Stalking Ginevra (Morally Black Book 4)

I spent the rest of the day reveling in the way Ginevra tried to get my attention. The anguish in her pretty gray eyes replays in glorious technicolor, making my heart thrum with satisfaction.

These are the first words we’ve exchanged since she cast me aside, like the lifetime of love I poured into her meant jack shit. Because of Ginevra, I let my guard slip at Roman’s welcome-back-from-Death-Row party—an unforgivable lapse in vigilance.

Now, I’m standing on a stage with my brothers, no longer distracted. Roman just got shot, and Cesare’s gone feral, firing at the scattering guests.

The only things standing between us and death are our bullet proof undershirts. If the little assassin we left Cesare to interrogate in the basement escaped to finish the job she started, I’ll wring his neck.

But more concerningly, Roman’s captive has disappeared, taking with her our last chance to claw back Dad’s assets.

My older brother gives chase, leaving me to handle the attack on our family. To keep Cesare out of trouble, I order him to find our billion-dollar hostage while I go in search of Losanna Di Marco. She’s inebriated, vulnerable, and my key to manipulating Ginevra.

I jump down from the stage, heading toward the ballroom’s exit. Guests are still streaming through the open double doors and out into the hallway. I scan the room, checking for signs of a drunken older woman. Finding none, I push my way through the crowd.

The hallway is crammed with servers, guests, guards, and staff, all streaming toward the front doors. To stop the shooters from escaping, I’ve ordered bottlenecks and blockades at all exits. Reaper and his boys are patrolling the grounds surrounding our property with orders to shoot anyone trying to escape on sight.

As the realization sinks in that Losanna is unprotected, a cold dread tightens around my gut, propelling me through the throng. I shove my way to the front doors, not wanting to waste another second. She could be terrified, trampled, or torn apart.

The outside courtyard is a chaotic mess of darkness and noise, with guests scattered and frantically yelling at valets for their cars. The usual juniper scent fades to the background, now thick with the stench of exhaust fumes, gunpowder, and anxiety.

Amid the confusion, I spot Valentino Bossanova trying to slither his way into someone’s limousine. His white tuxedo jacket is splattered with blood, making my stomach lurch.

I rush forward and grab his arm. “Is she in there?”noveldrama

He whirls around, staring at me through haunted eyes. “Who?”

“Who do you think?” I snarl.

His lips tremble. The bandaid on his broken nose quivers. “I lost her in the chaos.”

“Valentino?” A gray-haired woman pokes her head through the back door. She’s Donna Lewis, the new president of the New Alderney Cemetery Board. “Do you still need that ride?”

“Leave without him,” I snap.

Valentino pales, despite his thick coating of fake tan. I grab his shoulders, wanting to shake him until his teeth rattle.

“Where did you abandon her?” I snarl.

“We got separated when Roman was shot.”

In other words, he ditched her at the first sound of gunfire. Panic threatens to surge, but I shove it down, narrowing my focus. If Ginevra loses her mother, it will be disastrous. Not just for my plans to use her safety as leverage.

I only ever want my little betrayer to feel the pain I inflict.

Grabbing Valentino’s arm, I make sure to dig my fingers into his flesh hard enough to bruise, and drag him back through the frantic crowd. We pass panicked guests shoving their way toward the exits, servers dropping trays, and guards barking orders as they attempt to regain control. As we near the side corridor, I spot a door wedged ajar by a pair of stockinged feet.

My gut tightens. How the hell did I walk past that the first time?

The sight of Ginevra’s mother crumpled on the ground hits me like a bullet. Everything else—the chaos, the noise, the assassins plaguing my family—fades into the background. I ease the door open, giving myself enough space to gather her in my arms. She weighs next to nothing, as if her bones are made of air.

“Is this how you treat your dates?” I snarl, my gaze boring into the old bastard’s.

Face contorting, Valentino shrinks backward like a salted slug. “I didn’t mean to leave her⁠—”

“Bullshit,” I snap. “You fled at the first sign of danger.”

He follows me through the hallway, away from the pandemonium of escaping guests, to a downstairs room. I lay her atop a bed and scan her for injuries. Her breathing is shallow but not labored. I press my fingers to the side of her neck, feeling for a pulse. It’s weak, but there.

“Benito, please believe me, I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Valentino whimpers, hovering by her feet.

I grab the old buzzard by the collar and shove him toward the door. “You’re going to make this up to me or our deal is off.”

Eyes widening, he nods. “It will never happen again.”

Ignoring him, I pull out my phone and dial Dr. Brunelli, who picks up after a few rings. “It’s Benito. I need you in the downstairs guest room, now.”

While I wait for our family physician, I check in with the observation team, the men at the gate, and the guards patrolling the perimeter. They’ve disabled the shooter and are in pursuit of his accomplices. Bossanova sits by Losanna’s feet, putting on a show of fretting over the woman he just ditched.

Fingers moving on autopilot, I dial Leroi. The phone rings twice before a female voice answers. It’s Seraphine, who’s staying with my cousin in a cottage on the outskirts of our property.

“Where is he?” I ask, not bothering to hide my impatience.

“He’s asleep,” she mumbles, her voice groggy.

Of course, he is. Leroi came to the battle on Alderney Hill with a stab wound and exacerbated his injury by climbing up the side of Samson’s hideout to rescue Seraphine.

“We have assassins on the property,” I say.

Her breath catches. “The Moirai?”

“Probably,” I reply, not giving her time to process the shock. “The windows of your cottage are equipped with bulletproof shutters. There’s a remote taped to the underside of the nightstand, do you see it?”

“Um… Hold on.”

As the receiver fills with the sound of scuffling, my attention turns to Dr. Brunelli bursting into the room with his brown leather bag, out of breath. He kneels beside Losanna and checks on her vital signs.

Bossanova hovers above them, muttering a string of excuses. I turn my back to the trio, forcing down a surge of fury. How the hell does this sun-ripened cockroach get women to ignore his red flags?

“Found it.” Seraphine’s voice slices through my thoughts. In the background, the metallic shutters clatter into place.

“There are weapons under the bed, in the closet, and in the bathroom, along with bullets,” I say. “Grab some pistols and stay alert. If anyone interferes with the shutters, shoot first. Ask questions later.”

There’s a pause on the line, then a shaky, “Okay.”

“Call or text if you need help,” I say before hanging up.

After watching her stitch up Samson’s injured body under Cesare’s dubious guidance, I’m confident my cousin is safe in her hands. Leroi tends to gravitate toward murderous women.

I turn back to where our family doctor is tending to Losanna.

He glances up at me, his mustache stretching with the curve of his smile. “She’s coming around.”

“Thank you,” I reply, already turning to leave. At the door, I point at Bossanova. “Ditch her again, and I’ll break your fingers.”

By the time I return to the hallway, the crowd has thinned. Our men march unfamiliar guests toward a holding room, having bound their arms with zip ties and duct tape. Everyone remains a suspect until we identify the assassin’s accomplices.

I walk around the house’s perimeter, pull out my phone, and tap on Reaper’s name, needing reassurance that our boys are in position. No bastard should be able to fuck with the Montesano family. Not during what was supposed to be our biggest high point since Dad died. Not when we’re on the verge of restoring our empire.

“Benito,” Reaper’s voice fills my bluetooth.

“What’s the situation?”

“We caught two gunmen trying to escape through the trees, but there’s more,” he replies.

“How many?”

“Hard to say. These guys are pros.”

I grind my teeth. “Sweep the entire hill. Detain or eliminate anyone suspicious.”

“Understood.”

I hang up, and a security alert flashes on my screen—grainy footage of someone slipping through a hatch connecting our basement distillery to an abandoned property at the bottom of the hill. She’s blonde, dressed in black, and probably one of the assassins. My gut tightens. How the hell did she manage to escape our guards and Reaper’s men?

Another call comes through. It’s Gil, my older brother’s right hand. He’s our highest-ranking enforcer, loyal as hell, and a former boxer who once took a bullet for Dad.

“We’ve got a situation,” he starts. “The society editor for the Times is leaving the grounds with a guest not on the list. The men at the gate want to take her in for questioning, but he’s crying false imprisonment.”

“Where are you?”

“Downstairs storage room, securing the detainees,” he replies.

“All the more reason to drag his date in for questioning,” I snarl. “If he doesn’t like it, he can spend the night being interrogated for any connection with the shooting.”

“Sure thing,” Gil replies before the line goes dead.

My phone buzzes with more updates, each one demanding my attention. I spend the next half hour in an observation truck, where some Mortis House boys supervise the surveillance of the wooded areas around our property with drones.

The blonde from earlier managed to disappear into another house at the bottom of the hill. By the time we pinpointed her exact location, she’d already escaped on the back of a motorbike. We retrace her steps and discover she entered the party with the caterer, disguised as staff.

White-hot fury ignites in my chest. Somehow, the assassins know the layout of our house better than its occupants.

Later, I spot Gil by the entrance, watching over the valets helping guests into their vehicles.

“Where’s Roman?” I ask.

He flicks his head toward the upper floor. “In his room with Miss Kay. A waiter tried to abduct her during the panic. She said he had a cop tattoo.”

My jaw clenches at the prospect of someone stealing Capello’s daughter before we claw back our assets. “So, we were infiltrated by the police, too?”

Gil shrugs. “The shooter isn’t any kind of cop.”

“Where’s Cesare?”

“He dumped his little assassin with the guards, telling them to watch over her with the other detainees. From the looks of things, she tried to leave through the distillery.”

“No doubt with that blonde who escaped,” I mutter. “Where is he now?”

“Roman sent him to the basement to interrogate the shooter.”

I nod. “Valentino Bossanova and Mrs. Di Marco are in a downstairs guest room. Don’t allow them to leave until the morning.”

Gil nods and steps away to relay the orders. I scan the courtyard, watching traumatized guests huddle in groups. Some are injured, others are splattered in blood. Armed guards stand watch, looking more menacing than the assassins.

This is a public relations nightmare.

Just as our family stands on the brink of reclaiming power, assassins transform our house into a battlefield. Tomorrow promises a shit show of media spin, damage control, and tightened security.

Once everything’s under control, I plan to work through my frustrations with Ginevra.