Page 6 of Stalking Ginevra

With the entirety of my sexual experience limited to that single blow job and jerking off in her name, what could I possibly offer a woman like Ginevra Di Marco?

Revenge.

I will terrorize her from the shadows, unravel her perfect life, and make her regret the day she left. She’ll pay for the wound she inflicted on my soul—that’s a pleasure I intend to draw out until she breaks.

And when she shatters, I will pick up her pretty little pieces and make them mine.

“Enjoy the slumber while you can,” I murmur. “The game has only just begun.”

THREE

GINEVRA

My head pounds as though I’ve had too many sleeping pills, but I didn’t take even one.

I only meant to sleep three hours, but I was out like a stubbed cigarette. By the time I crack open an eye, all traces of sunlight have gone, as has the rest of the work day.

My only saving grace is that I now own Dad’s law firm.

Pain lances through my chest. He’s been gone for five days. Murdered in the master suite. For reasons I can’t fathom, Mom moved back in the moment the police completed their investigation.

They said it was the work of a professional, who left no traces, save for the long, blonde hair on the pillow. Mom said Dad was having an affair with one of the lawyers at the firm, but it’s ridiculous. He’d been busy with Capello business. The only other people he consorted with were Martina, Julian, and a few male legal assistants.

Memories from last night rise from the dregs of my mind.

Samson is as good as dead.

When I peeped through the closet door, Cesare Montesano was removing a bullet from his stomach and stitching him together for further torture. It’s only a matter of time before my psycho ex succumbs to his revenge. After last week’s massacre, Samson is the only Capello left standing.

Another memory shoves itself forward. The masked man whose cock I had to suck to avoid getting shot. He didn’t see my face through the ropes encasing my eyes. All I was to him was a warm mouth.

He was probably one of the small militia of men who’ve guarded the mansion at the top of the hill since Mr. Montesano died and Roman was framed for murder. Benito and Cesare have kept a low profile since their big brother was on death row. I’m not surprised the family is fighting back now that he’s been exonerated.

Despite needing to apologize to Benito for Dad’s part in his family’s downfall, I plan on staying out of their way—at least until the dust settles.

My mind drifts back to that blow job. The way he moaned as his thick erection slid down my throat. Samson never let me near his cock after that first time. I’ve spent five years being forced to humiliate myself with toys for his amusement.

He used to force me to prove myself worthy of his supposedly huge dick, but I can’t even remember it from the first time.

Maybe the rumors are right and some hooker bit it clean off then chewed the pieces and swallowed them so there was nothing to sew back. It’s far-fetched and stretches the realms of reality, but would explain a hell of a lot.

“Ginny?” Mom calls from downstairs.

“What?” I shout back.

She remains silent. That’s her way of telling me to come down and find out.

Shoulders sagging, I drag myself out of bed, slip on a robe, and exit the room. This is probably about Dad’s funeral. She wants to leave him in the morgue to rot, even though our family has a mausoleum in the Parisii Cemetery. Every time I suggest cremating him, she scoffs.

“Mom?”

More silence.

Rolling my eyes, I continue down the hallway and descend the stairs. Each tread creaks under foot because our mansion only looks grand in a brochure. Everything is fake and in need of repair, from the linoleum floors pretending to be marble, to the peeling faucets. What they say about all things glittering not being gold is true.

We moved from a perfectly nice townhouse a five-minute walk from the subway to this monstrosity, just so Dad could be closer to Frederic Capello. Now that they’re both dead, we’re stranded.

When I reach the bottom of the stairs in search of Mom, a tall figure appears at an open doorway. My stomach plummets to my feet. Fake tan, salt-and-pepper hair, tailored suit, and a brilliant white smile. I’d recognize that deceptive facade anywhere.

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