Stalking Ginevra (Morally Black Book 4)

I enter the Montesano mansion’s pool house. Its architecture mirrors the big white house, complete with its columns, and its entire front wall has floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the water.

When I used to come here with Benito, it had a nice space with an indoor barbecue. But now, it’s set up like an art studio. Huge canvases hang on the walls, on easels, and stand on the marble floors. Some of them are abstract paintings with splashes of vibrant color, the others depict a man with a god-like body. Sunlight filters through the patio windows, bathing my skin in a way that would be soothing if my pulse wasn’t thudding in my throat.

I glance at the far right corner toward a fully stocked kitchenette. It’s as if the artist who created these beautiful works might return at any minute. My gaze drifts to the back, where a door leads to a bedroom. When I explored earlier, the clothes in the closet were close to my size, except the lingerie was a cup too small.

It obviously belongs to this mystery artist. My mind conjures up that devastatingly beautiful brunette, but she’s far too curvaceous to fit in those garments. Whoever occupies this space seems tall and wiry, which I’m not.

Benito’s emerald kimono now feels too tight, too voluminous, too ridiculous for this pool house, but it’s all he’s permitted me to wear. It’s a constant reminder that I’m his possession. His doll to dress however he pleases.

Rubbing my arms, I try to erase the unease crawling under my skin. I thought Lorenzo and Vitale would send me to a safe house or even the penthouse overlooking the casino. I didn’t know they were taking me to the Montesano mansion until we were halfway up Alderney Hill.

My two protectors sit outside on the pool deck, their backs to the glass doors. They’re pretending to be relaxed, trying to look like they’re battle-hardened soldiers. But neither of them seem old enough to have graduated college.

Bob Brisket could be nearby. He works for the Montesano family, after all. If he’s watching me, if he knows where I am…

That thought spirals into panic.

Are these two enough to protect me?

The gnawing fear in my chest tightens, squeezing the breath from my lungs. I pace across the studio, needing the movement to burn off the tension. The soles of my feet are cool across the tile floor, but it does nothing to quell this mounting unease.

Movement from outside makes me freeze. Lorenzo and Vitale shoot to their feet, stiffening like hounds catching the scent of danger.

A large figure emerges from the gardens at the other end of the pool, moving toward us with powerful strides. He’s clad in a burgundy robe and black pants, but even from the distance, I can tell he’s a predator.

My heart lurches, pounding painfully in my chest. The man is tall, muscular, and broad, making Lorenzo and Vitale look like boys playing dress-up. A drumroll resounds through my ears, drowning out all rational thought.

It can only be Bob Brisket.

Every instinct screams at me to run. I bolt toward the end of the studio, past the half-finished canvases, toward the kitchenette. Fingers trembling, I pull open drawers, trying to find a weapon to keep him at bay, but the most dangerous item there is a steak knife.

Then the door to the pool house swings open.

I whirl around, my back to the wall, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

My stomach drops as the figure steps inside, his presence filling the room like a storm. He pauses, his gaze sweeping from one side of the space to the other, before landing on me. My legs tremble, ready to collapse on the stone tiles.noveldrama

Panic cloaks my senses like a shroud, yet I brace myself to fight. Bob Brisket will have to kill me before I cheat on Benito again. I wait for him to rush across the room and order me onto my knees, but then I see his face.

The man standing in the studio is Roman. Benito’s older brother. The one who just got released from Death Row for murder.

I don’t remember him being so massive, or so terrifying, but the energy he radiates isn’t seductive like Brisket’s. It’s pure, cold menace. The kind that sends a bone-deep shiver down my spine.

Roman’s dark eyes narrow, his brows drawing together as he closes the distance. My back hits the wall, and every instinct screams at me to disappear. Terror claws up my throat, and my thoughts lurch to a horrifying possibility.

What if Bob Brisket isn’t really Benito’s employee? What if Bob Brisket is Roman?

That would explain everything. The way he knew my name. How he was able to take a photo of Benito and Mom from the mansion’s grounds. The reason why he isn’t afraid to cross Benito.

Because he’s Benito’s more dangerous, older brother.

Roman stops a few feet away, towering over me like a specter. His gaze is cold and sharp, as if I’m nothing more than filth that’s slithered between his toes.

“What the hell are you doing in my pool house?” he growls in a low rumble that shakes my bones to the marrow.

My mind scrambles for something to say, but all I can feel is the crushing weight of his presence. Every membrane in my mouth turns dry, and I part my lips to speak, but all that comes out is a squeak.

“I… Benito moved me out of the hotel. There was a bomb,” I manage to stammer.

Roman glares down at me for longer than I can bear, making me squirm like a worm on a hook. The knots in my stomach twist in sympathy, but all I want is to vanish.

Then his lips curl in a sneer. “You’re the one my brother moved into the honeymoon suite.”

It’s not a question.

I nod, my body trembling as I try to hold back tears. Roman’s gaze travels the length of my body, down to my bare feet. For a terrifying moment, I think he’ll grab my neck and smash my brains against the wall.

Instead, he leans in, filling my nostrils with the scent of whiskey. “Break my brother’s heart again,” he growls, his voice dangerous and low, “And I’ll kill you myself.”

The threat wraps around my throat, squeezing until I hold my breath, too terrified to move. He draws back, those cold, dark eyes boring into mine, unblinking. My heart sputters, my lungs burn. It takes every ounce of willpower to remain upright, to not crumble into a pillar of salt, every ounce of strength I have not to collapse at his feet.

Finally, Roman draws back, still maintaining eye contact. Without another word, he turns and strides toward the patio door. In the absence of his overwhelming presence, I exhale a shaky breath.

When Roman pauses at the exit, I flinch, my body tensing. Has he changed his mind? Will he pull out a gun?

“Don’t touch the paintings. Or the art supplies,” he snaps over his shoulder, not bothering to look back.

Then he leaves.

The moment the door clicks shut behind him, my legs buckle, and I collapse against the wall, gasping for air. I press my palm to my chest, willing my heart to stop racing, but fear still fills my veins with adrenaline.

Roman is frightening. But the raw terror he inspires is cold and unpleasant.

It’s not like Bob Brisket.

Brisket’s danger seeps into my core, leaving me weak and sending heat straight to my clit. He makes me crave things I shouldn’t. He’s dark, compelling, and awakens a part of me I thought was dead, even when I’m scared out of my mind.

But all I feel with Roman is dread. Nothing more.

So my theory that Roman can be Bob Brisket is bullshit.

He has to be someone else.