Page 237 of Stalking Ginevra

Fury propels me back out of the building and down the steps. Benito Montesano doesn’t get to attack my colleagues.

I drive across town in a red rage and park outside the casino’s staff entrance. The pounding in my chest remains relentless, and I don’t care that I’m wearing sweaty workout clothes or that my hair is a bird’s nest.

A guard steps forward, blocking my path. He squares his shoulders, staring down at me like I’m crazed. “Ma’am, you can’t be here.”

“Step aside,” I say through clenched teeth. “I need to speak to Benito Montesano.”

“Do you have an appointment?” he asks with a smirk, already knowing the answer.

“I don’t need one to see my husband,” I snap.

He scoffs, and I can tell exactly what he’s thinking. There’s no way his boss would entertain a sweaty, auburn-haired banshee, but I had Benito’s heart when he was just a boy.

“Ma’am, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”

His large hand lands on my shoulder, triggering a surge of adrenaline. I drive my fist into his crotch, making him double over with a roar.

Another man rushes forward with a hand outstretched. I sidestep, my heel connecting to his shin.

“Where’s my husband?” I yell.

The first man grabs my shoulder again, his grip stronger. “Crazy bitch!”

“Let go!” I dip low, throw my weight forward, using his momentum to catapult him over my head. He lands on his back with a surprised grunt, just in time for the other asshole to grab me from behind and lift me off my feet.

A crowd has gathered around the employee reception, but I’m too far gone to care. All the rage boiling in my gut funnels into a primal scream, making me struggle against the man’s grip. I twist and kick, my elbow connecting with his rib.

In my periphery, a figure breaks through the crowd and my heart drops into my stomach.

“Get your hands off my wife,” bellows a familiar voice.

Everyone freezes.

The guard’s grip around my waist loosens, and I wrench free.

It’s Benito, and all I can think of is how majestic he looks in that sharp suit and black shirt, showing a peek of his muscled chest. He stalks forward, the tendons in his neck corded like steel cables. His jaw clenches, his nostrils flare, and his hands curl into fists.

I step away from the two guards, who exchange nervous glances. They don’t know whether to stand their ground or cower.

The one I flipped over raises his palms. “Boss?—”

“You touched my wife,” Benito says, his voice icy and low. His dark eyes burn with an intensity that makes me shiver.

The guard who held me steps backward. “Mr. Montesano, she came here?—”

Benito’s hand shoots out, grabbing him by the throat, his grip so tight that his knuckles turn white. “I don’t give a damn what she did,” Benito growls, the words laced with menace. “No one lays a finger on my wife.”

The guard struggles, his fingers pulling at Benito’s hand. His companion steps forward, only for Lorenzo and Vitale to hold him back.

“Put them in the basement.” Benito releases the man, letting him fall to his knees. His security staff springs from the crowd, yanking the guards by their collars and dragging them toward a side door.

Benito turns to me, his handsome features softening just enough to make my heart flutter. “You alright?”

My adrenaline is still high, and the concern in his eyes unleashes my pent-up frustration. I reach into the waistband of my leggings, extract the crumpled resignation letter, and wave it in his face.

“What the hell is this?” I hiss.

His brow pinches. “You tell me.”

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