With all the windows of the Fiat down, I drove away, trying to come up with a plan, inhaling the peculiar combination of scents that made up Sicily — some intoxicating mix of salty air, lemons, and Jasmine.
Soon I came upon the nearest town, if it could be called that — basically a blip on a lonely stretch of rural road. The café was a tiny room at the front of a cottage with iron café tables and chairs outside. Two older men sat drinking espressos and playing some board game I didn’t recognize.
One winked at me when I walked past. Inside, a small bar stretched across one side of the room. An ancient but sturdy espresso machine took up most of the bar. There was no menu. An older man with a generous head of silver hair and equally generous belly smiled when I walked in.
I ordered an espresso before I brought up the villa. The man stepped back and squinted at me.
“Bonadonna?”
My mother’s maiden name. I knew I didn’t look anything like my mother, who had blonde hair and brown eyes.
“Si. La mia madre.”
The man made the sign of the cross. He knew she was dead.
“How do you know?”
“We know what happens to the people from our village.”
Then he came out from behind the bar and with a heavy sigh, sat down at a table and patted the chair beside him.
I carried my espresso over and sat down, wondering why he looked so sad.
I explained in Italian that I was trying to find someone who could let me into the villa.
The man shook his head.
I took the deeds out of my bag and handed them to the man. He barely glanced at them, as if he knew what they said. He waved his hand. And told me in Italian to go home and keep the past buried from the light. I was confused. Wasn’t that what Mrs. Gutmann had said?
“I need to speak to Mr. Turricci. Where can I find him? I need to talk to him. I came all the way from America to tell him some news about my mother.”
This time there was no mistaking the fear in his eyes. He didn’t answer. He put the broom in a corner and walked out, into another room without saying a word. After about ten minutes when it was clear he wasn’t going to return, I made myself comfortable. I could outwait him. An hour later, the door opened. The man handed me a slip of paper. It said: “Boat. Lucia-Grazia. Messina Harbor.” A boat with my mother’s name?
“You no get this from me. I want to live a nice old age.” His English was rusty, but he made his point.
“I’ve never seen you before in my life.” I said, and gave him a long, slow wink. He didn’t smile. He shook his head sadly and walked me to the door. I heard the lock turn behind me.
Night was falling in indigos and purples before me as I walked down the dock to the Lucia-Grazia. I’d changed into the black linen pants and a black T-shirt and pulled my hair back in a low ponytail. I took a roundabout way, going first to an adjacent dock to scope it out. The Lucia-Grazia was not a boat. It was a yacht.
The windows were dark. But then I noticed a tiny glow. Somebody on the deck was smoking. I crouched down. I wanted to get on that yacht. A little way down, a small walkway connected the two docks. I could make it to the yacht in ten minutes.
I waited. The only sounds were waves lapping up on the dock and the distant sounds of people having a party on another boat. I was having trouble keeping my eyes open when I finally saw the tiny glow of a cigarette moving toward the front of the yacht. I squinted my eyes a bit. Whoever it was, the person was getting off the boat. A dark beefy figure made its way down the dock toward the shore. I leaped to my feet and ran until I was in front of the yacht. It was at least three stories tall. I only hesitated for a moment before I raced up the gangplank and leaped over the small chain. I headed for the front of the yacht, the farthest away from the dock, and went up one level. Most of the second level consisted of a deck with teakwood chairs and tables. With a shaking hand, I tugged on a sliding glass door that easily slid open. It led to a circular room with curved white couches surrounding a giant round glass coffee table with a fresh flower bouquet and a Ming vase.
The circle room led to a giant dining room. Moonlight streaked in through the glass walls, illuminating the scene. A large table was set for eight underneath a Joan Miró painting. Off to one side was a white baby grand piano. Next to that, an entire small wall was set up as a bar with a mirror reflecting the colors of the bottles. I poured myself a shot of bourbon and gulped it down in two sips. Then downed another to stop my hands from shaking so much. I carefully wiped the rim of the glass and put it back on its mirrored tray.
A small circular staircase led to the master bedroom. The entire roof of the master bedroom was a domed skylight, giving a glimpse of a dark, star-spotted night and letting in moonlight bright enough for me to see. A red silk duvet covered the bed. A large dark wood dresser had an assortment of gold and diamond cufflinks resting on a gold tray and nothing else. Tucking my hands into my long sleeves to hide my fingerprints, I opened every drawer on the giant dresser. Nothing but clothes, silk pajamas, silk shirts and even silk boxers. I also rifled through the closet — designer men’s clothes reeking of cologne. I pushed the clothes to one side looking for a safe or hidden panel but didn’t see anything unusual. I peeked behind the paintings — this time a Picasso and a Monet — but only found blank wall.
Voices and a rumbling sent me scurrying. The engines on the yacht had started. Lights flickered on around the boat, including in the master bedroom. I darted toward a sliding glass door, which led to a giant enclosed deck overlooking the rest of the yacht. I stood against the edge and peered over. I didn’t see a soul.
The master bedroom held two other doors. The first was a bathroom. The second was a connecting door to an office.
Quickly, I yanked open the roll-top desk. Nothing but a quill pen with a real ink pot and some thick, expensive feeling stationary embossed in gold with the initials S.A.T.
The top drawer of the desk held a flask and more office supplies. The bottom drawer was filled with files. My fingers tripped through them. Each file folder was labeled. The names meant nothing to me—Carlton Ltd. Sardinia house. Jasmine Corp.
Then, my heart stopped. Bay View.
I grabbed it and quickly flicked it open. It was a contract for the Bay View Development. Turricci was going to pay Vito two hundred and fifty million dollars for the mixed-use center when it was developed.
San Francisco had one of the most inflated real estate markets in the country, but this seemed excessive. Turricci wasn’t even buying the land. The contract was for him to buy the developed property. Sure, it was a luxury development, but there were dozens of them in the city.
Well, if I was looking for motive, I’d found it.
Without my father standing in the way of the development, Vito could proceed and stood to make two hundred and fifty million dollars.
A noise in the hall sent my heart into my throat. When the doorknob leading to the hall turned, I shoved the file folder back in the drawer and raced back into the master bedroom just in time to see the door handle turn.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I HAD JUST ENOUGH TIME to drop and roll under the massive king bed before the door opened.
Luckily, whomever owned the Yeti-sized feet only walked briefly through the room and out again.
But I was terrified to move.
The warrior has cultivated patience. The ability to watch and wait is essential to be effective in battle.
I only dared crawl out hours later when the yacht’s engine finally quieted. Peeking outside the window, I saw we were back where we started.
I watched two men go down the gangplank and waited for them to hit the dry land before I made a mad dash for the dock.
Fifteen minutes later, I was back at my hotel. I ordered a massive plate of bacon and eggs and toast and took a long bubble bath in the sunken tub with the view of the sea. When I was done, I crawled into bed and slept until dark.
After a shower, I decided I need
ed a drink. And I wanted to have sex. Badly. I’d had erotic dreams about Bobby all day long. In the shower, I’d thought about him and ran my soapy hands over my body until it had made me weak with desire. I knew better than to ever see him again. It was way too dangerous, but I couldn’t deny that he had cast some wicked spell on me.
Down at the hotel bar, I paused in the doorway. The bar had lots of business travelers, apparently. Large groups of boisterous men speaking English occupied most of the tables. I walked past them all. The last thing I wanted was to sleep with an American man in Italy.
A sultry Italian voice caught my ear. I turned slowly. At the end of the bar a man with perfect gray hair and an Armani suit in nearly the same color looked as if he owned the place. His black eyes met mine. He gave me a long, slow smile and raised an eyebrow. I headed his way.
When I reached the seat near his, a glass of Veuve Clicquot champagne was waiting for me, sparkling in the soft light from the chandeliers hanging throughout the bar.
“Is there something to celebrate?” I asked, sliding onto the stool without taking my eyes off him.
“Most certainly.” He raised his glass to mine. “Our meeting here tonight.”
I couldn’t hide the small smile that crept onto my face as I raised my own glass to his. “Salut.”
Two glasses later, we were out by the pool.
“Tell me about yourself, Gia,” he said, his black eyes boring into mine.
Had I told him my name? His attention was intoxicating. It was as if every word I said mesmerized him and he couldn’t stop looking at me. But he was keeping his distance. When I scooted closer to him, he’d adjusted himself slightly.
I’d come down to the bar to get laid and he was making it difficult.
“Gia. Do you know how beautiful you are?”
I smiled. But a small part of me was suspicious. If he thought I was so beautiful why was he so standoffish?
“I want to know everything about you, Gia Valentina Santella.” For a second, I paused. Had his voice sounded snide when he said my last name? I looked up at him sharply and he smiled. I must have imagined it.
I instantly regretted telling him my full name. Stupid rookie mistake. I knew better. Usually with one-night stands I used a made-up name.
“Gia. You have much sadness in you.” He sighed. “I wish I could make it all go away.”
I looked away. This was definitely not going as planned. I wanted sex. Not a fucking romance. I’d give it one more shot.
“I’m cold.” I said, pretending to shiver.
He understood and within a minute was leading me by the hand to the elevator outside the bar. Once inside, he inserted a special key into the slot marked “P.” Penthouse. As the elevator door opened onto a completely glass walled suite with views of the sea in all directions, I wondered again, who was this man? Maybe he did own the hotel.
He stood at an elaborate mirrored bar, fixing us drinks. When he handed me mine, I closed my fingers around his.
He closed his eyes for a second and looked uncomfortable.
My God. What was going on?
“I thought we could talk more. You could tell me about your life in Monterey.”
For a second I froze. I didn’t remember mentioning my hometown. I was drunk, but I was always careful about revealing personal details. But then again, I thought, as my vision blurred, I’d also told him my full name, hadn’t I?”
I leaned my head back and looked at his lips. “I don’t want to talk.” I slurred the words and then pressed my lips against his neck. I pressed my body against his and could feel him respond. A guttural moan escaped from his body and then he pulled back violently.
Before I realized it, he had his arm on mine and had led me back to my own room. I didn’t remember telling him what room I was in. He reached into my bag, withdrew my key card and opened my door.
“Will you be okay?”
“Fine.” I said curtly. I was pissed. I’d never been turned down before.
“I’d like to have breakfast with you. I’ll send for you at ten, give you plenty of time to sleep this off. There is something I want to discuss with you.”
After my door closed, I drank four giant glasses of water, took four aspirin and set my alarm for eight. I had no intention of having breakfast with that man. I didn’t care what he wanted to discuss. It was then I realized he had never told me his name.
The next morning, I quickly packed and then headed downstairs to check out. My plane left from Rome in twelve hours. I had my proof. It was time to act on it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I DON’T KNOW WHO WAS happier to see me once I got back to San Francisco, Django or Thanh-Thanh. She kept squeezing my elbow and speaking to me in Vietnamese. I didn’t know what she was saying. I hoped she wasn’t telling me that watching Django had been a pain in the butt.
I’d bought her an assortment of scarves and perfumes and even a silk robe and slippers at the duty-free shop at the Rome airport. I was lucky to have her help with my dog. I handed her three hundred dollars. She shook her head, but I pointed at Django, miming her walking him. She shook her head again, but I held the money to my heart in a begging gesture and she actually rolled her eyes and then took it, giving me a small bow.
Inside my apartment, I collapsed on my bed, exhausted from jet lag and ready to sleep for the rest of the day. Django jumped up on the bed, licked my face and then settled down beside me to take a nap.
When I woke, it was dark and I was starving.
I grabbed Django’s leash, and put my gun in its holster under my big Army coat. Django skipped around in frenetic circles until I clipped on his leash and opened the door.
Downstairs, Ethel wasn’t in her usual spot. I hadn’t seen her earlier, either. Maybe she’d already headed for the church early to sleep.
Grabbing a burner cell phone out of my bag, I dialed Susie’s parents’ house in Berkeley. Her mother immediately put Susie on the line.
“Oh, Gia, we were worried about you,” she said.
“Me? I’m fine. How’s Kato?”
“Much better. He’s sleeping right now or I’d let you talk to him. He’s a bit more tired than usual and keeps complaining that we won’t let him go back to his dojo and are making him relax for another few days.”
“It’ll be good for him,” I said. “How’s his head?”
“The doctor said he might have some memory issues and fuzzy thinking for a few months, but there’s no permanent damage.”
“Thank God,” I breathed the words out in a big sigh. Django stopped to do his business and I dug around in my purse for a plastic baggie.
“Gia, we’re worried about you, though. Kato said these guys weren’t messing around. They wanted to know where you were ...”
“Yeah, I’m going to take care of that. Why don’t you guys stay there a bit longer?” I eyed a guy walking on the opposite site of the street. He had baggy pants and a big coat and looked like he was about to head my way. I turned slightly and pulled back my jacket so the streetlight glinted on the handle of my gun. The man headed in the other direction.
“Gia, be careful. Kato said if some of his students hadn’t arrived early, he’s pretty sure those men would’ve killed him.” Her voice was quiet.
I swallowed hard. “I know. You just stay safe with the boys and Kato. I’ll call you in the next day or two. It should all be over by then.”
I hung up before she could answer.
When I got to Club Katrina, I realized I probably wouldn’t be able to bring Django inside so I kept walking until I got to a hoagie shop. Wasn’t my first choice, but it was an easy place to tie Django up in front of while I ordered. I got a plain roast beef for Django and a Spicy Italian sub for me.
I brought our dinners back to my apartment and started to make plans. Armed with the information I’d found in Italy, I knew it was time to confront Vito.
I’d head down to Monterey tomorrow. Kato and his family needed to get back to their n
ormal lives. The time for gathering evidence against my godfather had passed. I wasn’t going to need any more proof. Instead, I’d get a confession. My godfather had killed my parents and I was going to make him tell me why he did it. He would confess to me that he was a greedy bastard. He would beg my forgiveness. And then I would kill him.
CHAPTER THIRTY
MAKING MY WAY STEALTHILY by the golden glow of street lights filtering in the windows, I crawled onto the bed and held the long knife to my godfather’s wrinkled throat.
The covers were neatly pulled up to his chest. His wheelchair parked nearby. I straddled his body, my knees pinning his arms, and dipped my head close to his. His eyes fluttered open and he tried to raise his arms to his throat. His eyes focused on me in the dim light.
“Gia?” He genuinely seemed confused but stopped struggling.
“Don’t act innocent with me, Vito. It’s time you paid for your sins.”
“What?” His eyes blinked rapidly.
“You killed my parents. You killed my brother. You sent those goons to kill me. And you beat up, Kato.”
“No, no. I swear.” He tried to shake his head but the pressure of the knife stopped him.
“Bullshit.” I let the knife press just a little bit harder. “I’m here to avenge my mother and father, Vito. You know I have to do this. You know it’s my duty as a daughter.”
My hands were steady. My voice even. My heart rate slow and steady. I’d thrown up twice on the drive down to Monterey, but now, with the knife pressed against Vito’s saggy neck, a cool calmness had settled upon me. I nestled the knife between two floppy folds of skin. I could tell from the shimmer of fear in his eyes, he knew then that he would die at my hands. He struggled to sit up, but I put more pressure on his arms and chest.
“You sent those men to kill me. You ruined my father’s business and you were trying to save yourself with the Bay View deal. I know everything.”
Gia Santella Crime Thriller Boxed Set: Books 1-3 (Gia Santella Crime Thrillers) Page 12
