Page 92 of Stalking Ginevra

The door clicks shut behind him. I turn back to the footage, my focus snapping to Ginevra. The pressure in my chest builds, hardening into a knot. What the fuck will happen next?

Onscreen, the men back off, their figures retreating toward the truck. Ginevra remains sitting on her ass, trembling and too paralyzed to act.

I give her a count of ten to move, but she doesn’t. I drum my fingers against the desk to the beat of my frustration. She should be up by now, getting in the car, driving straight to my casino.

I exhale through clenched teeth, my patience fraying with each second. She’s testing the limits of my patience. If this doesn’t push her into my arms, will I need to stage that fucking auction?

“Come on, Ginevra. Get up.”

She doesn’t budge. The truck’s tail lights flicker as they vanish into the night, leaving her alone in the driveway. It takes every effort not to rise off my seat, drive down to Victoria Gardens, and take control.

Her hesitation grates on my nerves, sharpening my anger to a razor point. If this isn’t enough to light a fire under her delectable ass, I’ll have to switch tactics.

My fingers twitch toward the phone. Bossanova could marry her mother tonight if I give the order. I could arrange the whole thing within hours—a quick, casino ceremony with a courier sending her a polaroid attached to a slice of wedding cake.

Then she’ll come running, begging for my protection. And I won’t even need to stage the auction.

At last, she stirs. My eyes narrow as she rises, moving like she’s dragging herself out of a nightmare. She walks to the car, and for a moment, I think she’s finally going to drive straight to me. But then she stops, opens the door, and grabs her purse.

Frustration surges, my fingers clenching around the table. She’s still stalling, still refusing to do what I expect. That car should be on its way here, not sitting idle in that driveway. She’s wasting time, and my patience is wearing thin.

A second knock, harder this time, drags my attention from the screen.

“What?” I yell.

The door opens, and the security chief stands in the doorway, his face set in a grim line. “We’ve caught another one trying to cash in counterfeit chips. It’s a woman who says she got them from Bellavista.”

I leap to my feet, unable to ignore the opportunity to meet the ringleader.

“Fine.” I snap and follow him out, my thoughts remaining with Ginevra.

She has the next three hours to reach the casino or I’ll take action.

As we step into the elevator, Malfi’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Bellavista must be more involved in the counterfeit chips than you thought.”

I bristle, barely suppressing a snarl. “Is this your way of telling me Bellavista is making me run around in circles?”

He flinches. “No, sir. I just?—“

“You let your predecessor flood the casino with counterfeit chips and didn’t gather a shred of intel?”

The elevator doors slide shut with a metallic thud, leaving Malfi shuffling on his feet. He stares at the floor, muttering something about needing to keep his job. He will, until one of my Mortis House boys grows into the role. I make a mental note to ask Reaper if any of them would be interested.

“Any leads on his crew?” I ask.

“Not yet. We haven’t yet interrogated the last woman we detained for trying to cash the chips.”

The doors open, letting in flashing lights, clinking chips, jumbled conversation and laughter. Normally, the casino is invigorating. Tonight, it barely registers.

We weave through the crowd toward the back offices, and it takes every effort to keep my thoughts away from Ginevra. Whatever she decides to do tonight, I’ll counter with a contingency plan. It’s only a matter of time before she becomes mine.

Malfi leads me into the interrogation room where a pale, jittery woman awaits. A black curtain of hair hides her features, but she’s dressed in a low-cut cocktail gown that showcases her assets.

Not bothering with pleasantries, I slam my fist on the table, making her startle.

Her head snaps up, and she stares at me through wide eyes smudged with mascara.

“Start talking.” I snarl.

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