Page 62 of Stalking Ginevra

I wait for her to complete that sentence. When she doesn’t, I reach into my pocket and pull out a burner phone. “Call Mr. Montesano. Tell him all the filthy things we’ve done together. If he still wants you, I’ll walk out of this door and leave you alone.”

Her lips tighten. “I’m not lying. Benito really did propose.”

And she walked out without a reply. I don’t voice that in case she mistakes me for Reaper, who she passed at the elevator. The last thing I need is for her to become obsessed with my right hand.

I cock my head. “Who are you trying to convince, little liar? Yourself or me? Strip!”

With trembling fingers, she fumbles at her suit jacket, peeling it off to reveal nipples protruding through her shirt. I let out a low growl of approval, the sound reverberating to my cock.

“You love degradation,” I say, holding back a surge of contempt.

“I don’t,” she whispers.

“What was that?” I cup my hand behind the part of the visor concealing my ear. “I didn’t catch what you said.”

“Nothing,” she spits, hurling the jacket in my face.

Chuckling, I fold it in half, place it on a stool, and gesture for her to go up on stage. Thank fuck this visor conceals my smile. Her venomous glare feeds my inner darkness.

Ginevra was never so entertaining when we were together. I spent my time running around, catering to her every whim just to earn a fleeting smile.

Five years apart has cleared my head of that unhealthy obsession. I’ve grown from that little boy who spotted her in our kitchens and made her my idol. She became the center of my universe, my reason for breathing. She was my deity, and I was her number one acolyte.

Now, my little goddess is about to fall off her pedestal.

She storms across the club, every step fueled by resentment, before ascending the stairs to the stage.

I reach behind the bar and pick up the remote that activates the lighting. A press of the button bathes her in crimson, accentuating her rage and lust. Then, I hit the switch that starts the music.

Ginevra begins to move, awkward at first, her limbs uncoordinated and stiff. I never knew she was so clumsy. It’s almost endearing. Then she kicks off her shoes, shooting me a furious glower. I’m too busy fixating on her nipples, which harden to betray her arousal.

Picking up the bucket of champagne and her flute, I cross the room and stand at the foot of the stage. This was one of many private members’ clubs Dad ran when he was alive. We had to shut it down shortly after Roman’s conviction when Capello lured away our workers.

I don’t blame the lower-level employees who moved on to work for the backstabber. They had families to feed. WithRoman out of action and us confined to Alderney Hill, the Montesano empire was crumbling. But Dad’s lieutenants left in a stampede, having arranged their defection before Capello even engineered his death.

Our family still owns this useless piece of real estate, along with many others in this run-down part of town. For now, it serves my purposes. I can continue hiring her as Bob Brisket until she either quits her job or comes running into my arms.

The music stops, as do Ginevra’s movements.

“There,” she snaps. “I’ve given you a private dance. Now, may I return to the office?”

As the next track fills the speakers, I slide the champagne flute across the stage. “You’re wearing too many clothes.”

She picks up the glass, downs its contents, and hurls it at my helmet. “Fuck you!”

Broken glass flies everywhere, making me chuckle. I reach down, pick up a piece, and hold it like a shank. “Are you offering?”

With a shriek, she skitters back and resumes her dance. This time, her movements are fluid, as if she’s done this before. My gut tightens, jealousy twisting like a knife. Did she dance like this for Samson Capello?

All thoughts of that bastard evaporate when she loosens the button of her shirt, giving me a tantalizing peek of cleavage.

Groaning, I shift on my feet, my cock lengthening and thickening to the point of pain. It’s not like I haven’t already seen her naked. This is the first time she’s taken off her clothes for me without the encouragement of a knife.

Tossing aside the shank, I focus on the rest of the show. Ginevra unbuttons her shirt, revealing a lace bra, black against her pale skin, a pretty contrast that makes my pulse quicken. Her flat stomach draws my attention, each taut little muscle quivering with strain.

She turns around, giving me a view of the curve of her ass. My breath catches. From the front, she’s the goddess of flames and fury. From the back, she’s my dirty little girl.

When she glances at me over her shoulder, my knees buckle. I brace a palm on the stage, wondering if I’ll ever grow out of being her simp. This version of Ginevra tantalizes me even more than the groveling girl I haunt at night.

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