Stalking Ginevra (Morally Black Book 4)

I drive home in silence, with Ginevra shrinking in the front seat. Our marriage has finally reached a spot of mutual respect. Will this information shatter that fragile balance?

The setting sun dips behind the tall juniper trees lining the winding road of Alderney Hill. Occasional bursts of harsh light stream in from the gaps between the branches, making me squint.

I prefer the darkness. It’s more comforting than the blinding truth. Part of me wants to gloss over the five years we were apart, but my baser instincts bellow for answers. I should tell Ginevra there’s no need to speak. I’ve heard enough. I know why she left, but our previous relationship was based on the truth.

We held no secrets from each other between the ages of eight to twenty-three. But if I can barely handle her having feelings for Brisket, how the hell will I react to her sleeping with Samson?

Ginevra says it was unpleasant, but she also talks badly of Brisket, who pushed her limits, made her moan, gave her more pleasure than she could ever handle.

Just before the final bend, I take a turn into one of the vacant plots surrounding our family estate.

“I thought you were taking me home,” Ginevra says.

My heart melts. “Do you already see it as your home?”

She shifts on her seat, hiding her features behind a curtain of auburn hair. “I spent more time at your place when we were growing up,” she replies, sounding gruff. “Every time mom went on one of her retreats, Uncle Enzo and Aunt Lucia let me stay over.”

I chuckle. “And Dad put you in the tower⁠—”

“Because he wanted no funny business,” we both say in unison.

Ginevra laughs, the sound reminding me of happier days. For a moment, I imagine us back at law school, coming home for one of Dad’s family dinners. It’s something he introduced years ago after Uncle Luca died, and his wife left with our cousins, Jennifer and Leroi. Recently, Roman tried to reintroduce the tradition, but it was a disaster.

I shake off that thought and focus on Ginevra. “You said you needed somewhere grounding.”

She nods, her brows pinching.

“I’m taking you to our old hideout.”noveldrama

“Is it still there?” she asks, her voice rising an octave.

“Of course.” I stop the car at a set of iron gates with railings covered in foliage.

The men guarding them wear full body armor and carry automatic weapons. It’s been like this since Roman was framed the same week as Dad’s murder. When your enemies are powerful and numerous, the only way to win is after a long retreat.

They open the gates, and we drive through a path lined with juniper trees so tall they block out the fading light. Ginevra slides a hand on my knee and squeezes.

“Shouldn’t it have rotted by now?” she asks.

“Some things are worth preserving.”

Gasping, she slides down the hand on my knee to intertwine our fingers. From the way her gaze burns the side of my face, it looks like she gets my second meaning.

The road ends at one of many buildings with wooden façades dotted around the empty plots surrounding our estate. They’re reinforced security checkpoints where guards can rest and sleep between shifts.

I step out, walk around the front of the car, open the passenger side door, and offer Ginevra my hand. We step out together and walk past the building, moving down a narrow path winding deeper into the woods. The familiar crunch of twigs breaking underfoot brings back memories of stolen afternoons spent in our secret haven.

We stopped coming here when we started college and moved into an apartment close to Alderney State University. We had separate bedrooms because Ginevra and I were both committed to saving ourselves for marriage.

Maybe a lack of passion was our problem back then, but it sure as hell isn’t now. I can’t imagine myself spending a night in the same building as Ginevra and not wanting to fuck her and make her scream my name until we’re both spent.

As we pass by a wall of dense shrubs, her breath hitches, and she stops in her tracks.

“Benito,” she whispers. “I don’t remember it being so big.”

I turn to the old oak, which always looks larger at this time of the year. We chose it nearly two decades ago for its multi-lobed trunk. Dad said it would be sturdy enough to support a house and a spacious deck. The ladders we used to access it are still in place, but I built a curved staircase after the last remodel.

She grabs my arm. “This is more than just a bit of maintenance.”

“Come on.” I wrap an arm around her waist. “Let me show you around.”

We continue toward the oak, pausing at the swing. The first version was just a plank wide enough for two. Now, it’s a woven loveseat suspended by thick ropes.

Ginevra walks around the trunk’s perimeter, pausing at the spot where we carved our names. She runs her fingers over the etched letters, tracing them with a sigh. “Life was simpler back then.”

I run my fingers down her hair, which still feels as silky as the first day I touched her. “Things change.”

She turns around, meeting my gaze with watery eyes. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t.”

“What if you don’t like what I say?” Her voice cracks, trembling as if the words alone might shatter her spirit. “What if you decide to lock me up again?”

“I won’t.” Exhaling, I let my hand hover near hers. She’s shaking, and I don’t want to rush her into accepting my touch.

Lips tightening, she fidgets with her sleeve and glances at our feet. “You say that now, but some of the things he made me do were awful.”

“Ginevra,” I say, softer this time. My chest tightens, and I fight the urge to reach for her again. “Trust me. Please.”

Her eyes flit to mine, her throat bobbing as she nods. Shame flickers across her gaze before she turns away.

“He made you do things?” The words scrape against my throat, every syllable weighted with fear and fury.

She bobs her head.

“And you had no choice?”

“He would have hurt me,” she rasps.

Rage bubbles in my chest. I clench my fists, wishing I’d been the one to murder Samson. Sucking in a breath, I force down the fury. She needs my support, not my anger.

I cup her cheek, my thumb brushing away a stray tear. “It wasn’t your fault,” I say, my voice wavering with the effort to stay steady. “None of it was. You hear me? Samson Capello was the worst kind of psychopath. He and Gregor kept an innocent young girl in their basement.”

“What?” Her breath quickens, her eyes turning frantic and wide. “I was engaged to that bastard. How the hell didn’t I know?”

“Because their father handed her to them like a party favor. What they did to you was monstrous. But not your fault. You’re here, Ginevra. You survived.”

Nodding, she sucks in a deep breath. “But the girl… Where is she? Is she safe, or even sane?”

My brows rise at her astute question. Something tells me Seraphine didn’t emerge from the Capello basement with her mind intact, but she’s sane enough to take care of Leroi’s injuries.

“She’s staying in one of the cottages with my cousin,” I say. “It’s a long story.”

“Oh.” She dips her head.

I slide my fingers beneath her chin and lift her head, forcing her to meet my gaze. “Nothing you tell me could ever make me abandon you. You know that?”

Ginevra nods. “Promise me you won’t go into a murderous rage.”

“I can’t do that,” I growl.

Barking a laugh, she squeezes her eyes shut, loosening tears that roll down her cheeks. “Can you at least promise not to hand me body parts?”

Pulling her into a hug, I place a kiss on her forehead. It’s reassuring that she finds at least one aspect of Bob Brisket repulsive. But he’s gone, and all that’s left now is Benito.

“Let me take you upstairs,” I murmur. “You can lie down and tell me everything.”