Stalking Ginevra (Morally Black Book 4)

The next morning, I sit cross-legged on the sofa overlooking the casino’s fountains. At this time of the day, sunlight streaming through the clouds colors the spray a pale shade of gold.

One good thing has come from marrying Benito, apart from the obvious protection. It looks like I’ve made a friend. Carla, the woman from room service, stayed for breakfast and let me rub ointment on her neck. She’s actually quite fun when nobody’s strangling us to death.

She’s a refreshing change from Martina, who hid her resentment for me behind a veneer of friendship. If she had even hinted something was going on between her and Dad, I would have intervened.

Carla bounds across the suite to the small closet beside the minibar. After flinging it open, she extracts a black box large enough to hold a birthday cake.

“Did you ever open it?” she asks with a smirk.

My lips twitch. “That toy box?”

She brings it to the low table and opens it with a faint pop, releasing the faint scent of leather and plastic. Chuckling, she sifts through its contents and pulls out a box containing a dildo.

“That’s so unhygienic,” I say with a shake of my head.

Her laughter fills the suite. “They come to us sealed, and housekeeping replaces these after every stay.”

I snort. “Even if they’re unused?”

She nods. “If you open the box, the room gets charged.”

I shake my head, remembering how I rifled through its contents, looking for something to wear and finding a peephole bra and panties. The only thing I found useful was the silk blindfold, which helps block out the light.

Lunch arrives, and it’s the largest, most ostentatious charcuterie board. The man from room service sets it up on the dining table, filling the air with the rich scent of cured meats and cheeses. I rise off the sofa, my jaw dropping.

“Told you it was good,” Carla says with a proud smile.

I shake my head, marveling at the selection. Half the items are new to me, but I recognize prosciutto, soppressata, brie, manchego, gouda, and cheddar. Breaking up the display of cheeses and meat are tiny bowls of figs, dates, grapes, sliced apple, olives, cornichons, and sun-dried tomatoes. They’ve even provided condiments, a selection of nuts, crackers and baguette slices.

My hands land on my chest. This is a work of art.

“What are you waiting for?” Carla asks. “Eat!”

“You first.” I sweep my arm toward the display.

Carla takes a plate and picks through the selection, careful not to disturb its symmetry. I follow after her, not wanting to make a mess. You’d think I’d be used to fine dining, but Dad kept me out most of corporate dinners. Benito’s family always sat around the table and passed around bowls. Even though the food was top-tier, their style was always informal.

Once our plates are full, we take our seats, and Carla pops open a bottle of prosecco and pours us each a glass.

Watching her place a slice of gouda on a cracker without a care in the world, I blurt, “How did you do that yesterday?”

Carla looks up at me with a frown. “What are you talking about?”

I sit back, pushing a grape around my plate with the tip of my finger. “I mean, you jumped on that brute like it was nothing.”

Carla shrugs, her eyes hardening. “You do what you have to.”

“But he was huge,” I press. “You didn’t even hesitate.”

She leans back in her chair, popping a pickle into her mouth and chews. For a second, I think she’s going to ignore my question until she speaks. “I grew up in foster care. You either fight or get eaten alive. I guess I’ve had a lot of practice at not letting guys like that scare me.”

Throat tightening, I freeze, waiting for her to elaborate, but she doesn’t. Her gaze stays fixed on the charcuterie board, and she reaches for a slice of brie and places it on a cracker. Silence between us stretches, the weight of what she’s said pressing down on my chest.

“Sometimes, fighting like an animal is the only way to survive.”

She states this brutal truth as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, leaving me gaping, not knowing how to respond. What the hell can I add? My problems feel so trivial compared to her childhood when mine was so idyllic.

I open my mouth to say something—anything—but Carla shifts in her seat and asks, “Have you ever tried brie with fig jam?”

“No,” I murmur.

Smiling, she picks up a knife, spreads a dark substance on top of the brie, and passes it to me on a slice of bread. I take it, biting into the sweetness of the jam and the creamy cheese. After such a heavy subject, talking about food seems so strange.

“Good, right?” she asks with a wink, like we’re just talking about flavors, not how she learned to fight for her life.

We sit in silence for a while, picking at the board and sipping prosecco. I can’t stop thinking about how much of Carla’s life must have centered on survival. Sure, mine took a nosedive when I broke off my engagement with Benito, but before that, I was a princess. I had my father’s protection, his wealth, his connections.

Now, I’m tangled up in something darker than I ever imagined. And Carla’s been living under that shadow for years.

I should feel guilty for even trying to compare our situations, but something in me feels connected to her. I know what it’s like to feel trapped, to have to fight to protect yourself. It’s primal, desperate, all consuming.

We spend the rest of the meal picking at the food and talking about lighter things—movies, books, stupid celebrity gossip. It’s a welcome distraction, and for a little while, I almost forget I’m a prisoner.

Eventually, Carla glances at the leftovers and nods toward a plastic container. “Mind if I stash away some of this for my old man?”

I glance down at her left hand, finding a slender band. Curiosity scratches at the edges of my mind, wanting to know when she got married. My throat constricts. Asking nosy questions about her husband will only lead to a conversation about mine.

“Take whatever you want,” I say, waving her off.noveldrama

As she packs up the food, my gaze flickers to the black box on the sofa, which reminds me a little of the one Bob Brisket sent to the house. I shift on my seat, trying to push away thoughts of that monster, but they linger.

I’m trapped in this suite, married to a man who holds my life in his iron fist. Everything about my world feels out of control, like I’m teetering on the edge of something I can’t escape. Even now, a part of me misses Brisket’s twisted sense of pleasure.

Shit. I can’t be pining for a psychopath.

“Well, thanks for the company.” Carla pulls me from my thoughts and stands, clutching a tupperware box crammed with leftovers.

I smile back, though my mind is still swirling. “Thank you for everything, and for saving me.”

As she reaches the exit, she turns to me, her eyes softening. “It was my pleasure. Anytime.”

The door clicks shut behind her, leaving me once again alone in this suite. Forcing myself to move, I stand up and stretch, wandering over to the black box. My pussy clenches, and my fingers twitch toward the dildo still encased in cardboard.

No.

Tearing my gaze away from the offending item, I snatch the newspaper off the coffee table and skim through the headlines. Ignoring the report about an explosion across town, I flip straight to the business section.

There’s an article on the Di Marco Law Firm, reporting Nick Terranova’s appeal. It says that his chances of being reinstated look good, and my heart sinks. The moment he’s back in charge, he’ll change its name, erasing everything Dad built. We’ll lose the last remnants of our legacy.

Maybe it’s for the best.

Sighing, I toss the paper onto the floor and scrub a hand over my face. Why am I sympathizing over a predator and crook? Because he’s the only father I know? I shake off the frustration and roll my shoulders. Every corner of this suite feels suffocating.

I need a distraction, anything to pull me out of this downward spiral.

Grabbing the remote, I flip on the TV, hoping to catch something to give me a sense of what’s going on in the world outside these walls. But all I see is the hotel’s room service menu. No channels, no connection, no escape.

Fury simmers beneath my skin. They’ve even cut off the internet.

Stomach churning, I toss the remote. Isn’t it enough for Benito to keep me cooped up in this room? Now, he has to imprison my mind?

Grinding my teeth, I yank the silk blindfold off the bed and pull it over my eyes, trying to block out my predicament. But the darkness only amplifies my thoughts, sending me careening back to yesterday.

My throat tightens at the remembered touch of the brute’s hands, my lungs struggling under his crushing weight. I’m about to tear off the blindfold when my mind dredges up Benito’s face.

Saved by my jailor husband. I should be furious that I’m still under his thumb, but the thought of him makes my muscles melt into the mattress. Maybe it’s because I’ve always associated him with something pleasant—the warm, chewed-up blanket that’s always there to offer comfort.

Sleep finally comes, pulling me under, but it’s not a peaceful escape. In my dream, I’ve found my way to Brisket’s lair, giving him a slow, sensual lap dance. The music is sultry, my hips swaying to the rhythm. His helmet looms in front of me, hiding his face, but his hands linger on my thighs.

Arching my back, I press my body closer to his, feeling his grip tighten. There’s something intoxicating about his touch—about the way he controls me, even in my dreams.

His breath rasps beneath the helmet, harsh and ragged. The sound of his excitement sends a shiver of anticipation down my spine. Just as he pulls me onto his erection, a knock on the door jerks me awake.

Heart racing, I rip off the blindfold and sit up. By now, it’s gone dark, and the view outside my window is the night skyline. The dream still clings to my senses, wrapping around my mind like a collar.

“Come in,” I call, my breath coming out in shallow gasps.

The door opens, and Carla walks in, this time wheeling a tray stacked with beautiful boxes. “Another gift from the boss.”

I shake off the last vestiges of sleep. Benito already took my clothes, confiscated my phone, and won’t let me communicate with the outside world. He doesn’t get to smooth over keeping me prisoner with gifts.

“Take it away,” I rasp and wave my hand toward the door.

Carla’s smile falters, her eyes flickering with concern. “You okay?”

I shake my head, hating myself for snapping at a friend. “All I want is the internet.”

She shifts on her feet, her gaze dropping to the floor. That silence screams everything I need to know.

“Did my husband order you to keep me cut off?” I ask.

Carla mutters an apology, making me grind my teeth. It’s not her fault. I shouldn’t take out my anger on her. She sets the boxes down on the dresser and slopes to the door. “I’ll leave a message with Mr. Montesano.”

The moment she’s gone, I launch myself off the bed, grab the boxes, and dump them in the hallway. I close the door, return to the bed, and slide on the blindfold.

Just as my mind transports me back to sexy time with Bob Brisket, the door creaks open again.

A male voice calls my name, sending my heart leaping to the back of my throat. I yank off the blindfold and sit up.

Benito stands at the foot of the bed, holding the discarded boxes. He stares at me through the dark with cold eyes. “Do you want these clothes or not?”