Stalking Ginevra (Morally Black Book 4)

I walk out of the office in dignified silence. Martina’s supportive hand on my shoulder is the only thing keeping me from falling apart. How did Nick Terranova and his little enforcers get past security? Someone should have called me or at least the police.

“Ginny,” Martina’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

Blinking, I take in our surroundings. I was so preoccupied with my inner ranting that I didn’t even notice we’d stepped out of the building. The morning traffic rumbles past, its noise filling the silence.

Martina cups my cheek. “Are you still with me?”

I finally meet her eyes. She’s wearing green contacts instead of her usual blue. We haven’t seen each other since Samson took me hostage, but she looks different. Her blonde hair is now chin-length instead of flowing down her shoulders, but I don’t have the mental bandwidth to inquire about her altered appearance.

“What do you know about Terranova?” I ask.

“Quite a lot, unfortunately,” she replies with a sigh.

“What does that mean?”

“Come on.” She loops her arm through mine. “This calls for a drink.”

Martina takes me to the Costosa, a ridiculously expensive Italian restaurant that serves exquisite food in tiny plates. It used to be Dad’s favorite for entertaining clients, but I found it too stuffy. The maître d’ welcomes her with a handshake and a warm smile before leading us to our table.

Anticipation makes palpitations resound through my chest, and my insides twist into knots. I have no idea why she’s drawing out the suspense, but the reason can’t be good. Without prompting, a sommelier brings two mimosas. Martina pushes them both across the table and orders a buck’s fizz.

“Tell me what’s been happening,” I say.

She nods toward the flutes. “Drink those.”

I pick up the first one, let its contents slide down my throat, and stare at my best friend. She points a manicured finger at the second, so I choke it down.

“Ready,” I say, bracing myself for the worst.

“Pamela told me she visited the firm the morning after Joseph was killed,” she says, her voice thickening with grief.

I exhale a shuddering breath. The Di Marco and Mancini families go back decades. Our grandfathers were business associates, and Dad went to law school with Martina’s parents. When Martina’s sister dropped out of college to work for a publisher that produced porn, Mrs. Mancini came to visit Mom in floods of tears.

“She said everyone was in shock and confused about how to react,” Martina continues. “I wasn’t there. I couldn’t leave the house for a few days because I thought the gunman would come after me.”

“Why would he target you?” I ask.

She raises a hand, accepts her buck’s fizz from the sommelier, and takes a long sip. “It looked like he was targeting everyone connected to Frederic Capello. Joseph and I were working on their high-profile case.”

I tune out her detailed recounting, waiting for her to take a breath before bringing the conversation back to my question. “And Terranova?”

“Sorry.” She shakes her head. “While I was at home, fretting for my life, he filed a petition for liquidation.”

“What?” I squawk.

She nods. “The court acknowledged that Nick owned a hundred percent of the equity, having inherited it from his father and uncle. Joseph never owned the firm.”

My stomach drops. “No.”

“It’s true.” She reaches across the table and grabs my hand. “Nick had to leave after being disbarred. Joseph was supposed to buy out his share of the firm, but the money never materialized.”

I shake my head. “Dad wouldn’t…”

Martina gazes across the table, her eyes shining with pity. “Joseph kept you away from the worst of his dealings, but it’s not difficult to imagine one of his mafia associates putting pressure on Nick to walk away empty handed.”

She’s right.

If Dad can help Capello steal nearly a billion dollars worth of assets from Benito’s father and entertain a client like Valentino Bossanova, then robbing a man of his legacy is plausible. I reach across the table and pick up her buck’s fizz.noveldrama

“So, that’s why nobody warned me?” I ask.

“If I’d been at the firm when the shit hit the fan, I would have tracked you down.” She cocks her head. “Where have you been?”

After the waiter takes our orders, I tell her about how Samson came to us the morning after the massacre, and how he decided to hide in plain sight directly under the Montesano’s noses.

More drinks arrive, along with a brunch platter containing a selection of pastries and fruits. Picking at my food, I skip over how I spent days with Samson parading me in front of his guards, using me as a shield to hide his impotence. I fast forward to the part when his enemies found the hideout and how he stuffed me in a closet while gunmen raided the house.

“That was considerate of him, I guess,” she says, her brows pulling together. “Were you hurt?”

My gaze drops to the platter, but my mind is elsewhere. The gunman hadn’t hurt me physically, but he left emotional scars. I’d imagined my first taste of pleasure would be with Benito—not with a masked man, bartering my life for fellatio.

She leans across the table. “What happened?”

“One of the Montesano men found me at the end of the night.” I peer up at her through my lashes.

Face falling slack, she rakes her gaze over my body as if checking for bullet wounds. “Did he recognize you?”

I shake my head.

With a hand over her chest, she exhales an audible breath of relief. “I’m glad he let you go. Imagine if he dragged you up the hill to face the brothers. Roman’s out of Death Row now.”

I stuff a mini saccottino in my mouth and chew. Dark chocolate invades my senses, doing nothing to calm my nerves.

“Did the man hurt you?” Martina asks.

Dipping my head, I mumble, “I gave him fellatio.”

She squints. “What was that?”

“I sucked him off, alright?” I pick up a fresh flute, washing down the taste of chocolate with Prosecco.

Her jaw drops, her green eyes sparkling with excitement. “No,” she says, her voice breathy with disbelief. Then she furrows her brow. “But aren’t you technically a virgin? I mean, it wasn’t consensual that first time with Samson⁠—”

“Hey,” I snap, trying not to bristle. “We agreed never to talk about that.”

Martina flinches at my sharp tone, her mouth opening like she’s about to tell me to relax, but her gaze flickers over my shoulder. She makes a double take, her eyes widening.

I turn around to see what’s captured her attention, and my stomach plummets.

A tall man in a suit tailored to his athletic frame strolls into the restaurant, stealing every ounce of my focus. He towers over the maître d’ with an air of power that commands the room as he’s led to a private booth. His eyes are hidden behind glasses, yet my pulse quickens at the sight of his sharp jawline, broad shoulders, and muscular chest, making all thoughts of Samson and the gunman drift into the ether.

At his side is an equally attractive older man, but he barely registers. Because if you take away the chiseled features, designer stubble, and sharp clothes, the man walking through the restaurant is heartbreakingly familiar.

It’s Benito Montesano.

The man I betrayed to be with a psychopath like Samson.

My pulse quickens, my breath shallows, and my skin breaks out with prickly heat. The last memory I had of Benito was him walking into the lecture theater, dejected after I’d vacated our apartment, leaving the diamond engagement ring on the table with a note.

Benito wanted to know what he had done, how he could make things better, begged, pleaded, and implored me to take him back, promising he could change, but I didn’t have an answer.

Dad told me something terrible was brewing, and it was time to cut ties with the Montesano family. The only way to save us from the fallout would be aligning ourselves with the Capellos.

When I refused and asked if we could warn the Montesanos, his response was violent. It was the first time he’d ever hit me, and I’d been stunned into obedience. Before I knew it, he marched me over to Victoria Gardens, where I became engaged to Samson.

Within a week, I was begging him to give me to the less volatile Capello twin, Gregor.

“Ginny?” Martina snaps her fingers, breaking me out of my trance.

Moments after Benito takes his seat at the booth, the two men rise, their gazes fixed on an approaching woman. She’s a stunning brunette in a deep red dress that hugs her perfect figure. After shaking the companion’s hand, she cups one of Benito’s cheeks before kissing the other.

The Benito I know would have flinched, stiffened, or stepped away. This new and improved version of him places a hand on the small of her back and gestures for her to sit between them.

My throat thickens.

Did I expect him to pine for five years? Of course, he’s moved on. Both men stare at the woman like she’s their own personal succubi queen, and she laps up the attention.

“Ginny!” Martina snaps.

“Sorry.” I tear my gaze away from the femme fatale and face my friend.

“Isn’t that your ex?” she whispers.

Nodding, I gulp.

“What’s he doing with Professor Cortese?”

My eyes drift to the older man for a millisecond before snapping back to Benito.

“I don’t remember him looking so hot in law school.” She shakes off the remark. “Enough about Benito. Tell me about the man who spared your life at the gunfight. Are you going to see him again?”

Ignoring how the muscles of my pussy throb at the reminder, I shake my head. “I never saw his face.”

“How was it?” She wiggles her brows.

My gaze darts to the booths, where the beautiful brunette holds court. Benito is absorbed by whatever she’s saying, practically entranced. I order another glass of Prosecco, wondering if I should go over there and apologize for the broken engagement.

Dad, Frederic Capello, Samson Capello, and even his quieter twin warned me not to explain my reasons. According to them, anything I said might warn Benito of the impending shitstorm, and we’d all get caught up in it, possibly facing jail.

I wasn’t convinced until Dad threatened outright that the next time Mom was flat-out drunk, he’d let her aspirate on her own vomit.

By the end of the month, Benito’s dad was dead, his older brother had been arrested for murder, Nick Terranova had lost his license to practice law, and his mom had run off to hole up with Tommy Galliano in New Jersey.

I continue picking at my food, trying not to glance at Benito and the woman, but it’s futile. My mind is so preoccupied with why he’s completely absorbed in what she’s saying that I barely register my best friend’s chatter. Later, when the waiter comes with the check, Martina raises her palms.

“Sorry, I left my purse at the office.”

I dig into my bag, fish out the company credit card, and hand it to the waiter.

He swipes it through the reader, and turns back to me with a sharp shake of his head. “Declined, ma’am.”

My stomach knots. I fumble for another card, and thrust it at him, my hands shaking. He swipes it again, and almost immediately, hands it back with an exaggerated sigh.

Panic rising, I shove two more cards his way, hoping one will clear. Each time, he swipes, waits a split second, then shoots me a look, his lips tight with impatience.

I glance at Martina for help. She grimaces. “Let me jog to the office and get my purse.”

Before I can ask her to wait for me to try another card, she’s gone.

I sit back in my seat, humiliated. The patrons at a nearby table snicker, their eyes gleaming with judgment. Squirming in my seat, I dip my head and wait for Martina.

“Ma’am, you need to vacate your place as it’s reserved,” says another waiter.

The woman at the nearby table giggles. I glance over, seeing her and her companion leering. Tears prick my eyes. They probably think I tried to dine and dash, when I’ve never so much as been short on cash. I’ve never had a card declined. Never been so socially embarrassed.

Rising, I back away from the table, the waiter guiding me toward a spot by the entrance. My thoughts spiral. What happened to my account? I was supposed to get paid last week. Martina’s taking forever to return with her card.

Humiliation creeps up my neck, prickly and hot and relentless. I’m almost certain every eye in the restaurant is burning with accusation. My instincts scream at me to defend myself, to announce that I’m not a thief. But common sense and propriety take control, and I stay quiet.

I glance over to Benito’s booth, but it’s empty. Then I turn just in time to see him sweep past with his companions, leaving a cloud of sandalwood, engrossed in conversation, without sparing me a glance.

As the trio step into the back of a limousine, the manager approaches, his features somber.

“Ma’am, you’re free to leave. The gentleman has covered your bill.”

I blink, stunned. “Who?”

“The tall gentleman in the navy suit and glasses,” he replies.

I whirl around, searching for Benito’s vehicle, but it’s already gone.