Page 29 of Stalking Ginevra

I only ever want my little betrayer to feel the pain I inflict.

Grabbing Valentino’s arm, I make sure to dig my fingers into his flesh hard enough to bruise, and drag him back through the frantic crowd. We pass panicked guests shoving their way toward the exits, servers dropping trays, and guards barking orders as they attempt to regain control. As we near the side corridor, I spot a door wedged ajar by a pair of stockinged feet.

My gut tightens. How the hell did I walk past that the first time?

The sight of Ginevra’s mother crumpled on the ground hits me like a bullet. Everything else—the chaos, the noise, the assassins plaguing my family—fades into the background. I ease the door open, giving myself enough space to gather her in my arms. She weighs next to nothing, as if her bones are made of air.

“Is this how you treat your dates?” I snarl, my gaze boring into the old bastard’s.

Face contorting, Valentino shrinks backward like a salted slug. “I didn’t mean to leave her?—”

“Bullshit,” I snap. “You fled at the first sign of danger.”

He follows me through the hallway, away from the pandemonium of escaping guests, to a downstairs room. I lay her atop a bed and scan her for injuries. Her breathing is shallowbut not labored. I press my fingers to the side of her neck, feeling for a pulse. It’s weak, but there.

“Benito, please believe me, I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Valentino whimpers, hovering by her feet.

I grab the old buzzard by the collar and shove him toward the door. “You’re going to make this up to me or our deal is off.”

Eyes widening, he nods. “It will never happen again.”

Ignoring him, I pull out my phone and dial Dr. Brunelli, who picks up after a few rings. “It’s Benito. I need you in the downstairs guest room, now.”

While I wait for our family physician, I check in with the observation team, the men at the gate, and the guards patrolling the perimeter. They’ve disabled the shooter and are in pursuit of his accomplices. Bossanova sits by Losanna’s feet, putting on a show of fretting over the woman he just ditched.

Fingers moving on autopilot, I dial Leroi. The phone rings twice before a female voice answers. It’s Seraphine, who’s staying with my cousin in a cottage on the outskirts of our property.

“Where is he?” I ask, not bothering to hide my impatience.

“He’s asleep,” she mumbles, her voice groggy.

Of course, he is. Leroi came to the battle on Alderney Hill with a stab wound and exacerbated his injury by climbing up the side of Samson’s hideout to rescue Seraphine.

“We have assassins on the property,” I say.

Her breath catches. “The Moirai?”

“Probably,” I reply, not giving her time to process the shock. “The windows of your cottage are equipped with bulletproof shutters. There’s a remote taped to the underside of the nightstand, do you see it?”

“Um… Hold on.”

As the receiver fills with the sound of scuffling, my attention turns to Dr. Brunelli bursting into the room with his brownleather bag, out of breath. He kneels beside Losanna and checks on her vital signs.

Bossanova hovers above them, muttering a string of excuses. I turn my back to the trio, forcing down a surge of fury. How the hell does this sun-ripened cockroach get women to ignore his red flags?

“Found it.” Seraphine’s voice slices through my thoughts. In the background, the metallic shutters clatter into place.

“There are weapons under the bed, in the closet, and in the bathroom, along with bullets,” I say. “Grab some pistols and stay alert. If anyone interferes with the shutters, shoot first. Ask questions later.”

There’s a pause on the line, then a shaky, “Okay.”

“Call or text if you need help,” I say before hanging up.

After watching her stitch up Samson’s injured body under Cesare’s dubious guidance, I’m confident my cousin is safe in her hands. Leroi tends to gravitate toward murderous women.

I turn back to where our family doctor is tending to Losanna.

He glances up at me, his mustache stretching with the curve of his smile. “She’s coming around.”

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