Page 75 of Stalking Ginevra

Mom flinches, her features flickering with guilt. She turns her gaze away from mine and stares down at her manicured fingers. “I’m sorry, Ginny. I thought I was protecting us by letting you handle it on your own.”

My lips part with a gasp. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Celebrating without me?”

Bossanova steps out onto the balcony, dressed in a burgundy smoking jacket and a silk cravat. He saunters toward the ice bucket and picks up the bottle.

“Celebrating what?” I pull away from them, my hackles rising.

Chuckling, he refreshes Mom’s glass. “We’ve got all the paperwork in place to set a date.”

My stomach heaves, bringing up a wave of nausea that hits the back of my throat. I reel on my feet, my vision flickering with a wedding, a murder, a life-insurance payout, and the electric chair. My gaze swings to Mom, who beams up at Bossanova like he's skinny Santa.

Panic claws at the edges of my mind, and my heart pounds faster than a drumroll. I need to stop this wedding, end this madness before one of these two get killed.

Mom sips her glass with a demure smile and flutters her lashes at the old leathery bastard who grins back with teeth sharper than any crocodile’s.

He raises the bottle in a mock toast, his gaze never leaving mine. “To new beginnings. And to prosperity.”

Mom clinks her glass against his bottle, oblivious that she’s out of her depth. Bossanova is an efficient killing machine, and Mom is too drunk to see the sword of Damocles hanging over her head.

It’s time for me to do something to save her from herself.

Maybe I can get help from Bob Brisket?

THIRTY-TWO

BENITO

The moment I step through the front doors of our house, the weight of the day hits me with a kick to the balls.

My deadly encounter with Bellavista fades, as does the clamor of the casino. Back home, I’m the prince in the tower, the spare who takes second place to Roman. I shake off that treacherous thought. He’s handed me an empire I intend to restore to greatness.

I stride through the marble hallway, passing staff who offer polite nods. Roman called a family dinner tonight, and I’m obligated to bring a date. I would have brought Reaper, but my brothers would jump to the wrong conclusions. Cesare already calls me a eunuch.

Before I can even shrug off my jacket and mount the stairs, Gil appears from the dining room and steps in my path. Since Roman left prison, Gil has become his right hand and seems more focused on the family business than either of our brothers.

“We’ve got a problem,” he mutters.

I resist the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose. “What is it now?”

“Allegra Visconti was found stabbed to death in her car.”

The name doesn’t ring any kind of bell. I stare at Gil, waiting for him to elaborate.

“Cesare’s ex who ran the karaoke bar,” he adds.

I flinch, my stomach plummeting. Roman mentioned that another of Cesare’s women was murdered last week, but a second? I bite back a curse, forcing down a wave of alarm. “Where was he when it happened?”

Gil leans close enough for me to smell his cologne. “That’s the problem.” He lowers his voice. “Nobody knows. I would confront him, but that’s something best left to a brother.”

Right. Because Cesare has a temper. Some poor bastard struck his little assassin, and Cesare shot him in front of the men. It took Gil and Sofia forming a human shield to stop him from tearing through the ranks. Bullshit like that is what leads to families getting stabbed in the back.

“What about Roman?” I ask.

Gil shrugs. “He confronted Cesare the last time.”

The implication is clear: it’s my turn to deal with our potential serial killer. Before I can work out the best way to accuse him of murdering another ex, a shrill voice cuts through the hallway.

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