Page 81 of Stalking Ginevra

This is almost what I wanted—to see her stripped bare, exposed.

But at Benito’s mercy and in my fucking casino.

I continue shaving that sweet pussy until all that’s left is a tiny strip. Then I place the flat of the blade over her clit and growl, “What do you want from me?”

She breathes hard, her body freezing. Her legs tremble the harder I press the metal to her swollen bud.

“Talk unless you want to bleed,” I order, my patience wearing thin.

She whispers, “I need you to kill a man for me.”

My jaw drops. Cold betrayal twists in my gut, but I force it down, keeping my grip on the knife. The Ginevra I loved was gentle and sweet until she plunged a dagger into my heart.

“Who do you want me to kill?” I ask, keeping my voice even.

She hesitates, her breath quickening. “Not until you agree.”

I flash a bitter smile. She dares to bargain with me now? Drawing back, I kick her legs open, holding them in place with my knees. I flip the knife, pressing the hilt at her soaking entrance.

Her body tenses once more, and she gasps. “Torture me all you want, but I won’t talk.”

I push the hilt into her pussy, watching the way she writhes beneath my control, the mixture of pleasure and shame contorting her face. Ginevra is a dirty girl, but I’m prepared to go lower.

“You want me to murder Mr. Montesano?”

“No,” she says through clenched teeth.

My chest loosens at not being the target of her animosity. I move the hilt in and out, the slick sound of it filling the room as she bucks against my grip, her body betraying her resolve. Her breath hitches, her moans growing louder, more desperate.

“Then tell me who.”

Her eyes flutter closed, her body arching off the bed as she tries to resist the inevitable. But she’s lost in the sensation, in this twisted pleasure.

“Say the name,” I roar. “Who do you want dead?”

Sweat drips down my forehead, soaking into the collar of my armor. My breathing labors, and my chest tightens with the effort of holding back. I need Ginevra so badly it hurts, but I need her submission even more.

“Say it.”

Her body jerks as she reaches the breaking point, and with a final burst of desperation, she screams, “You, you fucking asshole. Bob Brisket!”

THIRTY-FIVE

GINEVRA

I’m aching the next morning. It’s a dull throb that sharpens every time I shift in the driver’s seat. Morning light streams through the windshield, making me squint, but the glare pierces my eyes. I grind my teeth, trying to keep my focus on the road. But Brisket’s touch lingers like a stain I can’t scrub clean.

What the hell is his obsession? The question twists in my mind like a knife. I thought I could play him, use his fixation to my advantage. Instead, I’m left with an aching pussy to remind me I’m still caught in his web.

The streets are a blur. No one else is awake yet, the city still sleeping off the night. But I can’t rest. Not while Mom is in peril. She called early this morning to announce they’ve set a date for Friday and are buying a dress.

Over my dead body.

I speed through a yellow light, too lost in thought to care. Mom’s waiting for me to help pick her outfit, and Bossanova is probably already sizing her up for a coffin. I can’t let her go through with this ridiculous scheme.

After pulling into a spot outside the Dolce Vita Boutique, I kill the engine and step out. It’s time to shake some sense into Mom.

The boutique reeks of money—soft lighting, plush carpets, and racks of dresses that scream excess. I push through the door, and the bell overhead chimes, turning everyone’s heads. Mom sits up from where she’s perched on a velvet settee, with Bossanova breathing down her neck.

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