Stalking Ginevra (Morally Black Book 4)

I sit in a bathroom stall at work with my head resting between my knees. After that conversation with Mom, I don’t know what the hell to think–about myself, about her, about Dad. He got a young girl pregnant, left her heartbroken, and did nothing when she married a known wife-killer.

A suspicious part of me wonders if he even made the introduction to get her out of the way. Why else would he still defend Gianni Bossanova?

My life has turned to shit, and I don’t know how to cope.

Julian won’t give me a minute of peace at my desk, and I have no time to think. He keeps interrupting me when I’m investigating the mess Dad left behind. Now vultures who liquidate companies are walking around the building, taking inventory of everything down to the office paper clips.

The law firm I thought I’d inherited is in worse trouble than a ship without a captain. After consulting the court documents, I discovered that Dad really hadn’t paid Nick Terranova for his equity. The man now has the right to liquidate its assets, leaving every employee jobless.

It’s not surprising no one wants to look me in the eye. I’m the daughter of a scammer. Dad made everyone think their jobs were secure. Now that he and our biggest client are dead, the firm may as well be the Titanic.

I can’t think straight because my pussy still throbs from last night’s encounter with the masked man. It was harrowing, hot, and humiliating. He came all over my face just as I was on the verge of climax, and I’m sure he aimed the spray of cum in my eyes on purpose.

He needs to be stopped. A man like him won’t be just satisfied with a blow job or masturbation. He’ll escalate. He might even be a psychopath. If I don’t do something about him now, I could end up pregnant. Or dead.

And then there’s Mom. Who isn’t actually my birth mother, but a first cousin, once removed. Knowing she took care of me when I was at my most vulnerable makes me love her even more. I can’t let her carry out that harebrained scheme to murder Bossanova for the insurance money. Valentino and his brother only got away with it for so long because they’re connected to the Bellavista family, who have been pulling strings for them for years.

Mom has no contacts, no influence, and no money to hire a defense attorney. Killing Valentino is a one-way ticket to the electric chair.

A knock sounds on the stall door, pulling me out of my thoughts. I jerk backward, my pulse pounding.

“Ginny,” Martina says from the other side of the bathroom. “Are you in there?”

“Yeah.” I rise off the toilet seat and flush.

Grabbing my purse from the coat hook, I open the door. Martina steps back, staring at me with a furrowed brow.

“You okay?” she asks.

I reach the sinks, breathing hard to stay calm. With trembling fingers, I turn on the faucet, letting cold water rush over my hands. The change in temperature only heightens my frazzled nerves. I lather them with soap, rubbing them together, desperate to wash away the anxiety crawling beneath my skin.

“Everything’s fine,” I mutter, my voice hollow.

“You don’t scrub up like that unless something’s gone wrong.” She stares down at my hands and frowns.

I snatch them from the water, stride to the dryer, and shove my hands beneath the nozzle. The hot air blasts against my skin, making me flinch. I rub them together, forcing them dry with frantic motions.

“Is your OCD flaring up again?” she asks at my back.

My shoulders stiffen. “No. Why do you ask?”

“Do you remember that time at college when your dad told you to break off your engagement?”

Guilt clutches at my chest. I whirl around, meeting her artificially colored eyes. They’re a deeper green today, matching the emerald pendant hanging between her breasts.

I shake my head. “I’m just under a lot of pressure.”

“Let’s talk about it over coffee.”

Skin prickling, I glance at my feet. “The company card was canceled, and something went wrong with last month’s payroll.”

“Same here,” she says.

My head snaps up, and I look her full in the face. “What?”

She nods. “Nobody got paid since the court froze the firm’s bank accounts after your dad died. Nick is working hard trying to sort out the mess.”

My throat tightens. It’s no wonder the entire firm welcomed him without question. Nothing sways decades of loyalty like an empty bank account, or the bitter discovery that their dead boss’s greed might threaten their livelihoods.

We walk in silence to the staff restaurant, which is crammed. I suspect no one wants to waste money outside when they can have a free lunch on the 30th floor. It’s more of a cafeteria with a large serving hatch that offers a few limited gourmet dishes.

I navigate through the throng of employees, ignoring a few filthy glares. The sight of food makes my stomach churn, so I select a lemon tea with a small snack, while Martina grabs a plate of eggs Benedict.

A pair of paralegals rise from their seats, leaving trays half-filled with barely-touched meals. Sighing, I clear the clutter before returning to our table.

“Are you going to tell me why you were hiding in the ladies’ bathroom?” Martina asks through a mouthful of eggs.

Where do I begin? Certainly not with Mom’s plot to murder Bossanova to avenge my birth mother and use the insurance money to clear ten million dollars in debt.

I love my best friend, but she’s impulsive. In our first year of college, she called the police on a thirteen-year-old girl who pushed her abusive teacher to his death off a roof garden. He was a predator who groomed the child, got her pregnant, then brought her home for the weekend where he tricked her into taking an abortion pill.

The little girl had confided in Martina’s younger sister who reached out to Martina for advice, swearing her to secrecy. One 911 phone call later, an innocent child ended up facing charges for first-degree murder.

Two days later, Mr. and Mrs. Mancini woke up in the middle of the night with a gang of armed thugs in their bedroom, threatening to throw them in a cremator if they didn’t fix her daughter’s mess. They shot her dad in the foot to show they weren’t joking, and even set their kitchen on fire.

Martina’s knee-jerk reaction could have gotten her parents killed and sent a victim of abuse to prison. In the end, Mr. and Mrs. Mancini worked with a psychiatrist to prove the girl was insane, which still ended up ruining her life.

She’s dead now, murdered because she fell in love with a serial killer. I still wonder how her life would have changed if Martina had kept her mouth shut.

So, no. I won’t tell her anything about Bossanova and Mom.noveldrama

“Ginny?” She waves a hand over my face. “Are you still with me?”

I shake off my thoughts. She wanted to know why I was crying. “It’s my stalker.”

She smirks. “Are you still pining for his big dick?”

“He was in my bedroom last night.”

Her jaw drops. “No.”

“Yes.” I bring the tea up to my lips, the warmth doing nothing to soothe my stomach’s cold knot of fear.

“What did he…” She glances from side to side, checking for eavesdroppers before leaning in, her eyes narrowing. “Did you have sex?”

I shift on my seat. “Not really.”

“What does that mean?”

Leaning forward, I tell her everything about last night. Martina breathes hard, her cheeks turning pink. The way she reacts, you’d think I was narrating the spicy scene of a dark romance novel. She interrupts, demanding to know if he pressed the knife to my skin or just pointed it at my throat. When she asks if his cock was leaking precum, I scowl.

“Are you even listening?” I ask.

Her features morph from excited to shocked. “Can’t you see I’m on the edge of my seat?”

“He’s dangerous,” I snap. “What if he becomes murderous?”

“Then do what he says,” she replies with a frown. “It sounds like you’re enjoying his attention.”

My lips tighten. “Arousal doesn’t mean consent.”

“Did you even say no?”

Martina doesn’t understand. Her parents make their money from real estate and don’t have to consort with lowlives. Mine are connected to multiple crime families. I know first-hand what happens when you’re cornered without a protector and turn down a man’s advances.

The first time Samson ordered me to deep-throat a dildo, I refused. He punched my stomach, cracked a rib, and then made me do it anyway. Even Dad slapped me to the ground and kicked me while I was down when I resisted breaking my engagement with Benito.

I rise from my seat. “Hard to talk back when there’s a gun pointing at your face or a blade pressed into your jugular.”

She grabs my wrist. “Don’t go. I’m sorry. You know what I’m like… Always playing devil’s advocate?”

“Don’t, because I’m not in the mood.” I pull my arm out of her grip.

Her features flicker with hurt. Any other time, I’d rush to apologize for being so snappish, but I can’t muster up the will to sooth her feelings when I’m teetering on the edge of ruin. “Okay. I just thought you were playing along with the adventure, because you could end it with a single word.”

My jaw clenches, and I narrow my eyes. “If it’s that ‘just say no’ bullshit⁠—”

“Benito.”

I rear back. “What?”

“The stalker works for the Montesanos. Your ex is the second-in-command. If one of their men is harassing you, he could stop it in an instant,” she says as if the answer is obvious.

Why on earth didn’t I think of that? Because Dad is dead, Mom is about to marry a murderer, the law firm is in shambles, and I’ve just discovered a secret about my parentage. I couldn’t think straight even if someone handed me a slide rule.

“You’re welcome,” Martina says, her tone flat, but I’m too frazzled to pick up on the subtext.

“Thank you.” I squeeze her shoulder, walk to the exit, and let Martina’s protests fade into the background.

Mind spinning, I push through the cafeteria doors and exit the building. The drive across town blurs into a haze of stoplights and sharp turns, my grip tight on the wheel. I park a block away from the place where Benito is supposed to operate.

Samson once bragged that his dad had taken all the Montesano buildings, leaving them with just the nightclub, a karaoke bar, and a store that sells dildos. Last time I checked, that’s where Martina’s younger sister had a part-time job.

According to Samson, Benito sometimes holds meetings in the club’s back room, the same place where his dad died of a heart attack. I’d call that gruesome, but Mom and I still live in the house where Dad was murdered.

When I round a corner and spot a limousine parked outside the Phoenix, my heart skips several beats. If the car isn’t for Benito, then it will be for one of his brothers. I’ve known all three of them since I was eight which has to count for something.

I hurry toward the nightclub, past the stores, including Wonderland, with its BDSM window display. When the Phoenix’s wooden double doors open, I break into a run.

Two men step out, both wearing suits that accentuate their athletic frames. I vaguely recognize the older one as our old professor, Remus Cortese. But all my attention is on Benito. He looks like a different man in the distance—dangerous, untouchable, edgy. I only recognize him from the glasses.

When the limo driver scurries out and opens the door, I shout, “Benito!”

Both men pause to turn in my direction. A seed of longing in my chest blooms into hope. Benito was always so kind, so generous, so giving. No matter how far we’ve drifted apart, he still wouldn’t want me defiled by his employee.

I run across the road, narrowly avoiding an oncoming car.

Benito’s dark eyes lock onto mine as I approach, the distance between us a chasm. I’m desperate to cross it, aching to reconnect. Instead of moving closer, he remains by the limo, looking like the perfect mafia prince. He’s tall, handsome, and exuding the kind of lethal composure that makes me feel safe.

Except his eyes don’t flicker with recognition or even interest. Instead, his gaze is ice, sharp and unforgiving, slicing through my soul with a pain that cuts deeper than a knife.

With every step, the distance between us shrinks, as does my hope. I’m beginning to feel like a beggar on the street, pleading for spare change.

My heart lurches. Why would Benito give a shit about the problems of a long-dead and buried ghost from the past?

When I reach him, my pulse pounds so hard I can barely hear the sound of my panting breaths. “Benito… um… thanks for covering my check the other day. I meant to call you to ask⁠—”

“I’m late for an engagement.” His gaze flicks past me, indifferent.

The word hits like a slap, and my breath catches. Engagement? “I just…” My voice falters, and I swallow hard, fighting back a surge of guilt. “Something’s happened. I need your help⁠—”

“Set up an appointment with my assistant.”

“Benito… Please,” I whisper, but he’s already turning away, dismissing me as if our sixteen year relationship meant nothing.

Without another glance, he climbs into the limousine. The door slams shut, sealing off any hope of getting help.

I stand frozen on the curb, watching the vehicle disappear into traffic. What the hell was I thinking—that Benito would revert back into that golden retriever, eager to fulfill my every whim? He’s moved on, probably happy with that woman. I’m just a painful chapter he wants to forget.

But what the hell am I supposed to do now?