Page 97 of Stalking Ginevra

The irony isn’t lost on me—both of us are obsessed, willing to burn the world down for women who don’t deserve our loyalty. It’s not surprising we get along so well.

He glances over my shoulder. “So, where’s the blushing bride?”

I blow out a long breath. “The officiant is playing musical chairs with my wedding plans, Roman’s hijacked my honeymoon suite, and now Ginevra’s throwing a fit over a dress. If that isn’t enough to ruin a man’s night, I don’t know what is.”

Reaper’s smirk fades. “Sounds like you’ve got your hands full.”

“That’s an understatement.” I mutter and steer us both back toward the casino’s main floor. The air fills with the sound of chatter, clinking chips, and bursts of laughter, but the noise fades into nothing, drowned by the fury simmering in my gut.

Lights flash across the tables, surrounded by bustling crowds. I don’t have the mental bandwidth to consider how many of these patrons are using counterfeit chips. Now that they’re deactivated, my security people will round up whoever tries to exchange them for cash.

We push through the crowd, shoulder to shoulder, cutting a path through the gamblers and waitstaff who step aside. Tensiontightens as we approach a security door leading to a private section of the casino.

Where the hell will I put Ginevra tonight?

Back in her cell? A sleepless night might establish her place and teach her not to fuss over a dress.

Reverend Johnson stumbles through the doorway, out of breath, covered in sweat, and dressed in an ill-fitting hotel uniform.

“Where’s the Elvis costume?” I snap.

He tries to straighten, but the old man sways on his feet. “Apologies for the delay, sir. I just checked Mr. Roman Montesano into the hotel.”

My jaw tightens. “Do I even want to know?”

Reverend Johnson hesitates, then shakes his head. “It’s best not to ask.”

Reaper claps him hard on the shoulder and lets out a dark chuckle. “Let’s get this wedding started.”

FORTY-THREE

GINEVRA

I walk through the casino, the dress clinging to my body tighter than dried blood. With each step, its tight fabric cuts into my flesh like a blunt knife.

Heads turn as Benito’s goon marches me through the crowd, their eyes raking over my exposed cleavage, fueling the fire of my humiliation.

My skin prickles under the gamblers’ scrutiny. Can they tell I’m fresh from a murder scene? Benito’s goon didn’t even allow me to wash off Julian’s coppery scent.

I drop my gaze to the floor, focus on the click of my heels against the marble, but it’s futile. The air is thick with cologne and cigar smoke, mingling with the sharp scent of fear.

My fear.

Everything is wrong. The Benito I loved wouldn’t force me into a Jessica Rabbit-style contraption covered in red sequins, but then he wouldn’t also be so cold.

Every step toward the chapel feels like a march toward the gallows, and an invisible noose tightens around my throat.

The rough hand gripping my arm steers me around a corner. The lights blur, and the voices blend into a muffled roar as we approach the chapel doors.

“Ready, Miss Di Marco?” asks the goon.

No. Not by a long shot, but I force a nod.

He shoves open the door, and we step into a room reeking of old wood and something that churns my stomach, but I only have eyes for Benito. He stands near the altar in his navy suit, his gaze sweeping down the front of my dress.

Maybe I should have come here naked.

A microphone screeches. I turn to the altar and find an Elvis impersonator fumbling with its stand. His wig slips over his sweaty brow, and I swear he painted on his sideburns without a mirror.

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