99 Percent Mine: A Novel

Months roll by, and I continue my therapy, but not a day passes without thinking of Ginevra. I didn’t expect her to reach out after locking gazes at the Demartini Casino, but seeing her looking so well only ignited my longing.

She’s thriving, yet I remain a shell.

Roman reunited with Emberly after rescuing her from Tommy Galliano. Cesare has already taken control of New Jersey and is blissfully content with Rosalind. Leroi and Seraphine have a perfect relationship. Even Gil has found himself a woman.

They’re all happy, except me.

Lorenzo and Vitale sit across from my desk, grinning like a couple of sharks. They’ve got reason to be smug—our profits this quarter have exceeded projections. Since helping Demartini with the credit scam, he’s guided us on how to optimize our games and maximize the casino’s revenue.

He’s even allowed a few interns from Mortis House into his operation to learn the intricate workings of the oldest gambling establishment in New Alderney. I’m thrilled to have broadened my boys’ career paths.

“Record profits, and we’re only halfway through the quarter.” Lorenzo slides the reports across the table.

“Old man Demartini really knows his shit,” Vitale adds.

I nod, the numbers already burned into my brain. They’ve been solid for weeks, and things are only getting better. “Good work,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “Keep it up.”

Our conversation shifts to Valeria House, the sorority I’m building with Rosalind and Reaper. It’s shaping up, following the Mortis House’s blueprint. Reaper’s been handling the groundwork and recruitment, while Rosalind is giving us pointers on training the new girls.

They’re daughters and nieces of our employees, eager for a college education. In a few years, we’ll have a small army of loyal women, just like Mortis. Valeria will be a real asset.

“Any chance we’ll get to train the girls?” Vitale asks with a salacious smirk.

I lean across the table. “Would you want someone like you watching over your sister?”

He grimaces. “No.”

A knock sounds on the door, and my new head of security rushes inside, his jaw ticking. “Boss, we’ve got trouble at the tables.”

“Where?”

He crosses the room, stopping at the window and points down at the casino floor. “Baccarat table seven. Some asshole is on a winning streak.”

Frowning, I stare down at the table from behind the glass. A man in a tailored suit dominates the space, raking in piles of chips. He’s at least sixty, with a curled black mustache and silver hair slicked back in a ponytail. It’s Franco Scali, a notorious card shark who’s been banned from every casino in New Alderney for his scams.

But I’m more concerned about his companion, a middle-aged woman whose red gown is slipping down her ample cleavage. She slumps at his side, barely holding herself upright. I’d recognize that auburn hair anywhere. It’s Losanna Fucking Di Marco.

Scali is practically humping her, his greasy lips trailing across her jaw. My stomach clenches. I might despise the woman, but no one takes advantage of Ginevra’s mother.

His kisses travel down her neckline, making my gut flare with fury. This idiot trying to scam my casino has a bounty on his head. Anyone watching would think they’re working together, but I’m not about to let him drag Losanna to the grave.

“Put them both into separate interrogation rooms,” I snap.

The team scrambles to obey. I stand at the window, grinding my teeth, wondering if this is my excuse to call Ginevra. She’d rush over in an instant, thank me profusely for rescuing her mother, and maybe she’ll remember I’m not all bad.

No.

I will not manipulate Ginevra. She and I both know I’m no fucking knight in bullet proof armor.

I’ll handle the situation, secure Losanna’s safety, and let Ginevra enjoy her freedom.

Turning away from the window, I stalk across the office and out through the hallway. Heat simmers under my skin as I make my way down the elevator and through the casino’s back corridors, preparing myself for a confrontation.

Losanna is Ginevra’s weakest link. Her vulnerability and drunken antics were what held Ginevra back from coming to us for protection when Joseph Di Marco ordered her to break our engagement.

By the time I enter the interrogation room, Losanna is slumped on the table, her auburn hair serving as a makeshift pillow. She raises her head at my entrance, her eyes widening.

“Oh, it’s you,” she slurs, pushing her carcass upright.

She’s a mess of smeared lipstick and smudged mascara. If I grabbed her by the shoulders and shook, she’d probably crumble into pieces.

“What the hell are you doing?” I snarl.

“Where’s my friend?” she asks, blinking up at me through bleary eyes.

“That man you were with is marked for death.”

Frowning, she sways in her seat. “What are you talking about?”

“Scali has a hundred-grand bounty on his head. The people about to pick him up and execute him are more likely to torture you to make him pay his debts,” I say. “A weasel like him will leave you to die without a second thought.”

The color drains from her face. Her mouth moves, but she makes no sound. “No, he wouldn’t⁠—”

“You criticize Ginevra for getting involved with me, yet you’re no better,” I snap.

She squares her shoulders, trying to muster the last dregs of her pride. “And Ginny’s still waiting for you to sign the divorce papers.”

The barb doesn’t land with the intended blow. My therapy sessions now center on coming to terms with the fact that she doesn’t want or need me, and letting her go. Anyone who said the opposite of love is hate was wrong. It’s indifference.

Ginevra hasn’t even filed for a default judgment, because doing so will bring us back into contact. She just wants to pretend I never even existed.

Crossing the distance, I place my palms on the table. “Here’s what will happen if I set you free. Whatever enforcers, trackers, or manhunters sent after Scali will scoop you up and tell their boss to use you as collateral.”

Her lips pinch.

“They won’t care that you’re just a reckless drunk chasing a cheap thrill. To them, you’re something to use as leverage over him. Don’t think for a second Scali won’t let you be tortured to save his worthless hide.”

“Fine,” she says through clenched teeth. “Then call me a cab.”

My eyes narrow. “The only way you’re leaving this casino is via rehab. No more skiing vacations. No more yoga retreats or whatever else you used to tell Ginevra. She doesn’t need to hold herself hostage over you.”

Jaw tightening, she glares across the table, as if mustering a snide remark. Whatever she says will undoubtedly be true. I’ve already faced my demons. Dr. Saint diagnosed me with Obsessive Love Disorder, stemming from a sense of abandonment before Cesare was born. I was three or four when Mom got pregnant and withdrew from the family, and I must have transferred that need for female affection to Ginevra.

I meet Losanna’s stare with one of my own until she finally slumps back in her seat, defeated. “Alright. I’ll go.”

Not wanting to give her the satisfaction of a response, I nod to the man at the door and walk out of the interrogation room, leaving Losanna behind.

She’ll be safe in rehab until the shit with Scali blows over. Hopefully, when she returns, she’ll no longer be a burden on Ginevra.

Even more weeks pass, and Losanna is still in rehab. She and her daughter haven’t spoken since Ginevra moved out, making me wonder if that drunken stunt she pulled at the casino was a ploy to get Ginevra’s attention.

An employee at the Demartini Casino lets me know when Ginevra’s firm is scheduled to visit, so I time my trips to see the old man. We’ve moved from eyeing each other from opposite sides of the gambling tables to exchanging nods. Every instinct wants to close that unbearable distance, but I’m giving her time.

She needs to see that I’m a better man. The patient type who doesn’t push too soon. Doesn’t demand more than she’s willing to give. But every time she breaks eye contact, turns away, or dismisses me with cold indifference, it hurts worse than a bullet through the jugular.

One evening, I’m seated at the center table of Chez Aquitani, Beaumont City’s most exclusive French restaurant. Reaper is on my left, and we’re both across from the Dean of Alderney State University.

Sweat rolls down his brow, which he blots with a napkin. Being seen out in public with a Montesano can’t be good for his reputation, which is precisely why I summoned him to meet me in such a high-end establishment.

The old man clears his throat. “Your scholarship students are missing too many classes. The university has standards⁠—”

“They’re getting a real education to set them up for the business world,” I say, cutting off his bullshit. “Which is better than sitting through hours of lectures.”

A waiter sets down plates of foie gras with a soft clink. The Dean shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes darting around the other diners. Intimidating him won’t take long.

“They need more time in lectures to balance the curriculum,” he says, his voice edging on desperation.

“Let’s not kid ourselves.” I pick up my glass of Sauternes and take a sip of the sweet wine. “The workload you’re pushing is filler. Their real work’s out in the world.”

His cheeks darken. “Absolutely not. The university has principles, guidelines, and expectations of its students.”

Reaper reaches into his jacket and slides a folder across the table. The older man hesitates, but one glance inside and his face drains of color. We have pictures of him tangled up with his brother’s wife in a situation a lot messier than skipping classes.

The Dean squirms, pulling at his collar like he’s about to expire on his Michelin-star meal. “What is this?”

“Our curriculum is fine.” Reaper places his palms on the table.

With trembling fingers, the old bastard closes the folder, his Adam’s apple bobbing. I take another sip of wine, letting the silence do the heavy lifting.

“Where did you…” He shakes off the question. “We’ll reevaluate the attendance policy for your scholarship students,” he says, the words choked.

I’m about to steer the conversation back to business when the door to the restaurant opens. Marcello Demartini walks in with an auburn-haired date.

It’s Ginevra.

She’s too busy laughing at his witty repartee to notice me at the restaurant’s center, and the sight of her happy with anyone other than me hurts like a knife to the chest.

I try to turn away but my eyes won’t cooperate. She looks radiant, happy, more alive than she ever did with me, and the fibers of my heart twist.

The Maître D walks them to a cozy booth, and Demartini rests his hand on the small of her back as he settles her in. He scoots, sitting so close to her that she may as well be on his lap.

Then he leans in and whispers something that makes her giggle. Her face lights up like the sky on New Year’s Eve, and she radiates with the glow of a woman in love.

My fingers curl around the stem of the wine glass, and I force another sip, but the sweet liquid tastes as sour as fermented shit.

I turn back to the Dean, but my mind still remains in that booth, where my wife is having the time of her life with another man.

She’s moved on, and here I am, forced to accept that nothing I do will bring her back.

Fuck.

My mind spins. I gave her space. I stayed back, let her make her choices. Nearly a year of therapy has taught me to respect her autonomy and to become the kind of man who sets aside his selfish desire for possession. Approaching her now would undo all that progress and only push her further away.

But now I’m watching her live a life without me. A life where she’s smiling, free, where Marcello Demartini—that fucking aristocrat—is making her laugh.

I should be pleased to see her in better spirits, but the ache in my chest is a bitter reminder of the love I lost.

Reaper follows my gaze and murmurs, “She looks happy.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, my throat tightening. “She does.”

Giving her space only pushed her into the arms of another man.

Watching her laugh with him feels like a final goodbye I wasn’t ready to confront, but I’ve lost my wife.

And it’s time to get her back.