Stalking Ginevra (Morally Black Book 4)

Hours later, I sit in the back of the limousine, still cringing at my revelation. It’s bad enough that she lingered on my tattoo, even worse that she got me begging for crumbs of reassurance.

One simultaneous orgasm with Ginevra was enough for me to spill my guts. I’ve fucked up the balance of power. What’s next? Do I tell her Bob Brisket is really me?

The engine’s hum does nothing to ease my tension. With Ginevra staring at me like I owe her an explanation, it mounts with every passing second.

I glance out of the darkened window at the city rolling past, forcing my thoughts to stay fixed on the dinner ahead—on meeting the mysterious Emmanuel Demartini, on smoking out Victor Bellavista.

On anything but Ginevra.

She drifts closer on the back seat, her honeysuckle and vanilla scent curling into my nostrils, impossible to ignore. I clench my jaw, forcing myself to remain strong.

“It’s a beautiful night,” she murmurs. “I’ll bet the Demartini estate looks incredible under this full moon.”

I don’t answer. My grip tightens on the armrest, making the leather creak under my fingers. She’s trying to rebuild that connection we established at the boutique, and part of me wants to respond, but I can’t let her in. Not now.

“Benito, are you going to keep this up all night?” she asks, her voice tight with frustration. You haven’t said a word since we left the Dolce Vita.”

Chest squeezing, I force my gaze from the window and meet her eyes.

She’s breathtaking with her auburn hair piled atop her head with stray tendrils curling to frame her porcelain face. Makeup enhances the stormy depths of her gray eyes, accentuating her round cheekbones and luscious lips.

A frown pinches those beautiful features, and she searches my face for cracks in my façade, but I cling to the last shreds of my dignity. Every instinct wants to throw myself at her feet and assure her of my unwavering love, but she would only relegate me to being her doormat.

“Benito?”

“We’re nearly there. Focus on the meeting.” I turn back to the window as the limo veers off the highway and down a country lane.

In her reflection, she purses her lips but doesn’t push further. After a beat, she looks away. Shutting her out is a shitty thing to do and borderline abusive. But stonewalling is a misdemeanor compared to the heinous crimes I’ve committed to make Ginevra mine.

My sins against this woman are piling higher than the Tower of Babel. One day, they’ll equal the sin she committed when she withheld information that could have saved our family.

The limo slows at the Demartini estate, their wrought iron gates looming in the moonlight like the entrance to another time. My great-grandfather Paolo might have built our mansion along the lines of a Roman villa back in Italy, but Demartini is the real deal.

His coat of arms dates back to the fourteenth century, containing four gold bulls, each in a separate quadrant on a red background with a detailed gold border.

“Did you hear that he moved his family mansion from Valencia, brick by brick?” Ginevra asks, her voice breathy with excitement.

“You think it’s true?” I ask, my gaze meeting hers.

She shrugs. “Well, London Bridge was moved to Arizona in the sixties.”

The limousine stops in front of a stone building that looks as if it’s been lifted straight out of Venice. It isn’t as grand as our home’s Roman architecture, but the weathered facade makes me wonder if it’s truly centuries old. Green shutters flank each window, except for the portico at its center, where a trio of arched French doors stretch up to a balustrade.

A silver-haired man in a white tuxedo jacket stands at the balcony, his hands resting on its stone railing. I exit the limo, help Ginevra out, and crane my neck to the pediment at the very top.

My brow pinches. They don’t even have a tower.

Ginevra places a hand on my shoulder, capturing my attention. I gaze down, admiring how the delicate green fabric of her dress hugs her curves. She’s distracting. I would have brought Roman, but Demartini said to bring a date.

Movement behind the French doors makes us both turn toward the entrance. A butler emerges from beyond a set of heavy wooden doors concealed behind the glass.

With his white waistcoat and navy jacket adorned with gold buttons, red cuffs, and epaulets, he could work for Napoleon. I glance down to find his pants striped in red, white, and blue.

Ginevra gasps. I hide my reaction behind a mask of calm.

Far be it from me to notice a man’s attire, but a lot can be learned about a family from the way they clothe their employees. Take Bellavista and his little maids, which implies he’s a hedonist… And a predator.

Demartini’s man, on the other hand, is dressed with a level of precision that signals a family clinging to old-world elegance. Emmanuel Demartini values control, tradition, and a rigid hierarchy—qualities that reveal his need to assert power, not through indulgence like Bellavista, but through the meticulous preservation of his nobility.

Dad armed all our people, down to the gardeners and kitchen maids, with automatic weapons. But then, the Montesano family built itself up from nothing. As such, we’ve been at war since we crossed the Atlantic.

“Good evening,” says the butler, who can’t be younger than seventy, even with the dye job. “I’m Rinaldo. Mr. Demartini is expecting you.”

I give him a curt nod, intending to keep up my guard. Rinaldo gestures for us to follow, and I place a hand on Ginevra’s lower back, guiding her inside. The interior is less grand than the outside, with crystal chandeliers casting dim light on gilded portraits hanging among golden mirrors.

We trail behind Rinaldo down a vast entrance hall of uneven marble tiles, passing dark furniture that has seen better days. Ginevra keeps her gaze forward, her frame fraught with tension. People describe us as old money, but this place and its relics make us look nouveau riche.

“Mr. Demartini appreciates the information you’ve shared thus far,” Rinaldo says over his shoulder. “He is looking forward to discussing your mutual concerns.”

Ginevra and I exchange a glance, though neither of us speaks. Emmanuel Demartini has always been a myth who looms large over New Alderney’s elite. Our grandfather, Giovanni, met him in person in the eighties when he was less of a recluse and more of a power player. Demartini refused multiple offers of partnership, dismissing them with the quiet arrogance of an aristocrat. He claimed that power rooted in bloodlines endures far longer than anything built on fear.

We stop in front of a set of heavy wooden doors, which Rinaldo pulls open with a creak.

He steps into a candle-lit dining room. At the head of a table large enough for six sits an elderly man dressed in a white tuxedo jacket. I can only assume he’s Emmanuel Demartini.

He doesn’t rise, but the younger man beside him stands. He’s in his mid thirties—about Roman’s age, with a slender build that reminds me of Cesare.

“Welcome.” The old man’s voice is gravelly, as though years of fine cigars have eroded his vocal cords. “Benito Montesano, I presume. Who is your lovely date?”

“My wife, Ginevra Montesano,” I reply.

His white brows lift. “I wasn’t aware you had married.” He gestures at the younger man. “This is my son, Marcello.”

“Mars,” he says and offers me his hand.

I shake with the son, who then kisses Ginevra’s knuckles, but Demartini only clasps his hands. A man that age probably has a compromised immune system, so I don’t take offense.

Rinaldo seats us near Demartini and his son, pouring red wine from a crystal decanter before departing with a bow.noveldrama

“But I didn’t ask you here for pleasantries.” The old man takes a sip of wine, his eyes sharpening. “There’s trouble brewing in our world, particularly at our casinos.”

Mars sits straighter. “Victor has plagued our casino for years, but no one from our end ever tied him to the Bellavista name.”

“Our security staff have ways of making people talk.” I pick up my glass.

The two men exchange glances. Emmanuel Demartini never wanted to associate with a known gangster like Grandfather Giovanni. I expect they’re having second thoughts about letting me into their family home.

Mars chuckles. “Does breaking bones always get answers?”

“It works. And after that, no one wants to come back for more.” I offer the smug bastard a tight smile. Just for that sarcastic remark, I won’t bother to share how we’ve already recouped over half our losses.

“What did Salvatore tell you about this Victor character?” asks the old man.

“He claims not to have a relative of that name,” I reply. “Yet the explosion behind my casino came with a note warning me to stay away from the Bellavista family.”

“Why would an impostor care if you were going after Salvatore?” Mars asks.

My thoughts exactly.

“Because someone is trying to put our heads together.” The old man raises a finger. “You, Salvatore Bellavista, and I have a shared enemy. The only question is who.”

“You and I have nothing in common apart from our casinos,” I say.

“You have BV Holdings in common,” Ginevra adds.

We all turn to meet her gaze.

She sits straighter. “I’ve studied their financials for years since joining the Di Marco Law Group. Salvatore Bellavista funnels money through a series of shell companies.”

“How did you get so close to their inner workings?” Marcello asks.

“My late father managed their account for decades,” she replies. “I handled a lot of the paperwork, so I’m familiar with their entire corporate structure.

“Go on,” I say, my brows rising.

She shifts in her seat. “I never understood why he funneled so much money through a convoluted network of entities and offshore accounts when he had a legitimate manufacturing business. What if those funds were stolen from your casinos?”

There’s a pause, and the air thickens as her words settle. Demartini shifts forward in his seat, his attention fully on Ginevra.

Rinaldo enters with the first course, which he places on our settings. We sit in silence, waiting for him to serve more wine, before he leaves again with another bow.

“And how would you suggest we unravel the money trail?” asks the old man.

Marcello leans close as Ginevra launches into a flurry of legalese. “Your wife is a real asset.”

Throat thickening, I force a nod. How the hell did I lock her away in a hotel room, degrading her into submission, when she could have reigned at my side?

As the conversation continues, Ginevra outlines how to obtain an asset freezing order to force Salvatore into being more forthcoming with information.

During the main course, the conversation drifts to history, politics, and law. I knew Ginevra was intelligent and resourceful, but watching her hold court with an aristocrat like Demartini is a revelation.

By the time Rinaldo serves dessert, I’ve already made my decision.

Ginevra is my equal. And I’ve been a fool to treat her as anything less.

Tonight, I’ll let her shine. And after that, I’ll treat her like my wife.