Page 40 of Stalking Ginevra

My breath hitches. It’s him. The sexual terrorist. How does he know I’m about to put on my underwear? My gaze darts around the open closets. When there’s no sign of a large lurker, I rush into my room and check beneath the bed.

Is he watching me from inside the house or from a distance? Either way, he needs to go to hell.

Ignoring him, I rifle through my drawer and pick up a pair of period pants. They’re the largest pair I own, more like boy shorts, and are so bulky that I only wear them in bed. This asshole can go fuck himself, preferably with the butt plug he left up my rectum.

As I slide on the thick panties, the phone buzzes again. Determined not to give him the satisfaction of my attention, I slip on a bra and walk to the wardrobe to select a shift.

He messages over and over, presumably with threats of what he plans to do tonight. I continue dressing, acting like he and his phone don’t exist, until it rings.

My spine stiffens. What if it’s Martina? Or Mom?

I turn back to the phone, finding it lit up with a number that isn’t in my contacts. Chewing my lip, I contemplate whether it could be Bossanova regretfully informing me that Mom has fallen down the stairs.

Fuck it.

I answer. “Hello?”

“Ignore me at your peril, little kitten,” says the dreadful voice from last night.

Panic spikes at the confirmation that he’s watching. I glance around, looking for where he might have hidden the cameras, but they could be anywhere.

“Don’t call me that,” I hiss.

“Would you prefer cum licker or dirty slut?”

I grind my teeth. Maybe kitten isn’t so bad. “What do you want?”

“Take off those panties.”

“Or what?”

He falls silent, making me wonder if he’s hung up. I pull the phone away from my ear, only for it to buzz with an incoming message.

It’s a photo. Of Mom. Lying in a bed, clad in her new green cocktail dress. My breath catches, and dread coils in my gut.

“This is fake,” I whisper.

“There was a shooting at the boss’s welcome-back-from-prison party. Your mother was injured, and she’s staying in the mansion overnight.”

My stomach plummets. “You’re lying.”

He sends another picture, this one of a wider shot of her in bed with Valentino Bossanova. A tight fist of alarm squeezes my heart, making me fight back a sob. Why the hell did that decrepit old bastard transport her into the jaws of our enemy?

I want to scream. Tell him I used to be engaged to his boss. Tell him Benito will fire him the moment he discovers he’s harassing his former fiancée, but the memory of his cold dismissal forces me into silence.

Benito hates my guts. Despises me for breaking his heart. And he’s moved on to another woman— the type who appreciates his devotion.

“What the hell do you want?” I hiss.

“Put me on speaker.”

With a trembling hand, I comply.

“Good girl,” he says. “Now, slide off those oversized panties.”

Gulping, I obey.

“I left some gifts for you in the back of your lingerie drawer. Find them.”

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