Page 39 of Stalking Ginevra

Handing my phone to a nearby gardener, I order him to shoot footage. The moment he starts to record, I slow my steps, making sure to clear my throat. At the sound of my approach, the men restraining her draw back, giving Losanna a clear line of sight.

Straightening, Losanna smooths her hair off her face. “Benito, you’re looking well.”

I can’t say the same for her. Losing a husband and a future son-in-law appears to have taken a toll on her sobriety. I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t order a liquid breakfast.

“Good morning, Mrs. Di Marco,” I say. “I trust you’re feeling better after last night.”

“After being trampled?” she replies, swaying on her stockinged feet.

Bossanova stands beside her with his jacket slung over his shoulder, and her shoes dangling from his fingers. He looks equally as wrecked, but not from the booze. One eye is swollen shut, his lip split, and bruises mottle his once-handsome face, the kind that’ll take weeks to fade. I would almost regret ruining his looks if he wasn’t such a murderous asshole.

“Apologies for that,” I say to Ginevra’s mother. “It looks like allies of Capello and your late husband are determined to destroy what’s left of the Montesano family.”

My barb cuts through her drunken haze, and she flinches. All traces of belligerence bleed into bitter regret, and she looks like she’s trying to shrink into herself.

She stumbles, nearly dropping her clutch as she grasps at what’s left of her dignity, her body swaying like a sapling in a strong breeze. “If I’d known Joe was plotting against your family, I would have warned you.”

I wave off the apology. “Karma got to them in the end.”

And by karma, I mean Leroi and his gun.

She sighs. “May we leave? Your men refuse to call us a cab, and the signal up here is terrible.”

I hide a smirk. After Cesare’s little assassin sent megabytes of intel using our WIFI, the IT nerds at Mortis House have pulled the plug on anything more than basic connectivity. When you live in a mafia fortress at the top of the hill, it pays to have loyal employees with a range of skills wider than thuggery.

One of our enforcers pulls up outside the house in a bullet-proof car. It’s what we’re reduced to using until we’ve handled the assassins.

Sweeping an arm toward its back seat, I offer her a tight smile. “Tony will drive you home.”

I stand back, letting Bossanova half-lift, half-shove her into the backseat. Her legs flail, her dignity dropping somewhere on the gravel. The car rounds the courtyard and disappears. I stay still until they’re out of sight, my mind already turning to the next steps in my plan.

“Mr. Benito,” says the voice of an elderly man. “Do you still want me to keep filming?”

I take the phone from the gardener and replay the footage, capturing my interaction with Losanna. When Ginevra sees it, she’ll understand the message: her stalker holds a trusted place within the Montesano family, and the only man powerful enough to protect her is me.

This is exactly what I need to herd Ginevra into my arms.

SIXTEEN

GINEVRA

The shower’s hot spray washes away the sweat and semen, but nothing can scrub away the shame. That masked bastard went too far, making me lick his cum off the floor. I’ve more than compensated him for sparing my life. The next time he comes to me for entertainment, I’ll make him bleed.

Minutes after the stalker left, I called a cab from Martina’s apartment, not wanting to endanger my friend. I was too shaken to operate a vehicle and needed to go home.

I turn off the water, step out of the shower, and wrap my hair in a towel. How the hell did he track me down to my best friend’s place when I left directly from work?

The only plausible explanation is a tracker.

If he inserted one beneath my skin, then wouldn’t I feel the difference? Even if he did it while I was asleep, I’d wake up with itching or inflammation. I stand in front of the mirror, checking my body for marks. Twisting around, I run my hands down my back, but it’s smooth.

Apart from the circles under my eyes, and the throbbing around my asshole, I look perfectly untouched.

After getting dry, I move to my walk-in closet. The morning sun streams in through the window, reminding me that I’ve barely had three hours’ sleep. Mom wasn’t in her bedroom when I knocked. She must have listened to my advice about moving in with Bossanova. I don’t want her to be home alone until I can get this pervert off my back.

The phone buzzes as I pull open my lingerie drawer. It’s probably Martina, wondering where the hell I disappeared to in the middle of the night. Walking over to where I left it on the counter, I check my message.

Unknown:Skip the panties.

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