Page 7 of Stalking Ginevra

It’s Valentino Bossanova, but you may as well call him Bluebeard. Over the decades, he’s collected on more multi-million dollar life insurance policies than I’ve collected degrees. Every few years, he marries some gullible woman, only for her to meet an unfortunate end. Then when he runs out of money, he goes sniffing for another victim.

What the hell is he doing here?

“Little Ginny Di Marco.” He struts forward, his gaze raking over my silk gown. “My, how you’ve grown.”

I shudder. He’s no silver fox—he’s a wolf.

“What brings you here?” I ask, my voice stiff. “Have you come to pay your respects to Dad?”

He places a hand over his heart. “Ginny, I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

“It’s Ginevra,” I reply through clenched teeth.

Mom’s footsteps resound from the stairs leading down to the kitchen. Don’t ask me why a 12,000 square foot, pseudo-Georgian mansion needs industrial-sized cooking facilities in its basement.

I turn my attention away from Bossanova to where Mom emerges, holding two martini glasses.

“What’s that?” I snap.

“Relax,” she slurs and hands one to Bossanova. “I’m sober.”

Lips tightening, I force my gaze from the cream sweater sliding down her shoulder to her eyes. They’re just like mine—a mid-gray that changes color, depending on the light. Right now, they’re bloodshot.

Does it count as a relapse if a person is in denial of their alcoholism and just needs a few drinks to get through the shock of finding her husband murdered while he may or may not have been in bed with another woman?

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“You know Val?” she asks back. “He’s come to pay his respects.”

Bossanova turns to me, his handsome, leather features falling grave. “Your father was a prince among men. I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

I grind my teeth. One of the downsides of working for a law firm with mafia clients is tolerating low-lives. Bossanova is related to the Bellavista family, our second-largest client outside the Capellos. Part of our customer service includes giving their relatives an occasional helping hand.

Somehow, Dad has managed to force multiple life insurance companies to pay up, even though Bossanova is a serial widower. Even though his wives all die within twelve months of marriageunder suspicious circumstances. Even though his brother and fellow grifter, Gianni Bossanova, is on Death Row for being caught on camera shoving his wife down the stairs to claim the insurance money.

Dad was a great attorney but even he couldn’t work miracles. With luck, Valentino will follow his brother into the electric chair.

Bossanova brings the martini glass to his lips and gives me what he probably thinks is a smoldering stare. Some people say he has bedroom eyes. Ever since I discovered what he and his brother do to innocent women, all I see is the human embodiment of the grim reaper.

“Thank you,” I say, remembering he just offered his condolences.

I glance at Mom. “Should you really be drinking that?”

She offers me a boozy smile. “It’s only my second.”

It’s probably her fourth.

Bossanova clears his throat. “Actually, Ginevra, I have something serious to ask you.”

My spine stiffens. I clench my jaw, holding back a reaction. This is the moment he tells me the insurance company refused to pay out on his latest wife’s accidental death. That, or the firms have finally caught up with his bullshit and decided not to sell him a policy.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Losanna and I have been friends for a while. I’ve always held your mother in the highest esteem.”

My gaze darts to Mom, who sways on her feet, holding a now empty martini glass.

“What’s this about?” I ask again, my stomach churning.

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