Page 52 of Stalking Ginevra

Mom’s lips tremble, too frozen by fear to speak. Behind her, Bossanova stiffens.

Fury pounds through my temples. Fury at the unknown killer who murdered Dad. Fury at Dad, for dying in debt and leaving us to pick up the pieces. Fury at these goons for harassing a widow still reeling from the murder of her husband. Fury at Valentino fucking Bosssanova for using a frail woman as a shield.

I step forward, my hands curling so tightly into fists that the nails bite into my palms.

“My father is dead!” The words explode from my throat. “Get the fuck out of here!”

When the leader’s gaze shifts from mom to me, I stiffen. What happened to the caution I used when dealing with Dad, or Samson, or any of the underworld lowlives?

It evaporated the moment someone threatened Mom.

The man’s eyes are so dark that his pupils and irises meld together to create twin voids—voids attempting to suck my soul. He sneers, the curl of his lips slow and deliberate, as if he’s savoring the sight of me quaking in my robe.

“Debt doesn’t die, sweetheart. And if you can’t pay...”

He doesn’t finish. Doesn’t need to. I can see it in his eyes, the way they rake over my body like I’m merchandise he can carve up and sell to the highest bidder. My stomach lurches, and I draw in a sharp breath. From the way his thick tongue slides across his lips, I can tell he’s already sizing me up for a brothel.

As the last shred of hope evaporates in the morning sun, I turn to Bossanova. Someone has punched him so hard in the face that bruises ring both eyes. The band aid fluttering on the bridge of its nose looks like it’s failing to conceal a fracture.

“Do something!” I hiss. “You said you’d help us!”

The old bastard’s gaze drops to the ground. He takes a step back, shoulders hunching as if the weight of his cowardice is too much to bear.

“I—I... Your mother...” His words are a pitiful murmur, barely more than a breath. “It’s complicated.”

Fucking useless.

Mom and I are alone, facing the mouths of six hungry sharks. There’s no help coming. Not from Bossanova. Not from Benito. Not from divine intervention. Not from anyone.

My gaze darts back to the leader, who smirks. “If you can’t make the first payment, we’ll find a way to take what’s owed.”

Bile rises to my throat. I swallow hard, which does nothing to push back the encroaching dread. “We have furniture. Cars. Jewelry.”

He scoffs. “That won’t even make a dent.”

Before I can counter with anything else, he shoots out a hand. His thick fingers close around my arm with a grip tight enough to send lightning bolts of pain across my shoulder.

“Let go of me.” I try to yank free, but his hold is iron.

The men part as he marches me toward a grimy truck. It’s the kind of vehicle that’s almost certainly held captives. He’ll toss me in the back with his buddies, and they’ll take turns softening me up for a life of sex slavery. I’ll service lowlife after lowlife in a world of degradation and pain. Then, when I’m too old or beaten down to appeal to clients, they’ll harvest my organs.

Stomach churning, I throw myself backward, desperate to escape his grip. No matter how much I fight, it’s futile, and dread tightens like a vice around my chest.

With a scream, Mom hurls herself at the man, but he shoves her to the ground. She drops to her ass, her breasts falling free from her neckline. The men surrounding us snicker. Bossanova helps her off the driveway, his leathery fingers fumbling with her nipples.

My heart races, the familiar clutch of fear morphing into something darker, harder. Rage surges, hot and blinding, burning away my panic. My fists clench, and the edges of my vision turn black.

Nobody humiliates my mother.

“Get the fuck out of here,” I scream, my voice cracking. “I belong to Benito Montesano.”

Stiffening, his grip around my arm relaxes. “What the fuck did you say?”

Dread plummets through my stomach. I said those words in the heat of the moment. The last person I want to drag into thismess is an ex with a grudge, but backing down will earn me a one-way trip into that truck.

“Montesano?” he asks, his heavy features flickering with suspicion.

Sharp claws of fear rake through my chest. “He proposed to me yesterday,” I croak. “Took me to his penthouse in a limo and demanded my hand in marriage.”

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