Page 44 of Stalking Ginevra

His eyebrows shoot up to his thinning hairline. “Finished?”

I grit my teeth. He’s only feigning ignorance because he wants me to say it in plain English. This asshole is enjoying every second of my discomfort.

“He made me masturbate,” I enunciate, each word tasting like acid. “First myself, and then him. Afterward, he ejaculated on my face.”

The corner of Douglas’s mouth twitches. He leans across the desk, his beady eyes gleaming with a predatory interest. “How do I know this wasn’t something consensual? Some kind of role play that got out of hand?”

My stomach churns, the back of my throat thickening with disgust. “He had a knife.”

“Did he threaten to cut you?” His gaze drifts down to my breasts.

“He didn’t need to,” I say through clenched teeth. “The blade at my throat did all the talking.”

“Did you climax?” he asks, his tone laced with amusement.

“Why the hell are you asking?” I snap. “He’s a stalker who breaks into my house.”

Leaning back, he picks up his pen again and taps it against his notepad. “Why didn’t you report him after the first time?”

My jaw drops.

I don’t have an answer that won’t incriminate the Montesano family. My gaze drops to my lap. “He’s a very frightening man.”

“Because you sure don’t look like a woman scared for her life.”

Recoiling at his insinuation, I ball my fists. This bastard doesn’t want to help. He just wants cheap entertainment.

I rise from my seat. “If you won’t take this seriously, I may as well leave.”

Douglas leans back with a smirk that makes my skin crawl. “Next time he comes for a little something, be sure to give me a call. But don’t wait too long—things like this can escalate.”

I rush out, my cheeks flaming. The cool air does nothing to calm my burning skin. Contacting the police was stupid. They’re useless and half of them are taking bribes.

It’s time to swallow my pride and speak to a man more powerful than any stalker—Benito Montesano.

EIGHTEEN

GINEVRA

I barely make it back to the office before my lunch break ends, my head buzzing with my fruitless encounter at the precinct. Julian’s eyes bore into the side of my face as I slip into my cubicle, but I can’t muster up the energy to tell him to get lost.

Pulling out my phone, I call Benito’s number and hold it to my ear. The flat, disconnected tone makes my stomach twist into painful knots. It's dead.

“Damn it,” I mutter under my breath and scroll down to another contact—the Montesano mansion.

Maybe someone there can get him on the line. The phone rings and rings, each tone stretching out my nerves until someone finally answers. A formal voice says he’s not home. Instead of leaving a message, I call their nightclub, letting it ring for over a minute. It’s a long shot, but I’m low on choices.

“Phoenix. Who’s this?” says a woman’s sharp voice.

“I need to speak to Benito Montesano. It’s urgent.”

She snorts, and I can practically hear the eye roll. “Benito’s busy. What’s this about?”

“Tell him it’s Ginevra Di Marco, and it’s personal.”

There’s a beat of silence, and I can almost hear her considering whether to blow me off. Finally, she sighs, and the line goes silent.

I stare into my cubicle, wondering if she’s hung up. Julian hovers somewhere on my periphery, trying to catch my eye, but I pretend to be engrossed in a client call.

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