Stalking Ginevra (Morally Black Book 4)

I blink awake, groggy and disoriented, my head pounding to the beat of my sluggish pulse. Everything aches from spending the night on the concrete floor in torn scraps of clothing.

Shivering, I pull the tattered fabric closer, but the chill still seeps into my bones. No matter how much I knotted together the remnants of what Valentino destroyed, I still can’t stop feeling vulnerable and exposed.

My gaze roams around the basement’s decaying walls toward the locked door. I inhale, feeling clusters of spores invade my lungs. The room presses in, dark and oppressive, squeezing out the terrifying thought that I might never leave this place alive.

Mom will be distraught and drown her grief in vodka. No one will be there to pull her out.

Benito will… Shit. I don’t know.

He’s just like Martina. Friendly one minute but hiding years of bottled up contempt. I can’t tell if he’ll rejoice at my downfall or rage that someone else got to destroy me first.

The door opens with a creak, and my head snaps up. Carla steps in with a silver tray, dressed in a tight black bodice, frilly apron, fishnet stockings, and heels.

My jaw drops. I have to blink to make sure I’m not hallucinating her dressed like a sexy maid, but she walks toward an upturned box. After moving it closer to me with her stilettoed foot, she sets down her tray.

“Room service,” she says, her voice strained.

My gaze drops down to an elaborate breakfast of poached eggs drowning in hollandaise, grapefruit halves dusted with sugar, and a parfait glass filled with bright pink Jell-O topped with whipped cream and a cherry.

If I wasn’t chained in a psychopath’s basement and still throbbing from a physical assault, I’d think we’d traveled back to 1974.

Instead, I gaze up at Carla, taking in her split lip, the bruise blooming on her cheek, the way her shoulders slump as if she’s carrying the weight of a thousand regrets. She lowers her lashes, her eyes darting everywhere but at me.

Anger rises hot in my chest, directed at Bossanova. But beneath it roils something colder—an all-encompassing dread. Dread that Carla is beyond reach. If she’d absorbed anything I told her last night, she’d be dressed to escape, not to serve.

“Thanks,” I murmur. “You didn’t have to make something so elaborate.”

She shrugs, her gaze fixed on a spot to my left. “It’s nothing. Dad likes to breakfast like a king, and there were leftovers.”

My eyes drift back to the absurd costume. From the angle where I’m sitting, I can’t just see her lacy stocking tops, but also the bruises spreading beneath the fishnets.

“What’s with the outfit?” I ask, trying to keep my tone neutral.

She shuffles on her feet, her cheeks flushing. “Dad appreciates a full service.”

My stomach drops. “What does that mean?”

Carla’s blush deepens, and she glances away, her shoulders curling inward. “He says I look pretty dressed up.”

Maybe it’s the confinement, or even the concussion, but did she just confess to wearing sexy outfits for her dad? Silence hangs for several shocked seconds as I try to muster up a reply.

How old is she? Twenty-five, twenty-six? She caught up with her father right after leaving foster care, when she turned eighteen. Maybe I’m jumping to the wrong conclusion, but something about this situation is off.

My gaze bounces to her wedding ring, and I force in a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. “Carla, fathers don’t ask their daughters to serve them breakfast in fishnets. This isn’t normal.”

Annoyance flickers across her features. “You don’t get it,” she snaps. “He’s my dad. I can’t walk away from him. He needs me.”

I squirm on the concrete, thinking of Martina, whom Dad had groomed to become his plaything. She didn’t provide full details, but the abuse started early and continued long after she’d graduated law school and become an adult.

“Look at the bruises. This isn’t a healthy relationship. It’s not love.”

Her eyes harden, and her nostrils flare. “And you’re the expert? Mr. Montesano threw you in a cell just like this on your wedding night. He locked you up and left you without clothes for days, yet you love him, so don’t pretend you’re any better.”

Her words are a punch to the throat. I reel back, my eyes widening. She’s right. Benito caught me in a cycle of terror and manipulation. Breaking his heart changed him for the worse. All I did was cling to the memory of the boy who once loved me with all his soul.

“At least my dad is honest about what he is,” she says, her voice taut with fury. “He doesn’t pretend to be perfect.”

Knowing that she’s right fills my gut with the chilling realization that Carla isn’t just trapped in this twisted form of abuse—she’s committed. An ache settles in my chest, and I press my free hand into my sternum. I’m not equipped to pull her out of this delusion. No words can break through this kind of brainwashing. She’s too far gone to help.

The door bursts open, and Valentino strides in, dressed only in a red silk robe. A flush spreads across his bruised face, and the eye not swollen shut glows with a manic light.

“Montesano agreed to pay up!” he bellows, his voice echoing across the basement walls. “A hundred mil. We’re rich!”

My stomach drops—not just at Benito pulling together a hundred million dollars so quickly, but because he’s willing to pay this much to get me back. Surely I can’t mean so much to the man behind Bob Brisket?

Valentino looks me up and down, his gaze lingering over every exposed patch of skin. “He must love you a lot to pay that kind of money,” he sneers. “What’s so special about that ginger minge?”

Skin crawling, I press back against the wall, every muscle tensing in anticipation for an attack. He steps closer, breathing hard and fast through his swollen lips, reaching out a pale hand, eager to claim what he’s just ransomed for a fortune.

“Dad?” Carla squeaks, her voice wavering with desperation.

Valentino’s head snaps to the side, making her flinch. My breath catches. Is she trying to save me?

He crosses the distance between them in two strides, wraps an arm around Carla and pulls her into his wiry frame. With a snarl, he leans down and pecks her on the lips. “You, my sweet angel, are the gift that keeps on giving.”

Carla’s face lights up, her cheeks flushing despite the bruises, and she gazes up at him like he’s the sun.

I shrink against the wall, my hackles rising, my insides twisting into painful knots. It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion. I don’t know if I should cringe or scream.

“God sent me a little blessing,” Valentino murmurs, his voice husky.

Carla leans into him, her eyes half-closed, drinking in the affection like it’s the life that animates her veins. “You mean that, Dad?”

His lips crash onto hers in a savage kiss that makes my stomach leap to the back of my throat. Every fine hair stands on end, every nerve ending screams that I’m in danger. I want to crawl out of my skin and escape. I gag, finally realizing there’s something worse than seeing Valentino Bossanova smooching with Mom.

The kiss continues, with Valentino sliding his bony thigh between her legs. A scream lodges in my windpipe, but they’re oblivious to my terror, oblivious to the grime and filth of the basement, oblivious to the world that exists outside their bubble of perverse affection.

When they both exchange throaty moans, I freeze, unable to look away, unable to stop the unfolding of this horror show. As Carla’s hand disappears into that red robe, several realizations hit me at once.

She’s just as twisted as her father and caught in an incestuous cycle of validation and victimization. She’s beyond my paltry help. And most importantly, she must have known Valentino didn’t persuade her to help the wife of the man who beat him bloody out of the goodness of his heart.

He finally breaks the kiss and turns back to me with a wide grin of missing teeth. “Why would I want you or that drunken hag you call a mother when I have my little girl?”

My lips part, but my brain can’t muster up a response.

Valentino scoops Carla into his arms, making her shriek with delight, and carries her out of the room like she’s his blushing bride.

Truth hits with brutal clarity: when Benito gets me back, I won’t just be the woman who betrayed him, but the wife who cost him a hundred million dollars.

He’ll make me repay him in a dozen humiliating ways for the rest of my miserable life.

I would rather die than entangle myself in the same cycle that’s devoured Carla. I’ve been there before, and I won’t let it happen again.

Since I can’t convince Carla to set me free, then I’ll have to save myself before the ransom drop.