Page 27 of Stalking Ginevra

“Then do what he says,” she replies with a frown. “It sounds like you’re enjoying his attention.”

My lips tighten. “Arousal doesn’t mean consent.”

“Did you even say no?”

Martina doesn’t understand. Her parents make their money from real estate and don’t have to consort with lowlives. Mine are connected to multiple crime families. I know first-hand what happens when you’re cornered without a protector and turn down a man’s advances.

The first time Samson ordered me to deep-throat a dildo, I refused. He punched my stomach, cracked a rib, and then made me do it anyway. Even Dad slapped me to the ground and kicked me while I was down when I resisted breaking my engagement with Benito.

I rise from my seat. “Hard to talk back when there’s a gun pointing at your face or a blade pressed into your jugular.”

She grabs my wrist. “Don’t go. I’m sorry. You know what I’m like… Always playing devil’s advocate?”

“Don’t, because I’m not in the mood.” I pull my arm out of her grip.

Her features flicker with hurt. Any other time, I’d rush to apologize for being so snappish, but I can’t muster up the will to sooth her feelings when I’m teetering on the edge of ruin. “Okay. I just thought you were playing along with the adventure, because you could end it with a single word.”

My jaw clenches, and I narrow my eyes. “If it’s that ‘just say no’ bullshit?—”

“Benito.”

I rear back. “What?”

“The stalker works for the Montesanos. Your ex is the second-in-command. If one of their men is harassing you, he could stop it in an instant,” she says as if the answer is obvious.

Why on earth didn’t I think of that? Because Dad is dead, Mom is about to marry a murderer, the law firm is in shambles, and I’ve just discovered a secret about my parentage. I couldn’t think straight even if someone handed me a slide rule.

“You’re welcome,” Martina says, her tone flat, but I'm too frazzled to pick up on the subtext.

“Thank you.” I squeeze her shoulder, walk to the exit, and let Martina’s protests fade into the background.

Mind spinning, I push through the cafeteria doors and exit the building. The drive across town blurs into a haze of stoplights and sharp turns, my grip tight on the wheel. I park a block away from the place where Benito is supposed to operate.

Samson once bragged that his dad had taken all the Montesano buildings, leaving them with just the nightclub, a karaoke bar, and a store that sells dildos. Last time I checked, that’s where Martina’s younger sister had a part-time job.

According to Samson, Benito sometimes holds meetings in the club’s back room, the same place where his dad died of a heart attack. I’d call that gruesome, but Mom and I still live in the house where Dad was murdered.

When I round a corner and spot a limousine parked outside the Phoenix, my heart skips several beats. If the car isn’t for Benito, then it will be for one of his brothers. I’ve known all three of them since I was eight which has to count for something.

I hurry toward the nightclub, past the stores, including Wonderland, with its BDSM window display. When the Phoenix’s wooden double doors open, I break into a run.

Two men step out, both wearing suits that accentuate their athletic frames. I vaguely recognize the older one as our old professor, Remus Cortese. But all my attention is on Benito. He looks like a different man in the distance—dangerous, untouchable, edgy. I only recognize him from the glasses.

When the limo driver scurries out and opens the door, I shout, “Benito!”

Both men pause to turn in my direction. A seed of longing in my chest blooms into hope. Benito was always so kind, sogenerous, so giving. No matter how far we’ve drifted apart, he still wouldn’t want me defiled by his employee.

I run across the road, narrowly avoiding an oncoming car.

Benito’s dark eyes lock onto mine as I approach, the distance between us a chasm. I’m desperate to cross it, aching to reconnect. Instead of moving closer, he remains by the limo, looking like the perfect mafia prince. He’s tall, handsome, and exuding the kind of lethal composure that makes me feel safe.

Except his eyes don’t flicker with recognition or even interest. Instead, his gaze is ice, sharp and unforgiving, slicing through my soul with a pain that cuts deeper than a knife.

With every step, the distance between us shrinks, as does my hope. I’m beginning to feel like a beggar on the street, pleading for spare change.

My heart lurches. Why would Benito give a shit about the problems of a long-dead and buried ghost from the past?

When I reach him, my pulse pounds so hard I can barely hear the sound of my panting breaths. “Benito… um… thanks for covering my check the other day. I meant to call you to ask?—”

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