Stalking Ginevra (Morally Black Book 4)

I walk around the table, circling the jackpot winner. Debbie Clark is a middle-aged woman with a baseball cap obscuring her graying curls. She sways back and forth on the chair, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths.

Her first mistake was stealing from my casino. The second was drinking all that champagne. By the time we escorted her out of the VIP lounge, she and her friend had already finished an entire bottle, complete with a box of liqueurs.

For a terrified woman, alcohol works better than any truth serum.

Dim light flickers across stained concrete, casting shadows on her face. Vitale stands silent in the corner with his arms crossed, adding on the pressure. For propriety’s sake, we’ve allowed two female security officers to assist with the interrogation.

The Casino Montesano is ruthless to its enemies, but we’re not predators.

Mascara streaks down her cheeks, mixing with the tears that won’t stop. “Please, Mr. Montesano,” she gasps, her voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to⁠—”

I raise a hand, cutting her off. “You’ve seen the footage. The woman who collected that last jackpot was you. Stop wasting our time and tell the truth.”

Her breath hitches, and she stares up at me through wide, desperate eyes. “It wasn’t my idea. Someone else rigged the machine and said it would be okay. I only get ten percent, I swear.”

More words spill out in a jumbled rush. I tune out the pitiful attempt to save her hide.

Holding her gaze, I let her talk herself hoarse. When the excuses run dry, I lean across the table and place both palms on its plastic surface.

“His name,” I say.

“Larry Zambino,” she blurts. “It was his idea. If it wasn’t me collecting the winnings, it would have been someone else.”

The taller security officer steps forward. “Larry Zambino is still on the job, sir. Should we put him in a cell?”

I nod. “Do it.”

My lips tighten with distaste. Capello allowed every hungry cockroach who wanted a bite to consume the casino’s profits. He didn’t give a shit because he obtained it so easily. Now that it’s back with the Montesano family, I intend to exterminate the vermin, even if it means filling my cousin’s crematorium with corpses.

As she leaves, the phone in my pocket buzzes. I pull it out, finding Carla’s name flashing on the screen.

“Report,” I say.

“Your wife is asking for clothes.”

I smirk. “Did you show her the toy box?”

She pauses. “Sir?”

“Go back and tell her each room on her floor comes with a complimentary box containing necessities. She might find what she’s looking for beside the mini bar.” I hang up, sliding the phone back into my pocket.

The thought of Ginevra encountering another box of sex toys sends a surge of arousal to my cock. I shake off the excitement, wishing I didn’t have to contend with these grifters. My blushing bride can wait. I have another casino conspiracy to uncover.

I turn back to the woman. Her shoulders shake, and her eyes dart between me and the door like she’s calculating an escape. I slide a pen across the table toward her clenched fists.

“Write down every name. Every detail. Dates, locations, and the bank accounts where you transferred the money.”

Nodding, she reaches for the pen with trembling fingers. “Are you going to call the police?”

I lean in, looking her straight in the eyes. “Only if the money isn’t returned with interest.”

Her pained whimper only gives me a measure of satisfaction, as I’m aching to see the princess I left in her tower.

My phone buzzes again. I pull it out to find a call from reception.

“What?”

“Losanna Di Marco is here. She said she has an appointment.”

A breath catches in my throat. It takes every effort to suppress my excitement. If Ginevra’s mother attacked Bossanova with a knife, how would she react to discovering I could be corrupting her precious daughter?

I turn my attention to Vitale. “Finish this up.”

He steps forward, towering over the older woman, who shivers.

Without waiting for a reply, I stride out of the cell and head to the casino, letting the hum of chatter and clinking chips fade in the background. Ginevra likes to think of her mother as an innocent victim to the ravages of alcohol, but all I see is weakness.

The woman was always in and out of retreats, trying out different therapies to curb her addiction, but she never once seemed to make much of an effort. Ginevra wasted half her life trying to rescue Losanna. Even her marriage to me is another attempt to protect her mother.

As I round the blackjack table, I can’t help thinking about Cesare. After our mother abandoned us to marry Tommy Galliano, my younger brother became addicted to his own crystal meth. Gil and I locked him in a room with Sofia and Dr. Moretti taking care of his needs.

His detox was brutal, painful, yet he hasn’t relapsed once.

Unless he’s swapped drugs for serial killing.

Shaking off that intrusive thought, I reach the reception area. Losanna Di Marco sits on a sofa with a clutch. Strangely, she’s brushed her hair, straightened her clothes, and is showing no traces of her infamous cleavage. When she rises off her seat and glares into my eyes, I wonder if Bossanova’s rejection was what it took to get her sober.

Tension ripples through her posture as I approach. She puffs out her chest and asks, “What’s this about you marrying my daughter?”

My lips curl into a slow smile. “Want to see Ginevra?”

“Naturally,” she clips.

I offer her my arm and smirk. “Should I start calling you ‘Mother’ now?”

Features tightening, she slips her hand into the crook of my arm. Her face might display annoyance and strength, but there’s no mistaking how her fingers tremble.

I could elaborate by explaining that the machinations of her husband killed Dad and drove my mother into the arms of a maniac, who coerced her into undergoing unnecessary cosmetic surgery. Surgery she would never have contemplated if she’d stayed with her sons.

But why use words when I can show my displeasure with actions?

Savoring the fear she’s trying to hide, I steer her out of the reception and through the hallway.

This reunion will be delicious.