Stalking Ginevra (Morally Black Book 4)

Carla drives in silence through a derelict district on the outskirts of town. Streetlights are less than plentiful here, and the few that work cast a sickly yellow glow on the cracked pavements and graffitied buildings.

I thought leaving the penthouse would be tricky, but I hid in the room service trolley, which she covered with a stained tablecloth.

Betrayal pulses through my veins like acid, along with the bitter sting of humiliation. I groveled, apologized, debased myself to earn Benito’s forgiveness for… sleeping with Benito wearing a disguise?

Five years of resentment isn’t something that vanishes with a few apologies. I knew I hurt him, knew what I did was unforgivable, knew he would make me pay. That’s why it took so long for me to ask him for help. I knew Benito would be determined to make me suffer.

The car rumbles to a stop in front of a house that looks like Norman Bates’ motel. Most pillars of its veranda are smashed, and curling strips of paint peel away from the weather-worn exterior, while the front yard has turned into a jungle of weeds.

Carla cuts the engine and spares me a nervous glance. “I know it’s not much, but you’ll be safe at my dad’s place.”

It’s hard to believe this dilapidated wreck belongs to the woman who’s been my closest ally. But that’s exactly why Benito would never think to look for me here.

“Thank you for your help,” I rasp.

We step out, the car door shutting behind us with an echoing clunk. A chill cuts through my borrowed room service uniform, making me shiver as I follow Carla towards the house.

Each step on the rickety wooden porch creaks under our weight, as if we’re disturbing the worms feeding on the timber. I try not to make comparisons with the treehouse because I’m determined not to think about Benito.

Carla pulls out a rusty key from her pocket and struggles with the stubborn lock. “I’ve got to warn you that my dad looks messed up.”

My brow creases. “You said he wasn’t well.”

“Car accident,” she replies with a grimace. “Broken nose, fractured eye socket, missing teeth, and cracked ribs. He’s in a lot of pain, so he gets cranky.”

Nodding, I brace myself for what might be awaiting us inside. Carla pushes open the door, making its hinges wail in protest. Musty air wafts out from the darkened interior, carrying with it the faint scent of antiseptic and unwashed sheets.

Squaring my shoulders, I follow her into a narrow hallway, which echoes with the sound of a TV laughter track. Faded paper peels away from the walls, revealing glimpses of crumbling plaster.

At the end of the hallway, we reach a living room crammed with old furniture. I hesitate at the threshold, my breath catching as I take in the scene.

A thin man slouches in an armchair clad in striped pajamas, his features lost in the shadows. But as he turns his head towards us, the dim light from the TV illuminates a bruised face with one good eye glinting with malice.

Carla’s dad bares a mouthful of broken teeth. “What the fuck is she doing here?”

I cock my head. That voice might sound familiar if it wasn’t so pained. The old man places a bandaged hand on his armrest and rises off his seat with a stiffness that speaks of acute pain.

“Dad,” Carla says, her voice quivering. “This is⁠—”

“Ginevra Di Marco,” he hisses.

The man approaching us is as tall as a scarecrow with a face like a smashed pumpkin. It’s bruised, with one eye swollen shut, yet he moves with the unnatural determination of the living dead.

“I’m sorry… Have we met before?” I ask.

A sneer twists his lips, and I feel his disdain like a physical blow. “You don’t recognize me, girl?”

My gaze darts to Carla, who rushes forward with her arms outstretched, trying to catch her father before he falls. I step backward, wondering how the hell this man could hold so much resentment toward a stranger.

Carla tries to grab his arm, only for him to shove her aside. “Do you know each other?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” he snarls, his voice thick with bitterness.

My mind spins, trying to place this gray-haired scarecrow of a man, but the bruises make it hard to recognize his features.

I stare at him, struggling to fit the pieces together—the sharpness of one cheekbone, the regal line of the side of his jaw that isn’t misshapen. The only man I know in that age group who isn’t overweight is the one who nearly became my stepfather.

“Valentino Bossanova?” I whisper.

His glare deepens, and he flashes a mouthful of broken teeth. “I’d say it’s nice to see you again, but I’d be lying.”

“Dad?” Carla says, her brows knitting.

His good eye flickers back to me, narrowing with disdain. “Get her out.”

My throat tightens. What on earth is Valentino Bossanova doing in a place like this when he has that ostentatious penthouse overlooking the park? And how the hell didn’t I know he and Carla were father and daughter?

“Out,” he barks.

“Dad, wait—Ginevra’s in trouble. She’s in an abusive marriage and needs somewhere to hide⁠—”

“From Benito Montesano?” He spits the words like venom, and I recoil, my stomach twisting with dread. “Get in line. He’s the bastard who messed up my face.”

My throat thickens. I would ask how he knows Benito, but one of my conditions for marrying him was to get Valentino Bossanova out of Mom’s life. Then I remember Benito showing me footage of that brutal beat down. Hell, at one point, I even tried to get Bob Brisket to murder him.

The memory that they were the same man cuts into my heart like a knife, making me wince.

“How do you know each other?” Carla asks, trying to ease her father back into his armchair.

Ignoring her, Bossanova turns to me and sneers. “Montesano ordered me to court your mother.”

Shock slams into my solar plexus, knocking the air from my lungs. My knees buckle, and I stagger back, grabbing at the door frame to hold steady. “What? Why?”

“Because he wanted you to come running to him, begging for help,” he hisses.

My mind reels, piecing together fragments of the recent past. At the time, I didn’t understand why Bossanova would try to marry the widow of the man who helped with his murderous life insurance scams.

Now, it makes perfect sense.

“He told you that?” My voice cracks, and my eyes fill with fresh tears.

I’ve been so blind. All these weeks, Benito’s been pulling strings, controlling so many aspects of my life. “Was he behind the loan sharks, too?”

“Those thugs were there to make your mother desperate enough to marry me,” he replies with a sigh.

I can’t breathe. The room fades, along with the edges of my reality, replaced by a cruel maze of deception and manipulation.

Did Benito help Nick Terranova take back the law firm? His quartet of legal goons remind me so much of Vitale and Lorenzo. Their association would explain how quickly Bob Brisket reached the penthouse when Julian turned feral.

Benito—not Brisket.

“We’re both victims of that manipulative bastard,” Bossanova says, his sharp voice cutting through my dizzying thoughts. “Look at what he did to my good looks when I was no longer of use. You were wise to leave before he did the same to you.”

Bossanova’s words hang in the air like a thundercloud, heavy and oppressive. I shake my head from side to side, trying to straighten my thoughts.

Even if he’s right, I’m not about to agree with a man who murders innocent women. Especially not one who’s older brother killed my birth mother.

Turning away from Bossanova, I head back toward the front door. Going to Martina is out of the question, but her parents have been family friends my entire life. I could stay in one of their rental properties until I pull together enough money to leave town, or even call Mom⁠—

Fingers tighten around my arm. “Montesano used me, just like he’s using you. But I can stick it to him and set you free.”

I frown, my gaze dropping to Bossanova’s hand. Help me? He can’t help himself. “Let go of me.”

“Dad, what are you doing?” Carla says from the living room.

My gaze meets Bossanova’s, whose expression hardens. “Leave this house, and he’ll hunt you down with a crack team of thugs. If you haven’t already noticed, Benito Montesano is the second-in-command of the most powerful crime family in the state of New Alderney.”

A lump forms in my throat. “Why are you telling me this? I thought you ordered me to leave.”

“Benito Montesano will pay for what he did to us.”

My stomach twists. “What are you talking about?”

“Stay here, where I can keep you safe. In seven days, I’ll get you enough money to start a new life with your mother wherever you want in the world.”

“If this is another of your insurance scams⁠—”

“He’ll pay anything to get you back,” he snaps. “I’ll ask for a hundred million dollars.”

His words land like a punch to the liver, sending up a wave of bile. “You want to hold me hostage?”

Valentino grins. “How else are we going to get a hundred million?”

I shake my head, my nostrils flaring. “Forget it. I’m not a bargaining chip. Let go of my arm, and I’ll leave⁠—“

A punch lands on my temple before I can wriggle free. Pain explodes across my skull, and I drop to the floorboards.

Bossanova’s unfocused face swims into view, his broken teeth bared in a snarl. “You’re going nowhere.”

“Dad!” Carla pushes past him and rushes to my side. “I’m so sorry, Ginevra. Can you stand?”

I try to push myself to my feet, but my arms collapse under my weight. She grabs my bicep, helping me up. Legs wobbling, I rise to a half-crouch, then stand fully upright. The hallway spins, and I swear that every dust mote in the house is circling my head.

Bossanova disappears into the living room, and Carla helps me down the hallway. “I’m so sorry. I thought he was a safe space.”

If I could speak over the pounding in my head and the pure, white-hot rage coursing through my veins, I would ask her whether she looked him up online. Instead all I can manage is a weak nod as we shuffle toward the exit.

Rapid footsteps creak after us. I glance over my shoulder to find Bossanova holding a hammer.

“Carla,” I rasp.

She whirls around. “Dad!”

The hammer swings down, striking her head with a sickening crack. “I told you to stop fucking calling me that. It’s Victor.”

She collapses, her weight knocking me back onto the floor. The name hangs in the air, heavy and ominous, and my mind spins, connecting rotating dots.

I never understood why the Di Marco Law Group would help lowlives like the Bossanova brothers. Dad said they were well-connected and relatives of a valued client, Salvatore Bellavista.

If his name is really Victor, and he’s connected to BV Holdings, then what if he’s⁠—

“You’re Victor Bellavista,” I whisper.

Bossanova raises his chin, his good eye gleaming with a sick sort of triumph. “Benito Montesano beat me like a dog, broke my counterfeit chips racket, my slot machine scam, and he’s siphoning money from my offshore accounts. I finally have a way to hurt that arrogant little bastard.”