“Jesus Christ,” Eva said.
The evil in the world would never cease. Eva had seen more of it firsthand than most families do in several generations.
The two women paused at the end of the beach, staring out toward Sicily—their homeland and the headquarters of their shared enemy—the Cosa Nostra.
Eva kept her expression unreadable.
After a few seconds, she asked, “What big events are planned in Florida next month?”
“Several,” Francesca said as they turned back toward the stone steps leading to the villa gate. “But three large ones that involve women specifically. The Miss America pageant, a Women’s March against the U.S. President, and a BellaDonna Convention.”
Eva raised an eyebrow at the last one.
“It’s a cosmetics company in the U.S. Home parties and sales and such. Supposed to be really good quality too. Making millionaires left and right.”
“Brava,” Eva said. “These three events? Are they all in different cities?” Eva asked.
Francesca shook her head. “That might be the only break we have. Or maybe it will make it worse, I don’t know. They are all in Miami and all the same weekend. Next week.”
Eva squared her shoulders. When Francesca saw this, she said, “I’ll make sure everything here is under control while you’re gone.”
Eva smiled for the first time since they’d left the villa.
“Francesca, you are a queen. I have no idea why you stick around.”
3
Sebastian/Username: ChadHater
His bedroom smelled like something had died. Sebastian only noticed it when he left the house and then returned, closing himself back into the messy room. He stepped over piles of clothes to get to his massive desk and computer. It took up most of his room. He’d kept his dusty and dirty blinds closed for at least eight years. Ever since his mother had made the mistake of coming in and cleaning his room and opening them.
He’d had such a raging fit that, when he was done, she was cowering on the floor in the corner of the kitchen promising to never ever enter his room again.
For years, the only reason he even left his room was to visit his therapist. And the only reason he went to therapy was that it was court ordered as a condition of his probation. It was ridiculous that he still had to go. The arrest had happened years ago, and really, that stupid bitch had wanted him to see her naked. Otherwise, why would she have left her curtains open every single fucking night? Therapy was a waste of time. Sebastian lied his ass off to the shrink. Every. Single. Time.
When the therapist had asked why Sebastian had decided to wear ice-blue contacts and asked if he’d wanted to look like he was Aryan, Sebastian had lied and said they were prescription. He lied about everything, small or large, important or not. It was fun. The guy was an idiot anyway. He leaned down and took notes about every stupid thing that came out of Sebastian’s mouth.
Whatever. Sebastian only had two more weekly visits and then he’d be free. In more ways than one. He was planning on celebrating by becoming immortal. That would be the ultimate freedom.
For years, Sebastian had planned on making that Stacy pay for calling the cops on him, but he’d recently found out she’d moved. He’d tried to track her down, but when he found out she was in Nevada, he wasn’t sure she’d be worth the trip. Not when he had much, much bigger plans.
He realized those plans might involve his own demise, but it would be worth it. At the same time, his new looks were starting to change his life. Bleached blond hair—thick, after the implants—ice-blue eyes, chiseled jaw… All thanks to Mommie Dearest secretly funneling him money and thanks to his little secret group of incel supporters who thought they were funding his mass shooting. Well, they were, but that was only a small fraction of what he was getting from them. And the surgery had been soooo worth it.
Coming back from therapy the other day, a woman actually smiled at him. He was taken aback.
Thoughts of what life might be like if he didn’t die kept surfacing. What if he accomplished his mission and lived?
The thought was exhilarating.
Did ER only become a hero because he died? No. It was his bravery. It was his fuck-you attitude. That’s what made him a hero, a role model, and an inspiration to all of them. To think that his initials alone sparked a fervor of admiration was mindboggling.
Only a few more days. Only a few more minor adjustments to his plan.
More recently, Sebastian had been leaving the house more often. He’d had to get a job to put the pieces of his plan in place. And he’d made numerous trips to Chicago for his surgeries. He was growing more comfortable with being out in public.
This morning, he scanned new posts on Incel Nation and then clicked into the private group chat. He saw a post by the One-Eyed Jack. That loser was acting odd lately. Almost as if he was questioning his mission. But Jack’s skills with the Incel Nation site were unparalleled, and for now he was necessary since he retained control of the site. One word from him and the site could be killed. He could also kick Sebastian off the site, and that would fuck up all his plans.
Sebastian mulled it over. Then it came to him. He would test the One-Eyed Jack. Yes. He would make him prove his loyalty and that he was all-in.
After Sebastian sent the message, he sat back, grinning. This was better than he ever imagined. And he’d demanded photos as proof. It was a brilliant idea.
A knock on the door made him jump.
“Yes?” He didn’t bother hiding the irritation on his voice.
“Dinner’s on the table,” his mother said.
“I’m busy.”
He was furious that his mother’s nasally voice had interrupted his thoughts. She would be the first one to go. He was counting the minutes.
4
Conrad/Username: One-EyedJack
Conrad froze when he read the private message.
This was bad. Worse than he ever imagined.
ChadHater wanted him to prove his loyalty in the most horrific way.
Panic soared through him. He couldn’t pass the test. He couldn’t do that. But if he didn’t prove his loyalty, he would never find out the plans for the mass shooting in time. People would die, and it would be his fault.
He slammed his laptop closed. Panic and anxiety filled his body, threatening to overcome him. He looked wildly around his room, not really seeing anything. Finally, his eyes settled on the free weights in the corner. He walked over and picked up the fifteen-pound weights. He flexed his arm, doing curls. He did them over and over until his arms felt like Jell-O.
Only then did he put them down and go back to his laptop.
He logged onto the Queen of Spades website and sent another private message.
“He wants me to prove my loyalty. But I can’t. I can’t do it. He wants me to rape Jenny. She’s the one I’m in love with. But she doesn’t know I exist. She’s a Stacy. She is dating a Chad. There is no way she would ever even give me the time of day. But I could never hurt her. He said I have to take pictures to prove it. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you anymore.”
5
Eva was sitting in the small Reggio Calabria Italian airport pushing back dark thoughts when her phone rang.
It was a welcome distraction from her shadowy memories.
Years ago, Eva had sat in this same airport with dark glasses on, a hoodie pulled up over her hair, and the expectation of a bullet taking off her head at any second.
On that long-ago day, she hadn’t dared to relax until the small plane had broken through the clouds and into the sunshine above. Then she got the text. It was a photo of her dearest friend, Tomas. He was obviously dead. Her oldest friend, who had become a priest, had risked everything and ultimately gave his life to help her to escape to America.
Despite her fury and grief, she’d managed to carve out a new life in America. She fell in love and bore two beautiful children, Lorenzo and Alessandra. She lived peacefully and blissfully for many years as a doti
ng wife and mother. She never utterly relaxed, though. She secretly squirreled away and invested money on the side and created a contingency plan in case her Mafia enemies ever caught up to her.
By the time they did, all her secret plans—to escape into obscurity with her family—were destroyed with the slaughter of her husband and children. They took her family away without warning. She escaped with her own life and her wealth. But her heart and soul were irreparably shattered.
She’d returned to America several times since her return to Italy, but for some reason, on this particular day, sitting in her local airport, the memories flooded her mind in a never-ending loop.
Her phone ringing helped her to shake them away.
“Ciao?”
“Did you see the new message?” It was her California friend, Jonathan.
Message? She was not computing.
“In Italy, we usually address each other politely before we launch into conversation—unlike you heathen Americans,” Eva said. But then her curiously got the best of her. “What message? Text?”
“You better see this for yourself. It’s on your fan site.”
A twinge of irritation flickered through her. Fan site. Madonna santa!
“Stand by,” Eva said. She turned to her open laptop and logged into the Queen of Spades fan site using Jonathan’s credentials.
After she read the One-Eyed Jack’s message Eva swore softly under her breath. Rape. On tape. Evil.
“Right?” Jonathan said. “We need him, Eva.”
“I know,” she said. “Anything more from the police or FBI?”
“I forwarded this to the same contacts. Not a peep.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean they aren’t looking into it.”
“But probably aren’t,” Jonathan answered.
An announcement was made in the airport, and Eva’s fellow passengers began to board. As she spoke, her eyes lingered on a man who cut a nice la bella figura. He was older, but his carriage was a mix between arrogant and nonchalant. His hair was slicked back and silver gray. He laughed, and it made Eva frown for some reason.
“I’ll figure something out,” Eva said, standing and reaching for her carry-on bag. “Tell the One-Eyed Jack to stall before replying but to not refuse yet. My flight’s about to leave for Rome. I’ll be in touch.”
When Eva settled into her first-class seat in Rome, the man from the airport in Reggio Calabria slid into the seat beside her. She gave him a small smile and nod but didn’t speak. She didn’t want to waste the entire flight chatting with a stranger, even a handsome one. He nodded back. Good. He wasn’t a talker.
As the plane soared into the air over the turquoise sea, Eva reclined her seat and put on a black silk eye mask. But she wasn’t sleeping.
She was thinking.
There had to be a way to keep the One-Eyed Jack in the other man’s good graces. They’d have to fake the rape. But she didn’t have much time to figure it out. The longer the One-Eyed Jack stalled, the more suspicious it would seem.
She mulled it over. Then again, his reluctance should be somewhat expected, right?
After about a half hour, the droning of the plane’s engines lulled her into a light sleep.
Eva woke when she heard voices. She lifted one corner of the eye mask to find the man beside her staring.
“You awake?” He had a British accent. “Care for something to drink?”
The flight attendant was standing on the other side of her, waiting.
Her seatmate’s blue eyes were set against tanned skin with laugh lines.
“Pellegrino please,” she said. The flight attendant nodded and left.
“Sorry to bother you,” the man said gesturing toward the aisle. “But now that you’re awake, I need to use the loo.”
Without answering, she stood. The aisle seat was probably a bad call. At the same time, she wondered if he’d been holding it so he wouldn’t disturb her sleep. Kind of sweet.
Eva took the opportunity to stretch as she stood in the aisle, lifting her hands and arms high above her head.
Once the British man returned, she stood again, this time, though, she didn’t move out of the way fast enough, and he brushed slightly against her as he slid into his seat. It sent a current of electricity through her. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of his tanned, toned arms. He obviously took good care of himself.
She brushed off the thoughts of what the rest of his body might look like and slumped back into her seat, pulling the mask back down.
“First time to Florida?”
She lifted one side of the mask again and peered at the guy without answering.
“Are you trying to go back to sleep? My apologies. I’ll quit yapping.”
She pulled the mask back down over her eyes and leaned back. She wanted to have everything in order once they landed so she could hit the ground running.
Mentally, she went over the plan:
Get a rental car. Francesca had wanted to arrange a driver, but Eva didn’t trust anybody. She wanted complete anonymity and control over where she went and how she got there.
Once she had a car rented under a fake name, she would collect the weapons that Francesca had arranged to be waiting for her in a locker at a Miami train station.
Then she’d check into her hotel and stash some of the weapons in the hotel safe. She only needed one gun at a time. A small dagger could be strapped to her thigh.
Already, she missed the feel of her liccasapuni Sicilian dueling knife and the muscle memory of it slicking through the air. But she would be in America. She needed fire power.
After securing her weapons, her original plan had been to hit the hotel gym and then a long run on the beach so she could stay in fighting form. But with this new message, her plans needed to change.
Her first task was to find a rape victim. Or rather, someone willing to pretend to be one for the right price. She had no idea if this would take an hour or a week. Well, she didn’t have a week. She was prepared to offer a lot of money to make it happen. That would speed things up.
It was complicated because she was taking a great risk in proposing this acting role to someone. But money talked. At least it did in America. That’s what she was counting on.
Satisfied that she had a plan, Eva lifted her mask just as the flight attendant brought their meal.
Eva poked at the dried-out fish and vegetables and pushed her plate aside.
“Not your taste?”
She shrugged, not wanting to come off as a diva. The man leaned over and reached down beneath the seat in front of him. When he sat up, he was holding an insulated bag. Inside he had a wedge of cheese, some olives, and some dates. Then, digging around into a flap on the outside of the bag, he extracted two small Champagne flutes. “I was hoping to find someone with excellent taste whom I could share this with. Would you do me the honor?”
Eva smiled. “I’d love to.”
The cheese melted on her tongue, and the Champagne was possibly the best she’d ever had. He’d rung the flight attendant and a bottle had been brought to him.
“That bottle’s not on the drink menu,” she pointed out.
He nodded. “Damn right, it’s not!”
It was delicious, but she only indulged in one glass. She needed her wits about her when they landed. She needed to be sharp and clear-headed. No fog from earlier alcohol use.
By the time the flight tracker map showed they were above American soil, she’d learned many interesting details about the man beside her. She’d let him talk nearly the entire time. Not that he hadn’t tried to draw her into conversation; he had. But every time he’d asked a question, she deflected it back to him or answered vaguely. She’d become a pro at that over the years, giving very few details:
She was on business. She was a business owner. She owned what was essentially a boot camp exclusively for women where they did strength training, martial arts, and fitness. True. But only a small piece of the truth. She left
out this part about her empire: that the women also learned expert marksmanship, swordplay, and how to kill silently and quickly in myriad ways.
For a second, after even revealing the small tidbit about running a boot camp, she’d worried she’d revealed too much. Because as she spoke, his eyes had flicked to the left as if he were remembering something.
“I love that,” he’d said with enthusiasm. “Having a daughter and six granddaughters, I’m all about empowering women. I’m a feminist.”
But nothing about a wife.
Eva respected that he didn’t say he was a feminist as if he expected praise. It was a given.
Despite herself, or maybe partially because of the Champagne, Eva enjoyed learning more about her seatmate. His name was Alex Miller. He was an entrepreneur. His company, which made fine leather shoes, had developed a way to employ some of the poorest residents of southern Italy.
“We have a program that helps abused women—homeless and former prostitutes—create new lives.”
“Did you hear about the new shelter opening in Balderna?”
“I did.” His smile made her laugh.
“What? What aren’t you telling me?”
“I don’t want to sound like a douche. I mean, we just met.”
“Just say it.”
He shrugged.
“Is the shelter your idea?”
He laughed, and the sound of it, hearty and real, made her smile. “Something like that.”
Eva tried to hide how impressed she was. Despite his attempts to seem modest, he was bragging after all, something looked down on by Italians. Even though he was trying to present la bella figura, putting his best foot forward and making a good impression, his braggadocio was threatening to present an ugly face—a brutta figura.
But he was English, so she could forgive that faux pas.
She found out more before the plane landed.
One-Eyed Jack Page 2
