Stalking Ginevra (Morally Black Book 4)

I drive through town, gripping the steering wheel tight enough to break through the leather. The city blurs around my periphery into gray buildings, shadowy trees, and people moving like ghosts.

All I can see is Martina beneath Terranova, her betrayal burning a hole through my soul.

Or is it my betrayal?

I should have noticed something—anything happening between my father and best friend. Instead, my life was consumed by men. Benito was my everything. I lost myself in his protection, his love, his unwavering devotion. Then Samson was demanding and abusive. There was little left over for Martina.

How I wish I could turn back time.

My navigation app directs me to Bossanova’s building, one of the exclusive apartment blocks overlooking the park. As I walk through the marble lobby on autopilot, my mind spins with her parting words.

The elevator chimes, breaking me out of my musings. Its doors slide open, revealing Bossanova’s penthouse, which looks like a trip back to 1974.

I glance at the dark wall panels, wondering why on earth someone would sacrifice the light. Crossing the large living space, I cringe at the shaggy, burnt-orange carpet muffling my steps.

Scattered light dances from a disco ball hanging from the ceiling, casting tiny reflections across the dark walls. I shake my head, my lip curling at how this place mirrors its owner’s faded decadence and his desperate attempts to cling to his youth.

“Mom?” I call out.

“Balcony.”

Pushing aside my unease, I move through a bank of leather couches, and pass a perspex coffee table cluttered with old magazines and crystal ashtrays.

Beyond a set of floor-to-ceiling windows, I spot Mom reclining on a chaise with a martini glass. For reasons I can’t fathom, she’s wearing a white bikini.

I step out onto the balcony, my gaze dropping to what’s in her drink. From the bottle resting within a bucket filled with ice, I’m guessing it’s champagne.

She turns to me, her eyes glassy. “Ginny, darling, What’s wrong?”

My lips purse. Mom said she wasn’t an alcoholic. Was that another lie, because she’s playing the part like a seasoned actress.

I suck in a deep breath, pushing past the accusation clawing at my throat. “Did you know?”

Mom’s brow furrows. “Know what?”

“That Dad was having an affair with Martina.”

She stares at me for several heartbeats, as if trying to piece together what I’ve said. Then, her expression shifts and confusion gives way to fury. Hand trembling, she sets the glass down on a low table.

“What did you say?” she whispers.

“Martina was sleeping with Dad. I found out today.”

Color drains from her face. She jerks her head away, staring out at the park as if she can find the answers among the trees. “I knew he was having an affair,” she murmurs, the words weighted with resignation. “But Martina… I didn’t know it was her.”

I wait for Mom to elaborate. Wait for her to bring up any encounters she might have noticed while I was away visiting Benito. Martina said Dad groomed her during the times I wasn’t home. Where the hell was Mom?

“Aren’t you shocked?”

She shakes her head. “Not particularly.”

My blood simmers. “How can you be so calm about this?”

Mom finally turns to face me, her eyes softening. It’s rare to see her lucid. Even rarer for her to show emotion. I straighten, bracing myself for what she might say next.

“Ginny, you forget that he targeted my cousin. Jennifer was sixteen when they first met. I doubt she was his first underage girl, or the last.”

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. It’s easy to forget that the woman who raised me isn’t my birth mother. I tear my gaze away, staring at my feet, unable to withstand the intensity of her eyes.

“Everything in my life has been a lie,” I mutter.

Mom reaches out and grabs my hand. “My love for you has always been true.”

I meet her gaze again, allowing myself to sink into the comfort of her touch. Mom is one of the few people in the world who doesn’t resent me. Years ago, I would have included Benito. Now, there’s no mistaking his contempt.

“How can you just accept it?” I ask.

Sighing, she pulls me down to her chaise. “When you’ve been hurt so much, you learn to bury it deep.”

We sit together in silence, leaning on each other for support. I stare out across the balcony at the treetops swaying in the breeze. So much has changed since Dad’s murder, only I can’t tell if it’s for the worse.

We’re broke, but that’s no better than living off stolen money. Instead of a violent fiancé, I have Bob Brisket, and Martina has finally shown her true face. At least she’s no longer holding back her seething resentment.

I could also say the same for Benito.

She releases my hand to pick up her glass. “Have you found another job yet?”

I cock my head, trying to process the abrupt change in subject. Of all the things going wrong in our lives, she’s worried about my career? “I have bigger concerns.”

Mom sets down the glass, her gaze sharpening to study my face. “What do you mean?”

My brows rise. Has she already forgotten the loan sharks? We both know I lied about my engagement. They’ll return the moment they realize the truth. But talking about them will only bring up her suicidal plan to marry Bossanova.

“I have a stalker.”

She downs her glass, her brow furrowing. “Who?”

“He calls himself Bob Brisket,” I mutter.

“Has he hurt you?”

The question lands like a punch to the gut, knocking out lungfuls of air. I picture the day I opened up about the forced engagement. How Mom looked sober on the sofa, looking sober, only for her eyes to droop.

Where was this concern when I complained to her about Samson or tried to show her my bruises? Memories flood back, hot and sharp, of times she was too drunk for my complaints to register. I learned to hide my pain because having it brushed off hurt worse than any type of abuse.noveldrama

Was that another act? Her way of evading confrontation? Old resentments rise to the surface, propelling me off the chaise.

Needing space to breathe, I place a hand over my chest. “Nobody ever hurt me worse than Samson.”

Mom flinches, her features flickering with guilt. She turns her gaze away from mine and stares down at her manicured fingers. “I’m sorry, Ginny. I thought I was protecting us by letting you handle it on your own.”

My lips part with a gasp. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Celebrating without me?”

Bossanova steps out onto the balcony, dressed in a burgundy smoking jacket and a silk cravat. He saunters toward the ice bucket and picks up the bottle.

“Celebrating what?” I pull away from them, my hackles rising.

Chuckling, he refreshes Mom’s glass. “We’ve got all the paperwork in place to set a date.”

My stomach heaves, bringing up a wave of nausea that hits the back of my throat. I reel on my feet, my vision flickering with a wedding, a murder, a life-insurance payout, and the electric chair. My gaze swings to Mom, who beams up at Bossanova like he’s skinny Santa.

Panic claws at the edges of my mind, and my heart pounds faster than a drumroll. I need to stop this wedding, end this madness before one of these two get killed.

Mom sips her glass with a demure smile and flutters her lashes at the old leathery bastard who grins back with teeth sharper than any crocodile’s.

He raises the bottle in a mock toast, his gaze never leaving mine. “To new beginnings. And to prosperity.”

Mom clinks her glass against his bottle, oblivious that she’s out of her depth. Bossanova is an efficient killing machine, and Mom is too drunk to see the sword of Damocles hanging over her head.

It’s time for me to do something to save her from herself.

Maybe I can get help from Bob Brisket?