Page 73 of Stalking Ginevra

“You heard the man.” Bellavista aims at his son’s chest and fires.

A gunshot echoes through the gazebo, and the younger Bellavista stumbles back, collapsing onto a side table.

My stomach plummets, and my fingers twitch toward my weapon, but I keep them on the table. The boys I brought with me gasp. I grew up with assholes pulling out guns at the dinner table, but nobody who mattered ever got shot.

Screaming, the maids flee into the garden.

Bellavista sets the gun on the table and turns back to me, acting like he didn’t just shoot his own flesh and blood over a few million dollars. “Is this to your satisfaction, Benito?”

My brows rise. I sure as fuck didn’t ask for this.

“The counterfeit chips will be neutralized by the close of business tonight,” he adds.

I incline my head, acting like I see this kind of shit every day. “My team will send a breakdown of our losses. I expect the money in our account within twenty-four hours.”

THIRTY-ONE

GINEVRA

I drive through town, gripping the steering wheel tight enough to break through the leather. The city blurs around my periphery into gray buildings, shadowy trees, and people moving like ghosts.

All I can see is Martina beneath Terranova, her betrayal burning a hole through my soul.

Or is itmybetrayal?

I should have noticed something—anything happening between my father and best friend. Instead, my life was consumed by men. Benito was my everything. I lost myself in his protection, his love, his unwavering devotion. Then Samson was demanding and abusive. There was little left over for Martina.

How I wish I could turn back time.

My navigation app directs me to Bossanova’s building, one of the exclusive apartment blocks overlooking the park. As I walk through the marble lobby on autopilot, my mind spins with her parting words.

The elevator chimes, breaking me out of my musings. Its doors slide open, revealing Bossanova’s penthouse, which looks like a trip back to 1974.

I glance at the dark wall panels, wondering why on earth someone would sacrifice the light. Crossing the large living space, I cringe at the shaggy, burnt-orange carpet muffling my steps.

Scattered light dances from a disco ball hanging from the ceiling, casting tiny reflections across the dark walls. I shake my head, my lip curling at how this place mirrors its owner’s faded decadence and his desperate attempts to cling to his youth.

“Mom?” I call out.

“Balcony.”

Pushing aside my unease, I move through a bank of leather couches, and pass a perspex coffee table cluttered with old magazines and crystal ashtrays.

Beyond a set of floor-to-ceiling windows, I spot Mom reclining on a chaise with a martini glass. For reasons I can’t fathom, she’s wearing a white bikini.

I step out onto the balcony, my gaze dropping to what’s in her drink. From the bottle resting within a bucket filled with ice, I’m guessing it’s champagne.

She turns to me, her eyes glassy. “Ginny, darling, What’s wrong?”

My lips purse. Mom said she wasn’t an alcoholic. Was that another lie, because she’s playing the part like a seasoned actress.

I suck in a deep breath, pushing past the accusation clawing at my throat. “Did you know?”

Mom’s brow furrows. “Know what?”

“That Dad was having an affair with Martina.”

She stares at me for several heartbeats, as if trying to piece together what I’ve said. Then, her expression shifts andconfusion gives way to fury. Hand trembling, she sets the glass down on a low table.

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