Stalking Ginevra (Morally Black Book 4)

My head pounds as though I’ve had too many sleeping pills, but I didn’t take even one.

I only meant to sleep three hours, but I was out like a stubbed cigarette. By the time I crack open an eye, all traces of sunlight have gone, as has the rest of the work day.

My only saving grace is that I now own Dad’s law firm.

Pain lances through my chest. He’s been gone for five days. Murdered in the master suite. For reasons I can’t fathom, Mom moved back in the moment the police completed their investigation.

They said it was the work of a professional, who left no traces, save for the long, blonde hair on the pillow. Mom said Dad was having an affair with one of the lawyers at the firm, but it’s ridiculous. He’d been busy with Capello business. The only other people he consorted with were Martina, Julian, and a few male legal assistants.

Memories from last night rise from the dregs of my mind.noveldrama

Samson is as good as dead.

When I peeped through the closet door, Cesare Montesano was removing a bullet from his stomach and stitching him together for further torture. It’s only a matter of time before my psycho ex succumbs to his revenge. After last week’s massacre, Samson is the only Capello left standing.

Another memory shoves itself forward. The masked man whose cock I had to suck to avoid getting shot. He didn’t see my face through the ropes encasing my eyes. All I was to him was a warm mouth.

He was probably one of the small militia of men who’ve guarded the mansion at the top of the hill since Mr. Montesano died and Roman was framed for murder. Benito and Cesare have kept a low profile since their big brother was on death row. I’m not surprised the family is fighting back now that he’s been exonerated.

Despite needing to apologize to Benito for Dad’s part in his family’s downfall, I plan on staying out of their way—at least until the dust settles.

My mind drifts back to that blow job. The way he moaned as his thick erection slid down my throat. Samson never let me near his cock after that first time. I’ve spent five years being forced to humiliate myself with toys for his amusement.

He used to force me to prove myself worthy of his supposedly huge dick, but I can’t even remember it from the first time.

Maybe the rumors are right and some hooker bit it clean off then chewed the pieces and swallowed them so there was nothing to sew back. It’s far-fetched and stretches the realms of reality, but would explain a hell of a lot.

“Ginny?” Mom calls from downstairs.

“What?” I shout back.

She remains silent. That’s her way of telling me to come down and find out.

Shoulders sagging, I drag myself out of bed, slip on a robe, and exit the room. This is probably about Dad’s funeral. She wants to leave him in the morgue to rot, even though our family has a mausoleum in the Parisii Cemetery. Every time I suggest cremating him, she scoffs.

“Mom?”

More silence.

Rolling my eyes, I continue down the hallway and descend the stairs. Each tread creaks under foot because our mansion only looks grand in a brochure. Everything is fake and in need of repair, from the linoleum floors pretending to be marble, to the peeling faucets. What they say about all things glittering not being gold is true.

We moved from a perfectly nice townhouse a five-minute walk from the subway to this monstrosity, just so Dad could be closer to Frederic Capello. Now that they’re both dead, we’re stranded.

When I reach the bottom of the stairs in search of Mom, a tall figure appears at an open doorway. My stomach plummets to my feet. Fake tan, salt-and-pepper hair, tailored suit, and a brilliant white smile. I’d recognize that deceptive facade anywhere.

It’s Valentino Bossanova, but you may as well call him Bluebeard. Over the decades, he’s collected on more multi-million dollar life insurance policies than I’ve collected degrees. Every few years, he marries some gullible woman, only for her to meet an unfortunate end. Then when he runs out of money, he goes sniffing for another victim.

What the hell is he doing here?

“Little Ginny Di Marco.” He struts forward, his gaze raking over my silk gown. “My, how you’ve grown.”

I shudder. He’s no silver fox—he’s a wolf.

“What brings you here?” I ask, my voice stiff. “Have you come to pay your respects to Dad?”

He places a hand over his heart. “Ginny, I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

“It’s Ginevra,” I reply through clenched teeth.

Mom’s footsteps resound from the stairs leading down to the kitchen. Don’t ask me why a 12,000 square foot, pseudo-Georgian mansion needs industrial-sized cooking facilities in its basement.

I turn my attention away from Bossanova to where Mom emerges, holding two martini glasses.

“What’s that?” I snap.

“Relax,” she slurs and hands one to Bossanova. “I’m sober.”

Lips tightening, I force my gaze from the cream sweater sliding down her shoulder to her eyes. They’re just like mine—a mid-gray that changes color, depending on the light. Right now, they’re bloodshot.

Does it count as a relapse if a person is in denial of their alcoholism and just needs a few drinks to get through the shock of finding her husband murdered while he may or may not have been in bed with another woman?

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“You know Val?” she asks back. “He’s come to pay his respects.”

Bossanova turns to me, his handsome, leather features falling grave. “Your father was a prince among men. I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

I grind my teeth. One of the downsides of working for a law firm with mafia clients is tolerating low-lives. Bossanova is related to the Bellavista family, our second-largest client outside the Capellos. Part of our customer service includes giving their relatives an occasional helping hand.

Somehow, Dad has managed to force multiple life insurance companies to pay up, even though Bossanova is a serial widower. Even though his wives all die within twelve months of marriage under suspicious circumstances. Even though his brother and fellow grifter, Gianni Bossanova, is on Death Row for being caught on camera shoving his wife down the stairs to claim the insurance money.

Dad was a great attorney but even he couldn’t work miracles. With luck, Valentino will follow his brother into the electric chair.

Bossanova brings the martini glass to his lips and gives me what he probably thinks is a smoldering stare. Some people say he has bedroom eyes. Ever since I discovered what he and his brother do to innocent women, all I see is the human embodiment of the grim reaper.

“Thank you,” I say, remembering he just offered his condolences.

I glance at Mom. “Should you really be drinking that?”

She offers me a boozy smile. “It’s only my second.”

It’s probably her fourth.

Bossanova clears his throat. “Actually, Ginevra, I have something serious to ask you.”

My spine stiffens. I clench my jaw, holding back a reaction. This is the moment he tells me the insurance company refused to pay out on his latest wife’s accidental death. That, or the firms have finally caught up with his bullshit and decided not to sell him a policy.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Losanna and I have been friends for a while. I’ve always held your mother in the highest esteem.”

My gaze darts to Mom, who sways on her feet, holding a now empty martini glass.

“What’s this about?” I ask again, my stomach churning.

“Well, I’ve been waiting for the day she finally stopped tolerating Joseph’s philandering—” He clutches his chest. “Forgive me for speaking ill of the dead.”

Blood roars through my ears, muffling a long-winded speech about how he’s always loved Mom and how she’s been the object of his desire since before I was born. I can barely concentrate on the words because I know exactly where he’s going.

Throughout this, Mom gazes at Bossanova as if he’s the second coming of Christ. There’s a second glass in her hand, which she’s already emptied. I didn’t notice when that slimy old bastard handed back his cocktail.

“Ginny,” he says, his voice pulling me out of my horrified stupor. “Will you give me your blessing to marry your mother?