99 Percent Mine: A Novel

I leave Ginevra’s apartment feeling less tense than I did earlier, but it still rankles that she spends time with another man.

Jealousy gnaws at my gut, tearing through the last shreds of my patience. It doesn’t matter if Demartini is gay. It should be me taking Ginevra to restaurants, me making her laugh, me plying her with drink.

I drive home in a daze, my mind spinning with possibilities. Despite every word Dr. Saint has fed me, was it a mistake to give Ginevra so much space? Space that’s now being filled by another man.

The thought is a thorn twisting in my side. Marcello might not be a threat, but who’s to say the next man won’t be? Someone charming enough, kind enough, patient enough to draw her away from me for good.

My hands tighten on the steering wheel as the car winds up Alderney Hill. Every instinct screams at me to intervene, to show Ginevra—and the world—that she’s mine. But I force down the thought, gripping the remnants of my control. There will be no more mistakes.

Shit. I need a distraction before I spiral into old habits, undoing everything I’ve worked for.

As I approach the turning, my phone rings. “What?”

“Mr. Montesano, this is Frances from the Matthias Clinic. You asked me to inform you if Mrs. Di Marco skips her meeting with the sober coach. She was supposed to meet her at nine this morning⁠—”

“I’ll take care of it,” I say through clenched teeth before making a U-turn.

Ginevra is finally happy, relaxed, carefree… Even if she spends an inappropriate amount of time with another man. I’ll be damned if I allow her mother to spoil that peace by relapsing.

It’s time to march Losanna Di Marco back into sobriety.

But first, I’ll call home. Based on what I saw this morning, Ginevra might welcome a hangover recipe.

The Matthias Clinic is bright, sterile, and utterly soulless. According to Reaper’s sister, it’s the best addiction treatment center in the state. I stride through the stark white hallways, my anger building with each step. How dare Losanna jeopardize her recovery and make herself a burden to Ginevra again?

In between ranting about my mother-in-law I call the florist and order a bouquet of honeysuckles and roses. The man watching her apartment confirms later they were delivered, but there’s no message from my wife.

My lips quirk, despite the pang of disappointment. The mere fact that she’s accepted them is promising. She’s lowering her defenses, opening up to my advances. It’s only a matter of time before she lets me back into her life.

The door opens, and Losanna exits looking irritated but sober enough, her auburn hair catching the late-morning light. She sweeps past me with her nose in the air, pretending I don’t exist.

I follow her out into the street and open the car door. “Good meeting?”

Lips tightening, she settles into the front seat. “Don’t expect me to thank you for dragging me here.”

“Skip another appointment with your sober coach, and the next man I send after you won’t be so respectful,” I reply.

Her nostrils flare, but she doesn’t reply. For once, she understands her place.

When I call home, Sofia tells me she delivered Ginevra’s hangover remedy herself and even encouraged her to make cookies together like they did when she was eight. Encouraged by yet another good sign, I resist the urge to send her a text.

She’ll hear from me tomorrow.

The next morning, as I’m leaving the casino, I text:

How’s the hangover?

Seconds tick by, stretching into a full minute. I sit in the back seat of the car and wait, my entire existence hinging on her response. Finally, my phone buzzes with a reply:

Better.

A single word, curt and to the point, but it fills my chest with warmth. Lips curving into a smirk, I lean back, wanting to hug my phone. It’s progress.

I decide to push further:

I’d hate for you to suffer without me to bring you ginger tea.

Three dots appear then vanish. I hold my breath, hoping she’ll call my bluff, issue a challenge, drop any kind of hint for me to cross town and appear at her doorstep. Seconds pass before her next message comes through:

If it’s anything like the sludge you made on the campfire, then I’ll pass.

Smirk widening, I recall my failed attempt at making nutmeg tea when we were fourteen and message back:

I learned my lesson. Ginger root only. No ingredients pilfered from Sofia’s pantry.

Another long pause before she replies with:

Thanks for the flowers.

That’s it. No invitation for more, but it’s enough to keep me fueled. She’s still lowering her walls, one cautious step at a time.

We continue like this for several months. I send carefully chosen gifts to remind her of better times. A first edition copy of Jane Eyre, which she once read out to me in our apartment while we were at law school. A replica of the green cashmere blanket she used to snuggle in on the sofa. Silk scarves with her favorite prints, and vinyl records of our favorite songs.

I check in on Ginevra via text and short phone calls. Sometimes she accepts my offer of a drink if I bump into her at the Demartini casino. I bring her gourmet coffee in the mornings, escort her to work, and take her out for the occasional lunch.

With the help of Dr. Saint, I’m always careful not to push her too far. Every interaction feels like a high-stakes negotiation, a delicate balance between showing her I care and avoiding the mistakes that drove her away.

It’s maddening.

Every day, I fight my baser instincts, the ones screaming at me to demand more, to remind her of what we had, of what we could still be. There’s no Capello organization standing in my way, no threats hanging over my brothers. I’m free to claim my wife.

Dr. Saint says I should let Ginevra come to me, but it feels more like holding my breath. I might suffocate before she remembers where she belongs.

Every passing day, another thread of my patience unravels. I’m not sure how much longer I can survive on crumbs without snapping.

One evening, as I’m watching over the casino, I get a call from the man I stationed at Ginevra’s workplace. “Mrs. Di Marco worked late until eight,” he says. “She’s having dinner with a man at the new French bistro on Juniper and West.”

My brow furrows. “Marcello Demartini?”

“No, sir.”

Before I can even ask who, my phone buzzes with a message. A video arrives of Ginevra sitting in a booth with a man I don’t recognize. Mousy hair, clean-cut, corporate, and very much heterosexual, he’s leaning in with an intensity that turns the edges of my vision red.

Who the fuck is this man and why is he having a cozy dinner with my wife?

“Mr. Montesano?” My man’s voice breaks me out of my thoughts.

“Who is he?” I snarl.

Dr. Saint’s voice echoes through my mind, cautioning me about falling back into old habits. But this isn’t about controlling Ginevra—it’s about protecting what’s mine. Nobody but me gets to worm their way back into her life.

“We don’t have a name, yet⁠—”

“Tail him,” I growl, my hands clenching into fists. “And get backup. Call when you’ve broken into his home and have him hog-tied.”