Stalking Ginevra (Morally Black Book 4)

The next morning, I stand in the hallway outside the honeymoon suite, my nerves snapping with impatience. Roman and his new wife have finally vacated it, but Housekeeping is dragging their feet.

It doesn’t help that my surveillance team spent an hour installing cameras to capture every corner. Ginevra’s new cell must be perfect. Every angle must be visible, every inch inescapable.

Last night, I watched her cry herself to sleep on the concrete floor, feeling only a fraction of my five years of anguish. Now, it’s time for her to learn her place.

Malfi shifts his bulk from side to side, twitching at these new arrangements. My security chief should have saved that discomfort for when his predecessor flooded the casino with chips. Wringing her hands beside him is the cocktail waitress I installed to watch the casino.

“Carla, you’re on room service. Be there to provide my wife with anything she needs except clothes and her freedom.” I flick my head to the room opposite. “Malfi, you’re across the hall. I want you in the corridors, doing whatever’s needed to scare her out of escaping.”

The man’s frown deepens, the doubt in his eyes making me itch.

“Something wrong?” I snarl, daring him to utter a word in defiance.

He snatches away his gaze. “No, sir.”

“Good.” I glare into his face a beat longer, daring him to question me again. When he doesn’t, I turn to Carla. “Get changed. Both of you. Be in place within ten minutes.”

I stride down the hallway, leaving Malfi and Carla to their roles. In the elevator, I pull out my phone, watching the feed from Ginevra’s cell. She sits in the corner, still clad in the sequined dress.

Tousled hair frames a face I’ve committed a thousand nights to memory. She’s a beautiful cryer, even with red-rimmed eyes and tears streaming down her cheeks. Her misery no longer tugs at my heart, except with a brief flicker of annoyance. I should be offended that she sobbed harder at the prospect of marrying me than she did for Bob Brisket’s degrading assaults.

The elevator doors slide open, and I step into the low murmur of the casino. Morning dulls the noise, leaving only the die-hards clinging to their games, chasing lost causes. Eyes flick to me, recognition sparking before they quickly drop back to their bets. No one dares meet my gaze.

Valentino Bossanova stumbles into view, looking like a half-polished turd. Bloody bandages encase one side of his face and wrap around his hand.

My steps falter. He looks like he’s been run over by a bus. “What the hell happened to you?”

Wincing, the old man raises the bandaged hand like it’s a trophy. “Losanna,” he snarls. “I broke it off, just like you ordered. She came at me with a carving knife, trying to take my balls.”

I arch a brow, masking my surprise. Ginevra’s mother was always a docile drunk. Bossanova must have handled her wrong.

As we cut through the tables, he casts me a sullen glare. “I did what you wanted—got involved with the mother and rubbed it in Ginevra’s face.”

His words grate with resentment, but I ignore his whining. A man who marries women for financial gain should get used to a few cuts and scrapes. Nobody, not even a lush like Losanna Di Marco, appreciates a deadly user.

When we reach the bar, I motion for the tender to pour him a drink, but Bossanova only glares at the glass like it’s poison.

My patience thins. “Where is she, now?”

“Back in Victoria Gardens,” he mutters, his eyes snapping to mine. “I did my part. Now, I want to know how Roman walked off death row.”

Amusement flickers through my insides. When a letter from Gianni Bossanova arrived at our doorstep, postmarked from Alderney State Penitentiary, I became intrigued. Even more so, when the inmate introduced himself as a buddy of Roman’s, also framed for a crime he didn’t commit.

Valentino’s condemned brother offered me five million for the secret. I considered tossing the letter in the trash until I went online and looked up the Bossanova brothers. Their involvement with the Di Marco Law Group made them a potential route to winning back my Ginevra. Turns out that it took more than the threat of Valentino Bossanova to make her run to me for help.

I lean into the old bastard, dropping my voice to a growl. “Roman was innocent all along.”

He flinches, his craggy features twisting with disbelief. “Bullshit.”

The corner of my lips lifts into a smirk. I pull back, cross my arms, and let the tension build. “We found footage of the real killer. That’s our secret.”

A flush blooms across his tanned skin, and the veins visible around the bandages pulse. Fist clenching around the glass, he snaps,. “You played me.”

“With the truth?”

He flashes his overly white teeth. “I wasted my time on that drunken old whore for nothing⁠—”

My fist slams into his face, sending him across the bar. Bottles clatter to the floor, shattering on impact, the air filling with the sharp scent of spilled liquor.

I close the distance before he can straighten, and drive my fist into his jaw. His head snaps back, but I don’t stop. Another punch sends blood spraying across my knuckles, and his nose crumples under the impact.

Grabbing him by the collar, I slam my fist into his gut, folding him in half with a rusty wheeze. An uppercut makes him hit the floor, and I stomp on his throat, crushing his windpipe underfoot. Leaning in close, I shift my weight, savoring how his eyes widen with terror.

“You ever speak about Ginevra or her mother again—or even think about them—you’ll be shitting teeth. If you so much as look at them, you’ll lose your eyes.”

Bossanova gasps, his hands scrabbling at my leg, his eyes bulging with the effort to breathe. His choked gasps mingle with the faint hum of distant slot machines. Security draws closer, their hands hovering near their weapons, unsure if they should intervene.

I ease the pressure a fraction, giving him a chance to respond, but he chokes on his own fear, unable to force out the words. When that doesn’t work, I grind my heel into his windpipe. “Say it.”

“Alright,” he finally wheezes out, his voice cracking. “I won’t go near them again!”

I flick my head toward the security hovering nearby. “Get this piece of shit out of my casino. He’s barred from all Montesano properties.”

They drag him away, his curses barely audible over the pounding in my ears. I smooth down my shirt, keeping the rage in check as my man Vitale approaches. He waits until the last of the security team drags Bossanova out of sight before speaking.

“Sir, we’ve got twenty more names associated with the counterfeit chips. Everyone we questioned either mentioned Luna Bianchi, the woman we caught last night, or Victor Bellavista.”

My lips tighten. “How’s he connected to the old man?”

Vitale shuffles on his feet. “That’s the thing. We’ve combed through the family tree. Salvatore Bellavista doesn’t have any sons, brothers, or cousins named Victor.”

The implications hit hard. If there’s no Victor Bellavista, then someone’s using the name as a cover. Understandable, considering Salvatore would shoot his own blood for messing with his business.

The low murmur of the casino blends with the hum of the air conditioning, the scent of cigar smoke hanging in the air. This so-called Victor Bellavista has to be connected to the factory, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to obtain the chips.

“Did you show them photos of his son?”

“We printed out pictures of every known Bellavista male, young and old. None of the people we caught with the chips recognized them as Victor.”

My teeth grind. “Summon Bellavista to the casino. Make sure he knows this isn’t a request.”

Nodding, Vitale pulls out his phone and walks around the bar, his voice low as he relays the order.

I glance at my watch, realizing half an hour has already passed.

It’s time to retrieve my wife and remind her exactly who holds the reins.