Stalking Ginevra (Morally Black Book 4)

I bring only two boys to the breakfast meeting with Salvatore Bellavista because any more would be a declaration of war. He lives in a mansion within a walled compound, its smaller buildings housing his extended family. It may as well be a fortress.

A butler leads us through a marble hallway and out through patio doors into a lush garden, where Bellavista lounges in a gazebo.

He’s grown fat over the years, his gut spilling over his belt. His hair, once thick and dark, is now a thinning silver, slicked to the side to hide a retreating hairline. His face is rounder, with sagging jowls, but his eyes remain predatory and calculating, like a wolf who’s learned to enjoy the comforts of an easy life.

Two young women in skimpy maid outfits fawn over him, dropping sugar cubes into his coffee with silver tongs. One of them giggles as he slides his hand down her back and cups her ass with a self-congratulatory chuckle.

Disgust curdles in my gut. Forcing my expression to remain neutral, I step into the gazebo, flanked by Vitale and Lorenzo.

“Benito,” Bellavista says, reclining in his seat with a smirk. “Condolences about your father. Such a tragedy. And your mother… Lucia was a fine woman.”

My jaw tightens, but I keep my voice steady. “I’m not here to reminisce.”

Smirk fading, he gulps down the contents of his cup. “Of course. So, what’s the reason for this morning’s visit?”

I let the silence hang, watching the maids top up his coffee, adding another two sugar cubes. The way they linger, their fingers brushing against his, makes me want to put a bullet through his head. Bellavista never took sides during our family’s downfall, but he didn’t hesitate to supply Capello with everything he needed to expand his empire while ours crumbled.

He’s like Switzerland during World War Two—ever neutral, loyal only to himself.

“Duplicates of the chips your company makes for us are flooding my casino. How is that possible?” I slide the counterfeit chip across the table toward Bellavista.

His fingers close around it, turning it over, inspecting it like it’s a diamond riddled with flaws. “How do you know it’s counterfeit?”

Vitale steps forward. “Each chip has an embedded RFID tag with a unique encrypted ID number for authenticity. When a chip is issued by the casino’s cashier, the ID is logged in the system. RFID tags allow us to track every movement while they’re used for play and when cashed out⁠—”

“I’ve been in the casino business longer than your parents have been alive,” Bellavista snarls with a wave of his hand. Get to the point.”

Vitale sniffs. “The counterfeit chips are perfect duplicates, mimicking the originals down to the RFID tags. Someone’s been cashing them while the originals are still in play. It’s a large-scale operation.”

Bellavista’s expression darkens. “That’s impossible. No one could replicate our chips without access to the molds or the codes.”

“Someone did,” I snarl. “And it’s happening right under your nose.”

Bellavista falls silent, turning the chip over again in his hand, as though the answer might reveal itself in the details.

“You have cameras,” he mutters. “Shouldn’t your security team catch the culprits?”

“If it were that simple, I’d have lined them up at the parking lot and put them out of their misery,” I snap. “This isn’t a few idiots slipping past security. It’s a large-scale operation, with a small army of people coming in and out of the casino. It’s only possible because these chips contain your proprietary security measures.”

Bellavista clicks his fingers. “Phone!”

One of the maids scurries forward with a handset. The old man snatches it from her grasp, dials a number and mutters something I don’t catch. Then a second maid brings a stack of pancakes, topped with thick slices of pineapple and ham then slathers it with syrup.

This silence is a power play. A weaker man would rise off his seat and demand answers. A nervous man would fill the void with threats. I have Reaper and a small militia waiting at the gates, ready to shed blood.

As Bellavista plows through his breakfast, the boys and I refuse the maids’ offer of refreshment. Just as the old man drains his coffee cup, a slimmer, younger version of him scuttles in, wiping his hands with a cloth.

His gaze darts to us before he turns to Bellavista and says, “Yes, Dad?”

Bellavista sets down his cup. “Antonio, how did counterfeit chips end up in Casino Montesano?”

The younger man’s eyes widen, his brow glistening with a sheen of sweat. “I… I don’t know. I swear. What are you talking about?”

I recline in my chair watching the back and forth. It continues until Bellavista slams his fist on the table, upending his half-eaten stack of pancakes.

“You’re embarrassing me, boy!”

A maid rushes forward to clear the mess, but the old man shoves her back. She stumbles to the side, only to be caught by a colleague.noveldrama

Antonio clears his throat. “I sold a few duplicate chips to a woman named Beatrice.”

“Beatrice what?” Bellavista spits.

The younger man swallows hard. “I don’t know her last name. She approached me a few years ago, saying she needed chips for a private game. I didn’t think⁠—”

“You didn’t think, this stranger would take the chips to bleed a casino dry?”

My jaw clenches. This is a charade. The only part about it that’s unclear is whether Bellavista is working with his son.

Antonio shifts on his feet, avoiding his father’s glare. “I can pass on her information… All I did was sell her a few chips. Blame her.”

I lean forward, my fingers steepling, and add, “I blame you.”

He flinches, but the old man only scowls.

“BV Holdings guarantees these chips.” I strike the table with my index finger to emphasize the point. “You will neutralize the counterfeits immediately, refund every cent stolen from this scam, and punish the perpetrators.”

Bellavista nods, his features pinching. “Consider it done.”

I turn to the son, my gaze hardening. “Starting with the bastard who helped steal from my casino using your name.”

Panic dances across Antonio’s features, his eyes darting as he opens his mouth to speak.

But before a single syllable can escape his lips, his father extracts a gun from beneath the table.

Alarm punches me in the chest. I hold still, despite the surge of adrenaline. My heart pounds against the bulletproof undershirt, reminding me that our heads are unprotected.

The boys on either side of me draw their weapons. I, however, remain unmoving. I grew up in a mafia stronghold, where hot-headed bastards flashed their guns at every opportunity. Everything is bullshit until someone pulls the trigger.

“Benito,” Reaper’s voice infiltrates my earpiece. “Give me the go-ahead to launch the grenades.”

Ignoring him, I focus on the old man with the gun. The cameras in my glasses are broadcasting Bellavista’s movements. Reaper will launch into action if any of us get shot.

“Dad?” Antonio croaks.

“You heard the man.” Bellavista aims at his son’s chest and fires.

A gunshot echoes through the gazebo, and the younger Bellavista stumbles back, collapsing onto a side table.

My stomach plummets, and my fingers twitch toward my weapon, but I keep them on the table. The boys I brought with me gasp. I grew up with assholes pulling out guns at the dinner table, but nobody who mattered ever got shot.

Screaming, the maids flee into the garden.

Bellavista sets the gun on the table and turns back to me, acting like he didn’t just shoot his own flesh and blood over a few million dollars. “Is this to your satisfaction, Benito?”

My brows rise. I sure as fuck didn’t ask for this.

“The counterfeit chips will be neutralized by the close of business tonight,” he adds.

I incline my head, acting like I see this kind of shit every day. “My team will send a breakdown of our losses. I expect the money in our account within twenty-four hours.”