Page 74 of Stalking Ginevra

“What did you say?” she whispers.

“Martina was sleeping with Dad. I found out today.”

Color drains from her face. She jerks her head away, staring out at the park as if she can find the answers among the trees. “I knew he was having an affair,” she murmurs, the words weighted with resignation. “But Martina... I didn’t know it was her.”

I wait for Mom to elaborate. Wait for her to bring up any encounters she might have noticed while I was away visiting Benito. Martina said Dad groomed her during the times I wasn’t home. Where the hell was Mom?

“Aren’t you shocked?”

She shakes her head. “Not particularly.”

My blood simmers. “How can you be so calm about this?”

Mom finally turns to face me, her eyes softening. It’s rare to see her lucid. Even rarer for her to show emotion. I straighten, bracing myself for what she might say next.

“Ginny, you forget that he targeted my cousin. Jennifer was sixteen when they first met. I doubt she was his first underage girl, or the last.”

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. It’s easy to forget that the woman who raised me isn’t my birth mother. I tear my gaze away, staring at my feet, unable to withstand the intensity of her eyes.

“Everything in my life has been a lie,” I mutter.

Mom reaches out and grabs my hand. “My love for you has always been true.”

I meet her gaze again, allowing myself to sink into the comfort of her touch. Mom is one of the few people in the world who doesn’t resent me. Years ago, I would have included Benito. Now, there’s no mistaking his contempt.

“How can you just accept it?” I ask.

Sighing, she pulls me down to her chaise. “When you’ve been hurt so much, you learn to bury it deep.”

We sit together in silence, leaning on each other for support. I stare out across the balcony at the treetops swaying in the breeze. So much has changed since Dad’s murder, only I can’t tell if it’s for the worse.

We’re broke, but that’s no better than living off stolen money. Instead of a violent fiancé, I have Bob Brisket, and Martina has finally shown her true face. At least she’s no longer holding back her seething resentment.

I could also say the same for Benito.

She releases my hand to pick up her glass. “Have you found another job yet?”

I cock my head, trying to process the abrupt change in subject. Of all the things going wrong in our lives, she’s worried about my career? “I have bigger concerns.”

Mom sets down the glass, her gaze sharpening to study my face. “What do you mean?”

My brows rise. Has she already forgotten the loan sharks? We both know I lied about my engagement. They’ll return the moment they realize the truth. But talking about them will only bring up her suicidal plan to marry Bossanova.

“I have a stalker.”

She downs her glass, her brow furrowing. “Who?”

“He calls himself Bob Brisket,” I mutter.

“Has he hurt you?”

The question lands like a punch to the gut, knocking out lungfuls of air. I picture the day I opened up about the forced engagement. How Mom looked sober on the sofa, looking sober, only for her eyes to droop.

Where was this concern when I complained to her about Samson or tried to show her my bruises? Memories flood back,hot and sharp, of times she was too drunk for my complaints to register. I learned to hide my pain because having it brushed off hurt worse than any type of abuse.

Was that another act? Her way of evading confrontation? Old resentments rise to the surface, propelling me off the chaise.

Needing space to breathe, I place a hand over my chest. “Nobody ever hurt me worse than Samson.”

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