time I whirl around, he’s gone.

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