Page 58 of Stalking Ginevra

Good. Let them sweat.

Roman and I hosted a lunch with the new leadership team—twelve men and women who sat around him like it was the last fucking supper. They’re about to discover their messiah went home, leaving me in charge.

“This casino’s future depends on us accounting for every dollar.” I stride to the head of the boardroom table and take a seat. My boys flank me on my left and right like sentinels. “Before you take on your new positions, understand that financial transparency is non-negotiable.”

In other words, mistakes will be punished.

I let the words hang, my gaze sweeping the room. Most of my new employees nod, eager to show they’re on board. But there’s always one.

The head of security sits back in his chair with his arms crossed, his greasy lips pulling into a smirk. He thinks he’s untouchable because my brother shook his hand. “Thought Roman would be the boss. The heir, not the spare.”

My jaw ticks but I don’t flinch. A chill settles over my skin, and tension thickens in my gut, threatening to burst. The other department heads shift in their seats, their gazes darting everywhere but at me. I meet the asshole’s eyes, letting the silence stretch until his smirk falters.

“Roman is the head of the Montesano family,” I say, my voice even. “And I’m the head of this casino.”

He holds my gaze, likely thinking he can push my limits.

Fool.

Rising off my seat, I close the distance between us, timing my footsteps to the pounding of my pulse. “Tell me something, Mr. Malfi” I murmur, leaning in just enough that my breath brushes his cheek. “How did you get your sudden promotion?”

Smirk fading, his shoulders stiffen. “Hard work.”

What a comedian. I place a hand on his shoulder. “And your predecessor?” I whisper. “Would you like to know where he is right now?”

Malfi swallows hard, his breath quickening. He and the others know what happened last night, even if they don’t have the details. An entire casino management team doesn’t just disappear into thin air without a mass murder. Mass murder is how we clawed our way back into power.

“Do you want to keep your job, Mr. Malfi?” I ask, my voice low.

His jaw clenches, his features flickering between fight or surrender. I maintain the pressure, my fingers tightening around his shoulders hard enough to bruise.

“Yes, I want to keep my job,” he grits out through clenched teeth.

“Then stop acting like an asshole, or you’ll end up like the others.”

He lowers his gaze, muttering an apology that barely passes for sincere. I’ll watch Malfi carefully. Assholes serve their purpose, but at the first sign of treachery, he’ll burn like the rest.

As I ease off, his shoulders sag, and his breath finally evens. I let my hand linger a moment longer, and turn my gaze to the rest of the management. “If you’re not up to the task, there’s the door.”

I release Malfi’s shoulder and take my seat, leaving the room heavy with silence. They’ve seen what happens when someone pushes back. Now, it’s time to remind them who’s in control.

With a click of my fingers, I order one of the Mortis House boys to toss a thick file onto the table. The thud echoes across the room, cutting through the tension. My men close in, each occupying a space between the department heads.

I steeple my fingers. “Last night, we reviewed the financials. Each section has varying amounts of discrepancies.”

Their eyes flick to the file, then back to me. Nobody needs to see the numbers to know what’s inside. Direct theft, embezzlement, or incompetence. I don’t care if it’s a mistake or intentional. The result will be the same.

“These could be innocent errors,” I say, letting the words hang. “Or they could be evidence of a casino-wide attempt at grand theft.”

Some department heads flush. Others heads break into a sweat. Some even shift in their seats. One thing is for certain. No one wants to be the first to speak.

I let them squirm, building the pressure until someone finally breaks. Seconds later, the head of hospitality shoots out from his seat. He’s a bald, round-faced man, whose cheeks glow with the force of his anger.

“You’re setting us up,” he yells. “I’ve been here for years and never been accused of stealing.”

I let him continue, let the words tumble out in a belligerent rant. While he protests his innocence, I survey the room, finding others nodding. Malfi, however, sits as still as death.

With a flick of my head, I signal to the Mortis boy stationed on the man’s right. He steps forward, reaches into his jacket and extracts a gun. It hits the table with a dull thud, ending his diatribe.

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