Page 72 of Stalking Ginevra

“You have cameras,” he mutters. “Shouldn’t your security team catch the culprits?”

“If it were that simple, I’d have lined them up at the parking lot and put them out of their misery,” I snap. “This isn’t a few idiots slipping past security. It’s a large-scale operation, with a small army of people coming in and out of the casino. It’s only possible because these chips contain your proprietary security measures.”

Bellavista clicks his fingers. “Phone!”

One of the maids scurries forward with a handset. The old man snatches it from her grasp, dials a number and mutters something I don’t catch. Then a second maid brings a stack of pancakes, topped with thick slices of pineapple and ham then slathers it with syrup.

This silence is a power play. A weaker man would rise off his seat and demand answers. A nervous man would fill the void with threats. I have Reaper and a small militia waiting at the gates, ready to shed blood.

As Bellavista plows through his breakfast, the boys and I refuse the maids’ offer of refreshment. Just as the old man drains his coffee cup, a slimmer, younger version of him scuttles in, wiping his hands with a cloth.

His gaze darts to us before he turns to Bellavista and says, “Yes, Dad?”

Bellavista sets down his cup. “Antonio, how did counterfeit chips end up in Casino Montesano?”

The younger man’s eyes widen, his brow glistening with a sheen of sweat. “I... I don’t know. I swear. What are you talking about?”

I recline in my chair watching the back and forth. It continues until Bellavista slams his fist on the table, upending his half-eaten stack of pancakes.

“You’re embarrassing me, boy!”

A maid rushes forward to clear the mess, but the old man shoves her back. She stumbles to the side, only to be caught by a colleague.

Antonio clears his throat. “I sold a few duplicate chips to a woman named Beatrice.”

“Beatrice what?” Bellavista spits.

The younger man swallows hard. “I don’t know her last name. She approached me a few years ago, saying she needed chips for a private game. I didn’t think?—”

“You didn’t think, this stranger would take the chips to bleed a casino dry?”

My jaw clenches. This is a charade. The only part about it that’s unclear is whether Bellavista is working with his son.

Antonio shifts on his feet, avoiding his father’s glare. “I can pass on her information... All I did was sell her a few chips. Blame her.”

I lean forward, my fingers steepling, and add, “I blame you.”

He flinches, but the old man only scowls.

“BV Holdings guarantees these chips.” I strike the table with my index finger to emphasize the point. “You will neutralize the counterfeits immediately, refund every cent stolen from this scam, and punish the perpetrators.”

Bellavista nods, his features pinching. “Consider it done.”

I turn to the son, my gaze hardening. “Starting with the bastard who helped steal from my casino using your name.”

Panic dances across Antonio’s features, his eyes darting as he opens his mouth to speak.

But before a single syllable can escape his lips, his father extracts a gun from beneath the table.

Alarm punches me in the chest. I hold still, despite the surge of adrenaline. My heart pounds against the bulletproof undershirt, reminding me that our heads are unprotected.

The boys on either side of me draw their weapons. I, however, remain unmoving. I grew up in a mafia stronghold, where hot-headed bastards flashed their guns at every opportunity. Everything is bullshit until someone pulls the trigger.

“Benito,” Reaper’s voice infiltrates my earpiece. “Give me the go-ahead to launch the grenades.”

Ignoring him, I focus on the old man with the gun. The cameras in my glasses are broadcasting Bellavista’s movements. Reaper will launch into action if any of us get shot.

“Dad?” Antonio croaks.

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