Stalking Ginevra (Morally Black Book 4)

Precisely forty-eight hours since Ginevra’s abduction, I stalk through the construction site like I own the night. Ten agonizing seconds hearing her voice—weak, ragged, and barely coherent—was all it took to make me wire the hundred million. Now, Victor Bellavista has me chasing coordinates into this godforsaken pit.

It’s a wreck of jagged beams jutting out like snapped ribs and scaffolding twisting up toward the night’s sky. My boots grind against broken concrete and rusted nails, and I imagine them to be Bellavista’s bones.

We’ve bled every lead dry, squeezed every rat in the underworld, and still come up empty. Bellavista remains a ghost, as if he’s always two steps ahead. But deep down, a sickening suspicion festers that Victor might not even be a man. He could be an alias for Carla, a mastermind working through proxies and hiding in plain sight.

It would make a twisted sort of sense, since I hired her to keep an eye on the casino.

Reaper paces at my left, clad in bullet proof armor. He glances from side to side, his eyes sweeping every shadow. I need his backup. I can’t think straight, still haunted by those images of the man in leather stripping and debasing Ginevra.

Disgust crawls up my throat, bitter and acidic. Both at myself for doing the same to the only woman I’ve ever loved, and at the rank stench of wet cement and decay that clings to the back of my throat.

How could I have been so heartless?

“Still with me?” Reaper asks, his voice cutting through my thoughts.

Forcing my guilt into the background, I lock focus on the path ahead. We’re seconds away from the drop-off, and every step tightens the tension coiling around my chest.

Roman told me to stay back, that I was walking into an ambush. Cesare told me to at least wear my fucking body armor, but I refused.

The first thing Ginevra sees when Bellavista sets her free shouldn’t be Bob Brisket or another faceless brute in bulletproof gear. It will be her husband—the man who will tear the world apart to keep her safe.

Rosalind and my brothers hover at the perimeter with the Mortis House boys, waiting to intercept Bellavista or his lackeys. A sick feeling in the pit of my gut whispers that no one will see Ginevra tonight. This entire building site feels like a trap waiting to spring, but I’d walk through the gates of hell to retrieve my wife.

“Up ahead,” Reaper says, nodding toward a pile of twisted metal.

Bellavista threatened to deliver Ginevra gift wrapped, but I was expecting a coffin or a crate. Wedged between the rubble is a wooden box, half-swallowed by the debris. Moonlight peeks out from the clouds, illuminating it with an eerie glow.

It’s barely large enough to fit a soccer ball.

The tension in my chest tightens, squeezing the air out of my lungs until I’m barely breathing. I explode into a sprint, every instinct blazing with one blistering, uncontrollable need: Ginevra. Her voice echoes through my ears, weak and desperate, begging for my help and fueling every frantic step.

Reaper grabs my arm. “Don’t touch it. Could be another explosive.”

The words barely register through the dull roar of blood pounding through my ears. My focus is tunneled, blackened at the edges, zeroing in on that fucking box. Cold adrenaline surges through my veins, and I shrug him off like he’s an action figurine. By the time Reaper tackles me to the ground, I’ve already ripped off its lid.

The metallic stench of blood hits me like a punch to the throat. Something heavy and wet tumbles out—dark, slick, and glistening under the moonlight. My stomach flips. It’s head-shaped, smeared with blood, with a face frozen in a rictus of shock.

Gut clenching, I hit the floor, my eyes locking on the severed head. Her face is bruised, eyes wide, hair matted with blood.

“Benito.”

Reaper’s voice is muffled and distant like he’s calling from another dimension. The world around me cracks open, splintering into a chaos of jagged edges that cut and slice, my mind struggling to grasp what the fuck I’m looking at. Every second stretches into a slow-motion reel of horror playing on an endless loop.

“Benito.”

Rough hands drag me off my feet. I swing at my best friend, wild and blind with grief. The punch lands on the helmet, but the pain on my knuckles barely registers.

“Get a hold of yourself!” he roars, grabbing my shoulders and turning me back toward the head. “Look at it again.”

It takes several seconds for my mind to decipher what I’m seeing. The severed head has brown eyes instead of gray. Short dark hair instead of long auburn.

“It’s not her,” he yells.

“Carla,” I say through panting breaths.

“Boss,” says another voice. “Something else dropped out of the box.”

My gaze whips back toward the fallen head, where a tablet lies on its side. Reaper releases his grip on my shoulders long enough for me to break free and snatch it off the floor.

With trembling fingers, I swipe the screen and brace myself for another horror show.

The tablet flickers to life with a view of a different room with light peeking out of its windows. Ginevra and Carla stand side by side, their wrists bound together by rope and pulled high above their heads, forcing their arms into what looks like a painful stretch.

Gagged, bruised and naked, their muscles quiver under the strain, their faces twisting with agony. Dirt cakes Ginevra’s hair and stains her front, as if he’s dragged her across the ground.

Fury pulses through my veins, searing away the shock, replacing it with raw, animalistic rage. It’s primal, visceral, burning under my skin like napalm. Reaper’s grip on my shoulder feels like a shackle, holding me back from tearing this place to the fucking ground. I want to rip the steel beams out with my bare hands, make this whole site scream the way my soul is screaming for Ginevra.

The leather-clad figure stalks into view, his face obscured by that infernal mask. My breath stutters, my fists curling with fury. After glancing around the camera, he circles the women like a predator, seeming to savor their terror, before placing a hand on Ginevra’s waist.

She flinches, a whimper escaping the gag, her dirt-streaked face streaming with tears. Carla tries to turn her head, but the ropes binding her together limit the movement.

“Benito Montesano,” the distorted voice sneers, dripping with mockery. “See what you have brought upon your wife?”

My throat tightens. I grip the tablet, my pulse roaring in my ears. Every instinct snarls at me to tear the screen apart, smash the device into the concrete, do anything but watch. But I can’t look away. I need to know what he’s done with my Ginevra. I need to know if this bastard’s left her alive.

The figure steps back with a bullwhip. He unfurls it with a flick of his wrist, the leather snapping through the air like a gunshot.

Ginevra’s muffled scream is a knife through my chest, her body jerking with the crack of the lash. She twists to the side, but there’s nowhere to go.noveldrama

Blood splatters across her pale skin, and her muscles strain against the ropes, desperate, fighting, but helpless.

“Your wife thought she could run, and this one thought she could help.” He strikes Carla, who screams, her eyes widening.

Over the next agonizing minutes, he lashes both women with brutal force. The sound of leather meeting flesh resonates through the speakers as their skin blazes with red welts.

“How does it feel to be powerless, Montesano?” he snarls. “As you watch this, I could be doing anything to your wife.”

Grief tightens its claws around my throat, making my eyes burn with tears of fury. This is senseless, brutal. If I ever get hold of Victor, I’ll tear him into shreds.

The whipping continues until both women sag within their restraints, too exhausted to flinch. He moves behind Carla, looping the leather tail around her throat and pulling tight.

Her eyes fly open, bulging as she gasps for breath, her body convulsing.

Beside her, Ginevra thrashes, screaming into her gag, but it’s no use. Victor tightens the whip, cutting off Carla’s desperate gulps of air until her movements slow and then stop.

I freeze, my muscles locking, helpless to do anything but fixate on the anguish on my wife’s face. Terror engulfs her eyes, and tears streak her cheeks as she screams for the other woman.

The masked man steps back, his attention shifting to the camera. “Another hundred million, Montesano. Or the next box will contain your wife’s head.”

Then, the screen cuts to black. My grip on the tablet tightens until I hear the plastic crack, but I can’t let go. My anger roils, but there’s nowhere for it to escape. The bastard just threw down the gauntlet, and all I can do is pick it up.

“What next?” Reaper asks.

My nostrils flare. “We’re going back to see Salvatore Bellavista.