Stalking Ginevra (Morally Black Book 4)

Hours later, after the waiter packed dinner to go and Mom picks me up from the casino, I’m back home, tossing essential items into a case. There’s enough here to keep me going for at least a week.

Benito will eventually want me back at the mansion or in his penthouse, but I don’t plan on following him there naked.

Our love is complicated, messy, but after tonight, I know it still exists. Benito isn’t perfect. He’s still hurt and with a wall of ice around his heart, but I’ll keep trying.

I wasn’t lying when I told him no one walks away from a lifetime of happiness. Part of him still believes in us, otherwise he would have allowed Mom and me to rot.

After zipping up my case with a sharp tug, I inhale a deep breath, brush off the remnants of doubt, and wheel it through my bedroom.

As I step into the hallway, the air feels heavy, like the weight of my past is pressing down on the back of my neck. Maybe it’s because I associate this place with deception. Maybe it’s because I no longer recognize it as home.

My footsteps creak on the fake marble floors, the sound reminding me of a ticking clock. I need to return to the suite before Benito realizes I’m missing. He’s no longer the young man I could coax into forgiveness. This version of him is colder, harsher, brittle. He’d rather snap than wrap around my fingers.

I turn the corner and almost collide with Mom. She blocks my path, her eyes dropping to my case. “Where are you going?”

My grip tightens on the handle. “Back to the hotel.”

Her expression sharpens. “To Benito Montesano?”

I stiffen. Since when did she refer to him by his full name? “Yes.”

“Why?” she asks, her voice breathy with disbelief.

“Because we’re married,” I say. “Because he still loves me. Because he’s given us a second chance.”

Mom scoffs, the sound cold and bitter. “You’re walking into a trap. Men aren’t capable of love.”

“Benito saved us from the mess Dad left behind. I want to hold up my end of our bargain.”

As much as I want to tell her about Julian’s death, my protective instincts rear up to stay quiet. She doesn’t need to know Benito helped me cover up a murder. She’d only see that as a moral failing.

Mom shakes her head and retreats down the hallway. “Men only see women as possessions, nothing more. He saved you from the sharks because he wants to do the biting.”

Her words hit like a slap because they ring with truth. Benito locked me in a concrete room on our wedding night out of spite, and I don’t believe he lost my clothes.

I stare at her back, my jaw tightening. “Hey, Mom?” When she continues walking, I add, “Don’t forget that Benito saved you from murdering Valentino Bossanova. That sort of thing can get a woman thrown into the electric chair.”

Mom continues down the stairs, her light footsteps making them groan. I wouldn’t be surprised if they weren’t infested with wood worm. I’m beginning to think they’re a reflection of her secretive personality.

Dismissing me with a wave of her hand, she mutters, “Like mother, like daughter.”

My stomach drops.

“What does that mean?” I call after her, heat rising in my chest, frustration bubbling in my gut. It isn’t like her to make cryptic remarks or passive-aggressive digs, but then she hides her true personality behind an alcoholic haze.

She doesn’t answer.

“Mom,” I say, my voice sharper. “What do you mean by that?”

She reaches the ground floor, saunters down the hallway and descends to the basement kitchen. It’s as if she’s accustomed to throwing barbs and not backing them up with words.

Leaving the case behind, I rush after down the stairs. After all the sacrifices I’ve made for her, I won’t let this go. I reach the bottom, which is dark, save for a stream of light filtering through the front door window.

By the time I catch up with her in the basement, she’s already disappearing into the pantry. I use that word loosely because it’s a tall closet with shelves filled with unused appliances. She reaches behind the snow cone maker and extracts a bottle of gin.

My lip curls. I thought she said she wasn’t an alcoholic.

Mom shuffles across the kitchen to the counter and opens another cupboard. Before she selects a glass, I snatch the bottle from her loose fingers.

“What do you mean, ‘like mother, like daughter’?”

She whirls around, her gaze falling to the gin. “Jennifer also thought she had it all figured out. She thought Joseph loved her… but look where that got her.”

The name stings. Jennifer. My birth mother. A woman I don’t even remember, reduced to a cautionary tale.

“Wasn’t she just a child?” I ask.

She walks to the refrigerator as if I haven’t spoken, and opens it to pull out a jug of iced tea. After pouring herself a glass, she finally makes eye contact with me and brings it to her lips.

“What are you talking about?” I step closer, the pulse between my ears pounding.

She downs her glass and sighs. “Jennifer was grown when she took up with Gianni Bossanova. She thought he would give her a better life and look where she ended up.”

“Murdered,” I rasp.

Inclining her head, she fills her glass again. Something tells me there’s more to that concoction than just sugar and tea, but she parts her lips to speak. “Men in that world don’t love. They use women. Just like your father did to me. Just like he did to you and your little friend, Martina.”

I stumble backward, my head spinning. “So, you knew?”

She shakes her head. “First I heard of Martina and your father was from you.”

“But Benito isn’t like the Bossanova brothers or Dad,” I rasp. “He wouldn’t hurt me.”

Her gaze sharpens, her lips curling into something between pity and scorn. “Who killed Samson? Or the Capellos? Or your father? You really think those deaths came from nowhere?”

I shake my head, trying to block out her words. “It wasn’t Benito.”

“Someone from the Montesano family did it,” she says, her voice as cold as her beverage. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking he’s different.”

My throat tightens, the kitchen cabinets spinning with the truth of her words. “But the Capellos started the war when they killed Uncle Enzo and stole his⁠—“

“How can you call that man your uncle?” she snaps.

Every ounce of frustration I’ve held in my heart from the moment Mom admitted to faking her alcoholic episodes cracks. “Where were you when Dad dragged me into criminal households, setting up arranged marriages with mafia princes?”

She rears back, hissing, “What?”

“You heard me. You didn’t do anything! Didn’t lift a finger to protect me! But now, you have the nerve to stand there and spew out lectures?”

The overhead lights flicker, casting shadows across the kitchen walls, making us both freeze. It feels like the house’s shitty electrics can’t withstand the tension.

But then the power cuts, enveloping the room in darkness.

My stomach plummets. “Mom?”

Less than a heartbeat later, a large hand clamps over my mouth from behind, yanking me backward into a solid chest. Panic slams through my heart, and I release a scream.

The gloved hand tightens, muffling the sound. I kick and thrash, but the grip is too strong.

“You owe me, sweetheart,” growls a garbled voice. “It’s time to pay up.”

That low familiar sound sends ice down my spine.

It’s Bob Brisket, and I know exactly what he’s about to claim.