Dark Shadows (Gia Santella Crime Thrillers Book 11)

by Kristi Belcamino

  Dark Shadows

  Kristi Belcamino

  Copyright © 2020 by Kristi Belcamino

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  For information contact: kristibelcaminowriter@gmail.com

  kristibelcaminowriter.com

  Created with Vellum

  Special thanks to Robin Paradis-Kent for her keen typo-hunting eye. Anything that slipped past after her perusal is my fault entirely.

  Dark Shadows

  The 11th book in the USA TODAY Bestselling series.

  From the moment a killer took her family away from her, Gia has fought tooth and nail against a looming destiny she’s been unwilling to confront—that of a lone wolf vigilante assassin.

  Over the years, she’s created new families, dived into new loves and relationships, but one after the other, every family unit she’s tried to form has been taken away -- one way or the other.

  Distraught at the possibility of losing everything yet again, Gia takes off for the south of France intent on living a hedonistic life the way she knows how to best: drinking, smoking, sunbathing topless and spending long lust-filled nights with smooth-chested men.

  But nothing is ever that simple for Gia.

  Her plans to indulge her every fantasy are shattered when one of those beautiful young people end up dead in her villa.

  Now it’s up to Gia to make sure more bodies don’t stain her parquet floors. And that the sophisticated French detective doesn’t end up taking her into custody for it all.

  Contents

  Your Free Gift

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Dark Vengeance Prologue

  About the Author

  Also by Kristi Belcamino

  Your Free Gift

  As a way of saying thanks for downloading this book, I’m offering a free book that’s exclusive to my readers. In addition, you’ll be first to hear about new releases, sales & insider information in my spam-free newsletter.

  Deadly contains the first book in each of my three series: Gia, the prequel novella to the USA Today Bestselling Gia Santella series; Eva, the prequel to the Eva Santella series and The Saint, the prequel to the Gabriella Giovanni series.

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  1

  When Nico and I first looked at apartments in Barcelona, we didn’t have strong ideas about what we wanted other than it be located in the Gothic Quarter. The quarter was central to everything. It was near the beach and the main pedestrian artery of the city, Las Ramblas, and it overflowed with character. Below our balcony, the narrow street was filled with small mom-and-pop shops that had everything we could possibly desire—cheese, wine, bread. You know, the basic necessities.

  But when we walked into this apartment, besides its gorgeous architecture, what I fell in love with was the alcove that was specifically designated as an ofrenda—a home altar for those you loved who had died. Even though I’m Italian and it’s a Mexican tradition, it spoke to me on the deepest level of my soul.

  Although some people only set up ofrendas around Dia de los Muertos, mine was in place all year long.

  Now, as I wheeled my gunmetal gray suitcase over to the front door, I glanced at the altar. I would miss it the most. I wasn’t sure when I’d be back in Barcelona. If ever.

  The ofrenda was set in a deep oval alcove in the wall that contained photos, candles, and mementos from those I’d loved the most in this life: my parents, Bobby—my first true love, and Nico—my last true love.

  Nico wasn’t dead, but his picture was there along with all the other people I’d loved and lost in my life.

  Was that sacrilegious? Fuck if I knew.

  But the truth was the Nico I’d known and loved was dead.

  Alzheimer’s had taken him from me. He didn’t know me anymore. Now, I was just some girl he groped when I showed up. At first it had broken my heart. But once I realized that the Nico I’d known and loved was no longer there, in some ways it’d been easier to let go.

  I stared at the photos. The photo of my parents was one of them smiling on a boat, their hair windblown. My mother held a glass of wine. My father had his arm around her.

  I missed my parents so much. I’d been robbed of them before I was barely old enough to drink. They had been my whole world.

  The photo of Bobby was a snapshot I’d taken of him in Italy. He’d been standing on our balcony looking out at the sea. He was so damn handsome. That was the day I’d finally told him I loved him. Within 24 hours he’d be dead. The son of my parents’ killer took him away.

  A tear slipped down my cheek as I looked at the photo of Nico.

  He looked like a sophisticated movie star and a powerful leader. Which is what he had been. My greatest love. The man I had intended to spend the rest of my life with. That man had loved me more than any woman could dream of being loved, but he had been taken away from me slowly and cruelly by the creeping dementia that stole his memories and light.

  When I realized that Nico was gone, I decided to never allow myself to fall in love again.

  It hurt too much. Why would I fucking torture myself like that again? Who in their right mind would do that? Um…nobody.

  I was fucking done.

  There is an old Italian saying that we only truly love three people in our lives.

  I’ve loved my three.

  Bobby. Nico. James.

  Dear, sweet James who, thank God, was still alive and thriving in San Francisco. That man had stolen my heart but then broke it into a million pieces. Because I’m a killer and he was a cop. Our relationship never stood a chance.

  I reached into my bag and took out my worn metal Zippo lighter and lit the candles on my ofrenda one last time.

  I lit four of them. Along with the photos and candles, I’d placed mementos that reminded me of them or items that they had loved in life.

  In front of Nico’s picture, I’d placed a CD of his favorite music and a bottle of tequila.

  For Bobby, a bottle of the hot sauce he loved and his favorite book of poetry.

  For my parents, the cigars my dad liked and the perfume my mom wore.

  My phone vibrated in my bag, startling me out of my
memories.

  I rummaged around and found it just as the call ended. Dante.

  I called him back. “Yo.”

  “I’ve been buzzing. I’m downstairs.”

  “Oh, fuck. The ringer is still broken. I’ll buzz you in.”

  I hit the button and headed back to the bedroom to finish packing my second suitcase.

  Soon Dante was at my side.

  “Have you decided where you’re going?” he said in his perfectly enunciated speech as he walked in.

  I glanced up at him and was once again astonished by his good looks. The guy never aged. We’d been friends since we were kids, and he just kept getting better looking. His brilliant white smile always stood out against his burnished olive skin, and I loved how he was wearing his silky black hair a little bit long in the back nowadays at the request of his husband, Wayne. Today, he was wearing a white linen shirt with the buttons undone enough for me to see his gold necklace with the Italian cornetto and hand talisman to protect against the evil eye.

  “French Riviera,” I said.

  I continued throwing expensive silk lingerie into my smaller suitcase. Dante had made me buy it during our last shopping spree in Paris. I would never have spent $250 on underwear otherwise, but I had to admit it made my ass look spectacular.

  “Sounds fabulous,” Dante said, stepping into my closet. “Why there?”

  “I have no memories there.”

  “What? That hurts. Me. You. St. Tropez?” he started humming some song about St. Tropez and dancing around.

  “I’m not going there.”

  “Where to, then?”

  I didn’t answer, but I looked pointedly at a framed poster in the hallway. It was a still from the movie La Piscine. The movie was set in Italy. But from the look on Dante’s face, I knew he made the connection. Cannes was the film epicenter of Southern France, and the festival was next week.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  I hid my smile.

  “What will you wear?”

  “I’m going to sunbathe and read and listen to music and maybe find some hot boy to fuck.”

  Dante stopped dancing.

  I could feel his disapproval without looking at him.

  “You’re married.”

  “Am I?”

  He didn’t answer.

  I wasn’t married. Not really.

  How could I be? Nico didn’t know who I was. He hadn’t for months.

  “At least let me dress you.” Dante had personal buyers at all the top designers and attended the fashion shows in Paris every year. He had impeccable taste. Thank God one of us did.

  “I’m bringing every bikini I own,” I said. “That’s really all I plan on needing.”

  “Darling, if you are going to be in Cannes during the Film Festival—first, how the holy hell did you find a place to stay there right now? Oh, never mind, you’re Gia. But please, please tell me you’ll let me dress you for the festival.”

  I shrugged and tossed another bikini into the suitcase on the bed.

  “I wasn’t planning on going to the festival.”

  “I’m going to get you tickets.”

  I didn’t argue. I loved movies. Attending the festival in Cannes could fit into my hedonistic plans. “Sure. Whatever.”

  “Then it’s a deal. Now, what should you wear? I’m not sure you have anything in this apartment?” He started thumbing through my hangers.

  “I’ll find something.”

  “I’ll handle it,” he said firmly. “Someone has to stop you from wearing your beat-up leather pants and ‘Fuck Authority’ T-shirt.”

  “Rosie took that shirt from me years ago.”

  Rosie was Nico’s daughter. The closest thing I had to a child. She was off somewhere killing someone. Because, apparently, that’s what the women in my family did. We couldn’t help it. But there were always evil fuckers who needed to be killed.

  “Will you let me do what I do best?” Dante said, in seventh heaven. Shopping and dressing me was his favorite thing ever. Or at least that’s how it seemed.

  “Yeah. I’ll go watch some movies. And you can dress me for them.”

  Dante was chattering on and on about how he knew the perfect dress for me and that he might have to order it and have it sent to me in Cannes. But I would also need three other ones and…blah blah blah. I let him ramble. It made him happy so I tolerated it. And the simple fact was that I looked like shit when I dressed myself.

  Attending the Cannes Film Festival was probably a legit reason to dress up.

  Dante frowned. “There is nothing here. Nothing at all. Come with me,” he said and grabbed my hand. “There is one place in town—one place in all of Barcelona—that might possibly have a dress that will do in a pinch if I can’t get the dresses I have in mind ordered in time.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. God love Dante.

  I grabbed my bag and followed him out the door, giving one last glance at the candles burning on the altar. I usually was very careful about blowing them out before I left the apartment, but I was feeling careless, reckless, and a small part of me thought that burning the place down would be apropos—leaving the charred remains of my life behind. But then I remembered other people lived in the building and leaned over to blow them out.

  Then I steeled myself for some hard-core shopping. I wished I had some marijuana but would have to shop stone-cold sober.

  But if I was being honest with myself, I was happy to spend another few hours with Dante.

  He had flown into Barcelona from San Diego when he heard I was taking off for a few months…or forever.

  It would be strange to leave Nico behind and not visit him daily while hoping there might be a glimmer of recognition in his eyes when he saw me.

  There never was.

  Nico was in good hands. I paid a small fortune every month for the memory care center to treat him like a king. It took about six months of him not recognizing me for me to realize my daily, doting presence there was no longer for him, only for me. And that it hurt like hell to be around him.

  I was a coward.

  I was going to leave him. Maybe forever.

  If I thought there was the slightest, smallest part of him that still remembered me, I would stay. But there wasn’t.

  My heart was shattered.

  Every morning I woke and lay in bed waiting for the dark shadows to recede from my nightmares only to realize that it wasn’t a bad dream. It was my life.

  Finally, I realized I had to leave Barcelona. At first I wanted to buy a house in the mountains somewhere and live like a recluse. There was still a chance I might. But right then, all my body craved was sunshine.

  I’d spent the past few years as a caregiver, taking care of Nico, trying to glimpse fragments of who he used to be before he became angry and confused.

  We rarely stepped outside unless it was to take him out to the garden for a walk. But now he refused to do even that.

  I needed to lay in the sun and do things that weren’t good for me so I didn’t have to feel or think anymore.

  Cannes would be the backdrop for my debauchery.

  And I was happy to play it out there with all the other privileged fuckers who had everything that money could buy and yet wandered around hungrily trying to fill the empty void in their souls by spending recklessly, drinking too much, fucking everything with a heartbeat, and taking massive amounts of drugs.

  2

  Nico was slouched in his leather lounger watching TV when I walked into his room.

  He looked up at me, and for the smallest fraction of a second there seemed to be a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. Then he gave a wolfish smile.

  “You my new nurse?”

  I played along. “Do you want me to be?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve seen worse.”

  I laughed out loud. It was that or cry.

  He laughed too. But then he said, “I’m just giving you a hard time. You are a beautiful woman. When I was much younger I woul
d’ve pursued you with everything I had.”

  I blinked back my tears. “I bet you were something else.”

  “Oh, boy, was I,” he said and frowned. “At least that’s what I’ve been told.”

  Even having a picture of me hugging him on the dresser in his room wasn’t enough to jog his memory of our life together. He might look at it for a few seconds but would then ask why and where we had taken it.

  But as hard as it was for me, Rose couldn’t handle it at all.

  She’d taken every picture of us as a family and herself out of his room.

  I don’t even know if she still came to visit him. She wouldn’t answer when I asked.

  She was in a dark place, and I couldn’t reach her.

  I called her on my way over to tell her I was leaving Barcelona for a while.

  She didn’t answer her phone so I left a message. Typical.

  “What’s on the agenda today?” Nico said, standing. I tried not to notice him reach out to grip the arm of the chair to steady himself. He was frowning.

  “I thought we would take a walk in the garden,” I said. “Get a little fresh air and sunshine.”

  “That’s what you all say.”

  “That’s because it’s good for you.”

  He shuffled over to me. Along with the decline in his mental health, he had grown frail over the past few years. It was just another knife in my heart.

  I wanted to help him, but I knew his ego couldn’t handle it.

  Outside, we walked for a while and then sat on a bench near a row of flowers.

  He looked over at me., wringing his hands. At first it had bothered me, but the nurses told me it was common with Alzheimer’s patients, and I’d gotten used to it. It was, like everything about Nico now, including the colostomy bag, so unlike the man I’d loved for so long.