Page 93 of Stalking Ginevra

She stammers, her words tumbling over each other in a desperate scramble. I catch snippets—promises of easy money, threats from unseen figures—but my thoughts keep drifting back to Ginevra. That wretched woman won’t even allow me to focus on the casino’s biggest financial drain.

“Names. Locations,” I snap, cutting through her babble.

She flinches, swallowing hard before spilling more details. As Malfi scribbles notes, it takes every effort to remain focussed.

I glare down at the woman, unimpressed. “Who sold you the chips?”

Her throat bobs. “He said he’d kill me?—“

“Which is better than what I’ll do to you if you don’t talk.” I flick my head to Malfi. “Did you scan her phone?”

“Of course.”

“Send out a team to drag in her family. I want parents, siblings, lovers, kids?—“

“Wait,” she shrieks. “It was Victor. Victor Bellavista.”

My brows rise. “Which one is he?”

“Salvatore’s brother? He said it would be okay, since the chief of security uses the same chips.”

I whirl around to glare at Malfi, who raises his palms. “She isn’t talking about me!”

“What else?” I ask the woman.

“That’s everything,” she rasps, her eyes shiny with unshed tears.

I nod to Malfi. “Turn her over to Lorenzo. He’ll verify her story.”

Malfi crosses the room to grip her arm, and I walk out into the hallway. Once the door closes, I allow myself a moment to breathe, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension.

Salvatore Bellavista’s younger brother?

Since the man he shot was his son, then either Salvatore is trying to protect Victor, or Victor is an impostor. That would make sense, considering Salvatore went to great measures to reimburse the casino’s losses. He wouldn’t allow the scammer to continue targeting my establishment, but then the only person capable of creating those chips has to be connected to BV Holdings.

Only further interrogation will uncover the truth.

I should be back in my office, watching the feed from Ginevra’s driveway. I should be drinking whiskey, enjoying the sight of my future wife battling through her options.

Instead, I have a conspiracy to uncover. That will mean talking to every asshole we capture tonight who even touches one of those counterfeit chips.

FORTY-ONE

GINEVRA

I pull up at the casino. Its neon lights illuminate the street, casting an unforgiving glow on my reflection. Panic claws at my insides. My hair’s a mess, my makeup’s smudged, and my clothes are smeared with fuck knows what.

God, I look like I’ve crawled out of hell.

The thought of Benito seeing me like this makes my intestines twist into painful knots, but there’s no time to fix my appearance. No point. Not when my insides are shredded. Not when every vein courses with hopelessness. Not when sharks are circling me like I’m filling the water with blood.

I drag myself out of the car and force each trembling step toward the entrance.

Inside, the noise hits me like a tsunami—clinking chips, murmured voices, bursts of laughter. It’s all too loud, too bright. I want to curl up and die. Instead, I push through the unease because I need Benito more than I need to breathe.

The air here is thick with the scent of expensive cologne and desperation, and not just mine. It’s the kind that clings to the gamblers hunched over slot machines, hoping for a miracle. Iweave through a crowd of sharp suits and glittering gowns to reach the reception desk.

The woman behind it looks up from her computer, her cold gaze sweeping over the suspicious stains on my clothes. Her lips curl into a sneer but she doesn’t voice her contempt.

---