Stalking Ginevra (Morally Black Book 4)

Last night was exactly what I needed to relieve the tension. Spraying cum over Ginevra’s face is just as satisfying as coming down her throat.

I lean against the wall of Dad’s old study, tuning out Roman’s conversation with Nick Terranova. They’re talking about the finer details of a convoluted plan to claw back Dad’s assets. My attention is fixated on my screen, where Ginevra sits on the stairs with her drunken mother. They’re having a heart-to-heart. I don’t need to hear the audio to know Losanna Di Marco is falling under Bossanova’s spell.

The man is a wonder with women, capable of weaving wefts of bullshit, blinding them to his obvious faults. Any quick search online will show the number of wives he and his brothers have murdered, yet this aging Casanova is as popular as ever with the ladies.

Why must a man be a sadistic asshole to gain their respect? All I ever showed Ginevra was affection, and she left our family to rot. Mother said Ginevra was the daughter she always wanted, yet she threw away years of our love and care to join forces with psychopaths.

They both did.

Mother’s betrayal cuts too deep to contemplate. Roman was already arrested for a crime he didn’t commit when she left us for Tommy Galliano. Because of her, Cesare fell into addiction. With one brother incarcerated and the other a junkie, someone had to be strong.

“You with us?” Roman’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

I glance up from the phone, ask Nick a few pertinent questions about the contract before turning my attention back to Ginevra. She’s risen from the top of the stairs and is hugging her mother as if she isn’t a burdensome drunk.noveldrama

Ginevra’s weakness for Losanna will be her downfall.

Roman rises from behind his desk and exits through the patio doors. Now that we have the contracts to swindle his captive out of the assets she inherited from Capello, he’s eager to trick her into completing a portrait of him, which he will purchase using a rigged agreement.

Thanks to Nick, we’ve clawed back over thirty million dollars of Dad’s cash from Capello’s estate. It’s only a matter of days before Roman gets that woman to sign over ownership of the casino.

The older man closes his briefcase, rises off his seat, and adjusts his jacket.

As he strides to the door, I slip the phone back in my pocket and ask, “How’s it going with the firm?”

He grins. “Taking back the corner office was a breeze, thanks to your interns.”

“Glad to be of service. How is Ginevra?”

“Quiet,” he replies. “She came in yesterday, demanding to know why I’d taken control of her father’s so-called empire.”

I shake my head. “Joseph Di Marco was a piece of work.”

“A piece of shit and the worst kind of grifter,” Nick replies, his lip curling. “His daughter seems the opposite. She spent the rest of yesterday poring over the partnership agreements and court documents. She thinks Di Marco’s claim on my firm is legit.”

“When are you going to fire her?” I ask.

“Want her out by close of business today?”

I rub my chin. “Keep her for longer, but make her employment at the firm intolerable. Give her the most demeaning work. I want her demoralized.”

“Sure thing, Benito,” Nick replies with a nod.

“Who’s your plus one for tonight’s party? I need to inform the guards at the gate.”

“It was going to be the best friend, Martina Mancini, but she’s already going with Ernest from the art gallery.”

I nod. Ernest Lubelli is an important part of Roman’s plan to swindle Capello’s daughter. She’s an impoverished artist who’s ignorant of her father’s identity and has no clue she’s inherited a billion dollar’s worth of assets.

“So, your wife?” I ask.

He flashes me a sheepish grin, implying he’s either started sleeping with Martina or plans to get her into bed. Sometimes, I envy other men’s ability to shrug off a woman like a worn sock and slip into another. I’m astounded at how men like the Bossanova brothers could go so far as to romance and murder them for money.

If I had even an iota of that callous indifference, then I wouldn’t be so obsessed with Ginevra. Intellectually, I know other women exist, but my heart only beats for one. It’s been like that since the beginning, which is why I want to see her broken.

As Nick leaves the study, Sofia enters with a tray laden with fresh coffee and a special selection of the bruttiboni she used to supply Roman on Death Row.

And she’s wearing red lipstick.

Valentino Bossanova steps into the room behind her, flashing our housekeeper his brilliant smile. Blushing, Sofia dips her head and scampers to the door. He makes a show of turning around to watch her ass as she exits before blowing out a low whistle.

“What are you doing?” I snap.

He turns to me, his brow furrowing. “Benito?”

“Sofia is off-limits,” I snarl. “Don’t talk to her, don’t whistle at her, and don’t ogle her. She’s ours.”

Bossanova flinches. “Sure thing, Benito.”

“It’s Mr. Montesano to you.”

Features hardening, he offers me a curt nod. This old bastard might be the same age as Dad, but he doesn’t command a fraction of his respect. His tan, greasy charm, and modus operandi makes him lower than any grifter.

I walk around the desk, lowering myself into the seat and take my sweet time leaning the phone against a stack of books. Onscreen, Ginevra has moved to the shower, looking like she’s scrubbing the cum that’s dried on her hair.

“Report,” I say.

“Losanna’s drinking problem makes her an easy target,” he replies, shifting on his feet. “She’s eager to be Mrs. Bossanova, and everything’s going to plan… More or less.”

My gaze flicks to the gray regrowth on his temples and the smeared product he uses to conceal pale skin dotted with liver spots. I make a mental note to age with dignity and not cling to my youth. “Tell me more about the less part.”

He sighs. “The daughter isn’t nearly as easy to fool. She cockblocks, makes barbed comments, and is overprotective of her mother. If you could just get that little bitch to⁠—”

I shoot out of my seat, making him step back with a gasp. Before I know it, I’m swinging at his tanned, leathery face, my knuckles hitting bone. Blood explodes from his nose. He spins into the wall, clutching his face with a groan.

“Ginevra Di Marco is no bitch,” I snarl.

Cowering, he glares up at me, his eyes shining with murderous intent. “My apologies,” he grinds out. “I only meant to say she was tenacious.”

I flash my teeth, making him flinch. “Keep working on the mother. Make her agree to a wedding date. Arrange for the most lucrative life insurance policy and find a way for it to fall into Ginevra’s hands.”

“How?” he asks, his eyes blazing with resentment.

“You’re the conniving Casanova,” I snarl. “Work it out.”

“And afterward, you’ll tell me how Roman escaped Death Row,” he says through whitened teeth.

I nod. “That’s our agreement.”

“Because Gianni doesn’t deserve the electric chair.”

And the wives they murdered didn’t deserve the accidents, poisonings, or staged suicides.

Roman walked out of Death Row because he was innocent. He’d never met the woman he was supposed to have raped and murdered. After our cousin, Leroi, massacred the Capello family, he found hard drives containing footage of the real killer. Footage that didn’t just exonerate him but identified that we’d been stabbed in the back by a trusted associate.

“Roman’s having a welcome home party tonight in the ballroom. Bring Losanna. Formal dress.”

Face pinching, he manages to nod.

“Dismissed,” I say.

Bossanova slinks out of Dad’s study like a whipped dog. By the time I return to the desk, Ginevra has already moved to her dressing room, where she’s dried off and slipped on cream underwear.

I watch, mesmerized, as she runs lotion over her pale skin, her fingers caressing those gentle curves. She’s doing this on purpose, driving me insane with the way her hands glide over every dip and contour. Her movements are slow and deliberate, a torturous seduction I’m powerless to resist.

My breath catches, and a familiar heat stirs low in my gut. My cock lengthens and thickens until it’s straining against my zipper.

I can barely breathe as her hands skim across her collarbone, down to the soft swell of her breasts, lingering on the delicate skin before sliding lower, over her abdomen. Her fingers spread the lotion at a tantalizing pace, as if she knows I’m watching and wants to light a fire under my skin that only she can extinguish.

Last night, those delicate hands stroked me almost to completion, lubricated with her arousal. Ginevra has become a dirty girl, hungering for my cum. And she’ll get it—more than she can handle. I’ll have it spilling from every tight, trembling hole.

The thought sends a shiver down my spine, my cock throbbing against the confines of my pants.

Groaning, I reach into my pocket and extract one of the panties I took from her laundry basket. The silk is cool against my skin, a stark contrast to the raging heat of my libido. Holding them to my nose, I inhale the sweet musk of her desire—an intoxicating scent that invades my senses, leaving me lightheaded.

My tongue darts out to lick the remnants of moisture clinging to the silk fabric. She’s all-consuming, a fever burning through my veins, leaving me ravenous.

No other woman will ever have this effect on my soul—only Ginevra. She’s a drug, and I’m hopelessly addicted.

As she slips on a shirt, the thought of what I’m going to do to my dirty little Ginny—how I’m going to break her—becomes more than I can bear.

My mind swarms with depraved images. I’ll have her on her knees, begging for my cock, eyes wide and desperate, knowing that the only way to quench her desire is to take me beyond her limits. I’ll fill that sweet pussy until it’s overflowing.

Reaching beneath the desk, I pull down my zipper and my cock springs free. Its swollen head is already slick with pre-cum. I wrap her panties around my shaft, the silk gliding against my skin as I make slow, deliberate strokes.

I imagine her tongue sliding out for another taste, those pouty lips stretched wide as she struggles to take the girth of my crown, the way she’d gag and choke as I thrust deeper, holding her head in place as I pound into her throat.

Pressure builds, coiling tight in my core, a firestorm of all-consuming lust. I force myself to slow down, to prolong the agony, to savor every moment of this exquisite torture.

Onscreen, Ginevra sets down the lotion and collapses onto a bench and sobs. Tears stream down her cheeks, and her beautiful features twist with anguish.

“Are you crying for me, little Ginny?” I croon, my fingers quickening over my shaft.

She bows her head, robbing me of the sight of her destruction, her shoulders shaking with the force of her misery.

My strokes quicken at the sight of her so vulnerable and on the verge of breaking. I want to stand over my little betrayer, watch those tears mix with my cum as I shower her with my release.

The thought is too much—my control snaps, and I erupt, shooting jets of fluid on the underside of the desk. Each spurt becomes more intense than the last, making me lose track of the fact that I’m desecrating Dad’s furniture. I keep stroking, riding the wave of pleasure, my body convulsing with each surge.

As the last drops fall from my cock, I collapse back in my seat, panting hard.

This woman is going to be my undoing.