Stalking Ginevra (Morally Black Book 4)

After an evening of identifying every Bellavista in Dad’s photo album, we spend the night in my old bedroom. In the morning, Benito takes me to buy a gown for dinner with Emmanuel Demartini.

We enter the Dolce Vista Boutique, which still drips with the kind of luxury that used to make me giddy.

My footsteps squeak over polished floors gleaming under the light of opulent chandeliers. The air is thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the faint fragrance of leather. I glance at the gowns displayed on the racks, feeling underdressed in my leggings and tank top.

Benito walks beside me in his black suit, his hand resting on the small of my back, but all I can think about is coming here to meet Mom. She was with Bossanova, picking out a wedding dress, and that leathery old bastard tried to fuck her in the changing room. I shudder, the image of him slobbering over her sickening enough to regurgitate my French toast.

Maria, the boutique’s owner, bustles over, flanked by girls holding trays of champagne and canapés. My back stiffens, my gut tightening with tension.

Last time I was here, Benito came in with that dark-haired woman to buy lingerie. I left before he could take her to the changing room, but imagining them together still grates on my nerves.

“Pick anything you want.” Benito says, his voice pulling me back to the present.

His words hit me like a slap. Wasn’t that what he said to her? I spin around, my mouth moving before I can stop myself. “Did you fuck her here?”

“Who?” he asks with a frown.

“You know exactly who I’m talking about,” I snap, my heart racing. “The femme fatale you’ve been parading around town.”

Benito’s features remain infuriatingly neutral until something flickers in his eyes. It’s a micro-expression but all the confirmation I need to know they’re still together. My heart sinks into my stomach like a ball and chain.

What on earth made me think he would end their relationship? Benito never spends the night with me. Yesterday was an exception because I was still panicked about Bob Brisket and refused to let Benito go. He probably returns to his lover every evening for a night of passion before coming to breed me like a mare.

“Did you bring me here to rub her in my face?” I glare into his dark eyes, watching every flicker, every clue behind his impenetrable mask.

Benito’s lips twitch with the barest hint of a smirk. I’m right. This is his idea of petty revenge.

“What’s so funny?” I snap, my hands clenching into fists.

“She’s Elania,” he says.

I blink, the name not registering. “Who?”

“Elania Salentino,” he replies, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

It takes me a second to process the name, but when I do, it’s like the ground shifts beneath my feet. The Salentino twins are Benito’s cousins, but they’re Roman’s age. They sometimes visited with their older brother, Giorgi, a lumbering brute even more psychotic than Samson.

“Oh… I didn’t recognize her without Aria.”

“They’re not so identical anymore,” Benito replies, his eyes never leaving mine.

My anger fizzles under a rush of hot embarrassment. Why hadn’t I noticed she was Elania? Cringing, I peek up at him through my lashes. “Sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“Were you jealous?”

“No,” I say, my cheeks heating.

Benito’s lips curl into a smirk, the one that always makes me feel like he’s two steps ahead of me, like he can read every thought running through my head. My stomach twists with equal parts frustration and nostalgia. I want to crawl under a clothes rail and hide, but his dark gaze pins me in place.

“Shut up.” I shove him on the chest.

“I didn’t say anything,” he replies, his poker face gone. Now he looks like he’s barely holding back laughter.

“You don’t need to say it,” I shoot back. “I can read your mind.”

All he does is smile again, that infuriating, knowing smirk, and it makes my insides flutter. I tear my gaze away, looking anywhere but him.. “Stop it.”

He steps closer, wraps an arm around my waist, and leans down to kiss my temple. “Pick out a dress.”

Still overheated, I snatch a flute of champagne from the tray and take a long sip, hoping the bubbles might douse the flames of my embarrassment. Turning to Maria, I mutter, “Something in green.”

Maria and the girls disappear in a flurry of activity, finding me every green evening gown. Dinner with Emmanuel Demartini is the closest thing to getting invited to see the King of England. Not only is he from a cadet family of the House of Borgia, but he owns the oldest and largest casino in New Alderney.

I select a Grecian style gown in emerald green, with a jeweled shoulder strap and matching waistband. It’s elegant, timeless, without being too revealing. Maria takes me into the changing room, where she pins up my hair with strands of pearls and jewels. One of her girls applies makeup, making me unrecognizable.

The woman gazing back at me through the mirror is sophisticated. Untouchable. She would never submit to a brute like Bob Brisket, let alone Samson.

“You’ve made an excellent choice, Mrs. Montesano.” Maria says as she exits.

I glance from left to right, taking in my surroundings. The changing room feels like a boudoir with mirrors taking up an entire wall reflecting a chaise lounge against the far wall wide enough for two.

Nerves flutter in my belly. This dress, the heels, the perfection of it all feels like I’m playing a role. Benito’s going to take one look at me and laugh.

The door opens with a soft creak.

I catch his reflection in the mirror before I even turn around. Benito steps inside, his dark gaze sweeping over my body with an intensity that makes my heart skip a beat. The door closes behind him, his presence making the air crackle with electricity. Flames lick up my spine, setting my skin alight.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. “But you haven’t been bred yet.”

A shiver of anticipation settles between my legs as he closes the distance, towering over me from behind. As he reaches for the straps of the dress, I pull back and raise a palm.

“Not like this. I want you naked,” I say, my voice breathy.

When we were together, the most I’d ever seen of him was in a bathing suit back before he became so muscular. After we married, through all those daily breeding sessions, I still never saw him undressed.

He pauses, considering my request for several heartbeats, then nods. His fingers move to his tie, loosening it with deliberate slowness, his gaze never leaving mine.

Breath catching, my throat tightens as the fabric of his jacket whispers to the floor. Benito’s body radiates heat, even across the few inches that separate us, pulling me closer like gravity.

He moves onto his belt and then drops his pants. I glance down at the cock straining through his silk boxers and moan. Benito toes off his shoes, climbs out of his pants, his muscles shifting beneath his skin. All I can do is stare. The raw power in his body, the way his confidence radiates with every step closer to being bare—it’s intoxicating.

Then he stops.

I step forward, reaching for the placket of his shirt, wanting to be the one to reveal what’s beneath. My fingers tremble as I undo each button, my heart pounding harder with every exposed inch of olive skin.

When the shirt falls open, I find a tattoo over his heart. The name, GINEVRA, written in elaborate, flowing script, is surrounded by green vines and roses the exact shade of my hair.

Tears sting my eyes, and a fist clenches my heart. I trace the intricate lines of my name across his skin, over the vines and roses weaving together like the life we always planned. This tattoo is more than just ink. It represents the years we lost, the pain I caused when I left.

“When did you get it?” I whisper, my heart splitting open, wondering if he was in agony the day he sat down to brand his skin with my memory.

He remains silent, his gaze unreadable, and the weight of his stare hits me like a punch. I thought I’d destroyed us. I thought the love we had was gone, replaced by resentment. But he’s carried me over his heart, through every moment of our separation. He’s marked himself with my name, a reminder of what I threw away.

My vision blurs. Guilt and regret gather at the base of my throat, and I swallow. Hot tears spill down my cheeks, and I press my palm to his chest.

“I’m so sorry for hurting you,” I say, my voice cracking.

Memories of our life together flood my mind—the nights we spent on the sofa, talking until dawn, the quiet mornings with his arms wrapped around my waist, his gentle laugh, the way he looked at me like I was his entire world.

The air feels too thick to breathe, my chest tightening with emotions I can’t name. Words jam in my throat, useless against the flood of feelings breaking loose. My fingers still resting over his heart twitch in sync with the rhythm of my pulse—desperate, frantic, erratic.

I can’t convey the storm raging beneath my skin. The love, the loss, the longing—it’s all tangled up in a knot I can’t untie. I want to tell him everything, but all I manage is a shaky breath, my body trembling with the weight of everything I’ve left unsaid. It’s overwhelming, unbearable, and yet I can’t pull away from him. I never want to let him go.

“Benito, I missed you every day. Every single day,” I say.

All the letters I never sent, the times I nearly called him but didn’t. I thought a clean break would be kinder, but standing here, seeing evidence of his love, proves me wrong.noveldrama

“Benito,” I rasp. “You’ve got to believe me. I regretted it the moment I left.”

He leans down and silences me with a kiss.