Stalking Ginevra (Morally Black Book 4)

Pain splinters through my skull, dragging me from darkness. Blinking, I force the world into focus, trying to make sense of my surroundings.

Something thick and rubbery lodges in my throat, making it difficult to breathe. I’m lying on my side in a concrete basement with walls stained by water streaks and mold.

My wrists are encased in cuffs fastened so tightly that the metal bites into my skin, and a chain connecting them to the ceiling bolt forces my arms into an awkward stretch. Bindings also encircle my ankles, their cold steel pinching my bones.

Groaning, I roll onto my back, taking in my new prison. Carla lies on my other side, her body limp against the stained concrete. Blood mats her temple, but her chest isn’t rising and falling with breath.

My stomach tightens. She’s looking more like a fellow victim than an accomplice. I shuffle closer, wincing through the cuffs digging into my skin, and nudge her with my shoulder.

“Carla,” I mumble through the gag. “Wake up.”

She doesn’t stir.

Panic pulses through my gut, cold and sharp, and I scan the room for inspiration. Rusted tools hang on the wall beside a pile of splintered crates, and wires snake along the ceiling. There are no windows, just a bare lightbulb that casts shadows on the grimy walls.

How the hell am I going to save us both?

Before I can even think about whether Benito can pay a hundred-million-dollar ransom, the door opens with a groan that sets my teeth on edge.

Stiffening, I peek through my lashes, pretending I’m still unconscious.

A tall figure strides in, clad head to toe in black leather from his head mask to his clunky boots. It’s like something out of Pulp Fiction, only infinitely more sinister because I’m not watching from the comfort of a movie theater.

He glances down at me through a pair of eye slits that match the zipper over his mouth, and I hold my breath.

Is this an accomplice or Valentino Bossanova himself? No, not Valentino… Victor Bellavista.

Under his arm is a ring light on a tripod, which he sets on the floor with a clunk. He disappears through the door, returning within seconds, holding a smartphone, which he sets up on his apparatus.

Shit. Since when did this old man learn the intricacies of social media? How old is he, sixty? It’s hard to tell when he’s always covered in fake tan or bruises.

His movements are rough, impatient, as though this is the first time he’s recorded something without help. He fiddles with the settings, grumbling under his breath, until the red light blinks to life.

With a flip of a switch, the basement floods with light, and he swaggers across the room.

“Showtime, Mrs. Montesano.”

He grabs the chain attached to my wrist cuffs and yanks it taut, hoisting me up like a pulley. Pain shoots through my forearms, electric and sharp, as I’m hauled up to sitting. I swing my feet, trying to kick him off balance, but he steps out of range.

“You’ll have to do better than that, Ginny,” he sneers.

The bastard continues pulling me to my feet with a force that sends a searing jolt through my shoulders. I stagger to my knees, not wanting to dislocate anything, and stand.

“Here’s how it’s going to work,” he says. “You stand there like a good girl, while I prove to your husband that I mean business.”

“He’ll kill you,” I mumble through the gag.

Ignoring my incoherent threat, he positions me in front of the camera by the shoulders, and then grabs the neckline of my shirt. I draw in a sharp breath, inhaling the mingled scents of leather and sweat.

Revulsion ripples through the lining of my stomach. Is this where he assaults me for the camera?

His excited breath rasps through the mask as his gloved fingers slide across my skin. He wrenches my blouse apart, ripping it down the middle with a force that sends buttons scattering across the floor.

The blouse falls open, exposing my bra and bare belly to the cold, damp air. My nipples shrivel, my skin erupting with goosebumps.

“What are you doing? Stop!” I yell through the gag, my voice choked with anguish.

My panic feeds his sadistic pleasure, making his eyes gleam through the slits of the leather mask. “Don’t take this personally. You’re actually a useful daughter. I would have loved to have you instead of the little bitch who brings me hotel leftovers.”

He tears at my room service apron with vicious jerks, ripping the fabric with a sound like the crack of a whip. Once the garment pools at my feet, he hooks his fingers under the band of my bra, yanking it up and over my shoulders.

Cold air stings my breasts. I gasp, twisting away from him, trying to shield myself, but he turns my body back toward the camera.

“Stay in the frame,” he hisses, his hot breath coming in ragged huffs behind the mask.

He crouches, his fingers grazing the waistband of my skirt. Then, with a swift yank, he rips it away, leaving me naked and trembling under the blinding glare of the ring light.

“No panties?” he asks, his voice light with amusement.

Tears prick my eyes, not of terror or even shame. I’ve dealt with men more dangerous than an aging asshole who knocks women out with hammers. I’m furious. Furious at Benito for being a psychopath I was forced to escape. Furious at Victor-Valentino for using me as a pawn. Furious at myself for falling into their traps.

Stepping back, he glances at the smartphone, making sure it’s capturing every inch of my humiliation. Then he clips a device to his mask’s mouth opening.

“Benito Montesano,” he snarls, his voice garbled. “You have forty-eight hours to pay a hundred million dollars, or your pretty little wife dies on camera.”

I would say he’s bluffing, but Valentino Bossanova has murdered women for less.

He walks back into frame, looming behind my bound form like a wraith. His gloved hands roam the front of my body, making me flinch and squirm.

“Scream for the camera,” he growls in that artificial voice, his fingers closing in around my nipples.

The shock of the pinch forces out a strangled shout that makes him chuckle.

As his gloved hands release their grip to slide down my belly and cup my crotch, every instinct screams at me to fight, to run, to resist. I jerk away, but the chains pull me back.

“Forty-eight hours, or I’ll start slicing off body parts, starting with her clit.”

“Dad,” Carla moans.

“Damn it!” Releasing me, he turns to Carla, delivering a kick in her ribs, making her jerk and sob on the floor. “Now, I’ll have to edit that fucking shot.”

“Stop,” I yell, but the old man continues attacking his screaming daughter until she falls silent.

Heart pounding, and I stare down at the floor, where Carla lies unconscious. My blood heats, every hackle in my body bristling as I strain against my bindings. I would be shocked if this didn’t remind me so much of Dad beating me to submission when I refused to break my engagement.

Now, all I want to do is tear this man into shreds.

He hobbles to the tripod, seeming exhausted from this bout of domestic violence, and turns off the recording. When he unzips his mask from around the back and pulls it off to reveal that mottled face, I stiffen.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he snarls, his swollen lip curling with disgust. “I’d rather fuck Benito than get within a foot of your ginger minge.”

My mind flashes to Samson, to Bob Brisket, to Julian, and all the men who have hurt or degraded my sexuality. They’re all the same—using the easiest common denominator to break my spirit.

I shake my head, feeling his rejection like a small mercy. From this moment, nothing a man says or does will even knock my self esteem. All they have over me is more money or physical strength. Take that away, and they’re sniveling assholes, vying for my attention.

After plucking his phone out of the ring light, Valentino strides toward the exit, his heavy footsteps echoing with each step. The door slams shut behind him, and I sag.

Forty-eight hours. That’s what Victor gave Benito, but it’s also what he’s given me. Time to plan, time to strike. The clock is ticking, and I’ll be damned if I wait to be saved. I’ll find an opening and make him regret ever thinking he could use me as a pawn.

And even if Benito paid my ransom, I’m never taking him back.