Stalking Ginevra (Morally Black Book 4)

My days blur together in this gilded cage, a rhythm I can’t escape. Every morning before breakfast, Benito arrives for the breeding sessions. After that last time, he won’t allow me to fuck him face to face, instead, taking me on the rug or bent over the bed.

The lack of eye contact still doesn’t stop me from talking, hoping my words will reach his heart. I remind him of our past, the nights we used to spend in our treehouse as kids, lying beneath the stars, the conversations we had about the future.

He never responds. Sometimes, his hands falter, or he changes the rhythm of his strokes, and I wonder if what I’m saying to him is working.

Kimonos in every color of the rainbow hang in the wardrobe—silks so soft they glide over my skin like a whisper. Nightgowns too, delicate and sheer, wrapped in ribboned boxes like gifts. I can’t tell if they’re rewards or if Benito’s trying to make my captivity more comfortable in his own strange way.

He’s filled my golden cage with the things I love: the books I used to read before bed, boxes of Turkish delight, and even my favorite honeysuckle perfume. But none of it matters. None of it is him.

All I want is him.

This morning, after Carla clears away the breakfast things, she returns with a pack of cards and chocolate fondue. She sets it up at the dining table by the window, and invites me over with a warm smile.

I toss aside my copy of Dracula, deciding I can read it later.

“What would you like to play today?” Carla asks.noveldrama

“What’s the most popular game at the casino right now?”

“Poker,” she replies, her brown eyes sparkling. “Would you like me to teach you?”

I walk over to the dining table, my heart swelling with gratitude. Without her, I probably would have gone insane. The flame beneath the fondue pot flickers, filling the air with the scent of melted chocolate. My mouth waters and the appetite I lost at breakfast returns.

“Are you assigned to this floor, or just me?” I ask as she shuffles the cards. They’re a heavy looking deck, with gold-embossed edges, embroidered with the Casino Montesano logo.

Pausing mid-shuffle, she gazes up at me through wide eyes. Her mouth opens then closes before she presses her lips into a thin line. The silence that follows is awkward. I already know what she’s leaving unspoken.

“You don’t have to answer,” I say, forcing a weak smile. “Benito probably told you to keep me company.”

Carla glances down, her cheeks flushing. “He probably doesn’t want you feeling isolated.”

Warmth blooms in my chest. He’s keeping me here, but he hasn’t completely cut me off. A small, irrational part of me holds onto that like a lifeline. Maybe I’m not so alone after all.

I gaze at Carla, marveling at the way the light streaming through the windows turns the flyaways in her dark hair a vibrant shade of umber. Outside, the sun glints off the casino fountains far below, creating dozens of tiny rainbows.

This almost feels like home.

Carla dips a strawberry into the melted chocolate, sets it on a side plate, and pushes it across the table like a peace offering.

“Thanks,” I say, trying to break the tension.

She smiles, but the expression is tight as though bringing up her connection with Benito has soured the mood.

I take a bite of the strawberry, humming my approval at the delicious mix of sweetness against the decadence of milk chocolate. “Have some.”

Carla shifts on her seat and picks at a loose thread on her sleeve. Shit. I’ve ruined everything.

I take another bite of strawberry, already forgetting about the cards. “What do you do outside of work?”

She hesitates again, but then her shoulders relax, as if she’s relieved to talk about something normal. Finally, she takes a fresh strawberry and dips it in the chocolate fondue.

“Mostly, I take care of my dad,” she says, glancing at me with a gentle smile. “He was in an accident and needs help.”

“Is he in the hospital?” I ask.

Chuckling, she shakes her head. “At home. I only make sure he eats properly, gets to his appointments. The usual stuff.”

I tilt my head. “How old is he?”

“He never said,” she replies with a laugh.

“What? Didn’t he mention his age when you were younger?”

Eyes flickering with regret, she shakes her head. “I didn’t even know who he was until after I left foster care.”

I nod, remembering the background she shared after fighting that brute. Curiosity burns in my chest about what she might have endured living with foster parents, but I clamp my mouth shut. Her trauma isn’t my entertainment.

“How did you find him?” I ask, picturing her hiring a private detective.

Carla shrugs, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “He came to the door of my foster home on my eighteenth birthday, bearing gifts.”

“Really?” I ask with a frown.

She nods, her cheeks turning pink. “It was like that scene in Annie, where she’s adopted by Daddy Warbucks. It’s so nice getting to know my roots.”

There’s something in her tone—a mix of hope and nostalgia—that makes me think of Dad. I saw him every day of my life, but I only really knew him after he was gone.

I thought the worst of him was the violence that erupted when I refused his request to get engaged to Samson. Then I found out he’d gotten an underage girl pregnant, groomed another, and stole an entire law firm.

Carla licks the chocolate off her fingers and re-shuffles the cards. I reach for a strawberry and dip it in the chocolate. It’s hard to feel self-pity when others’ lives are so much worse.

As she deals a new hand, a loud bang shatters the quiet, followed by the shrill ring of the fire alarms.

I shoot out of my seat, my heart hammering hard enough to break through my ribs. Carla gets up and rushes to the exit, while I stand at the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Below, people pour out through the casino’s front doors and gather around the fountains, their bodies small and frantic from this great height.

“What the hell?” I whisper, my breath fogging the glass.

“Nothing in here,” Carla shouts over the alarms.

“Something’s happening downstairs,” I say from the window.

Her gaze darts around the room, landing on a pair of sandals I left by the bed. “Put them on. We’re leaving.”

Before I can respond, the door bursts open, and a young man rushes in with a gun. His face is pale, his eyes wide with urgency. “Mrs. Montesano, we need to go.”

Throat tightening, I press myself against the glass. “Who are you?”

“Lorenzo,” he replies, his voice low. “There’s been an explosion at the back of the hotel. The casino is under attack. We need to get you to safety.”

A chill runs down my spine, cold fear sinking into the marrow of my bones. I don’t recognize this man. How the fuck do I know he isn’t the face of Bob Brisket?

Anyone deranged enough to break into a penthouse to carve out another man’s heart is capable of planting a bomb in the casino to abduct me to his lair. My mind races, trying to connect the dots, but all I feel is dread. It settles into my gut, rooting my feet to the marble.

“I’m not going anywhere until I speak to Benito,” I say over the shrill of the alarms.

Carla steps forward, placing a hand on my arm. “Lorenzo works for Mr. Montesano. He’s one of his men.”

My stomach twists into painful knots. I trust Carla, but I don’t trust Brisket not to hold her father hostage. They could be working together.

Before I can argue further, Lorenzo pulls out his phone and dials. It rings beneath the alarm’s incessant screech, but after a few tense seconds, Benito’s face appears on the screen.

He’s in the back seat of a car, his tense features softening when he sees me.

“The casino is under attack,” Benito says. “You and Carla should go with Lorenzo and Vitale. They’ll keep you safe.”

His face disappears. I feel the loss of his presence like a punch to the gut. Lorenzo tucks the phone into his jacket, and sweeps his arm toward the door. “We need to move now, Ma’am.”

I slide my feet into the slippers, my stomach lurching. If Brisket is behind the explosion, I doubt whether two young men are strong enough to keep me safe.