Gia Santella Crime Thriller Boxed Set: Books 1-3 (Gia Santella Crime Thrillers)

by Kristi Belcamino

  “There are many things you don’t know about our country,” he said.

  “Don’t give me that bullshit,” I said, my eyes narrowing. “I know about murderers in your country firsthand. My parents were murdered by Mateo Antonio Turricci. He also killed my godfather. Maybe even murdered my brother. Now, my boyfriend is dead. I need some fucking answers. You can count on seeing me here in your office every day until I get them.”

  He was biting his inner cheek. “Turricci killed your family?”

  “Yes.” I glared at him. “And then I killed him.”

  He sat back, unsurprised. As if he already knew that.

  “It was ruled self-defense. Cops witnessed it.”

  “You are Lucia Maria Bonadonna’s daughter.” It wasn’t a question.

  I glanced over in surprise. “You know my mother?”

  He shook his head. “No. I only know the story.” He looked like he was about to say something more and then sighed and shook his head. He gestured at his desk.

  “Signorina Santella, why do you think I am here when everyone else is home eating dinner with their family and taking la passeggiata? Instead, here I sit, trying to solve these murders.”

  I softened a little. He was right.

  “Why can’t you tell me what you know?”

  He looked astonished. Then his expression changed. “May I ask? Are you a police officer in America?”

  I scowled. That was his answer.

  “Do American police officers share details of their investigation with the family of victims?”

  Again, my silence was his answer.

  “Aha.” He leaned back folding his arms behind his head. “So, you do understand why I cannot give you answers.” Again, it wasn’t a question.

  My phone rang. I glanced down. James again. What the fuck. I sent it to voicemail again. I turned to leave.

  “Signorina Santella?”

  I paused, my hand on the door, but didn’t turn around.

  “You may be looking for answers in the wrong place?”

  I turned to face him. “What are you saying?”

  He swallowed. “You mentioned your family ... your mother ...” He broke off suddenly and shot an alarmed glance over my shoulder.

  I looked and saw the janitor hovering outside the door, sweeping.

  After a few minutes, the janitor disappeared and I heard a door close.

  “Your name is Santella, no?”

  “No. I mean, yes.” What kind of Abbott-and-Costello-shit was this?

  “But your mother has a different name, no?”

  “Yes. You already know that. You said so yourself.” I scrunched my face in confusion. My mother’s last name was Bonadonna. For some reason, I didn’t say it out loud.

  “This is something you may not want people to know right now.” He was gathering the papers off his desk and shoving them in a beat-up leather satchel.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Your family name.”

  “Quit playing games.” I stood, crossing my arms over my chest.

  He slung the satchel over his shoulder and stood in the door of his office. “I must go.” He flicked off the lights and locked the door. I trailed behind him down the hall.

  “You need to explain what you just said.” My voice was defiant.

  “I need to?” His tone was mocking.

  I watched as he got in a small blue car and drove away.

  The walk back to the villa took thirty minutes. I needed it to blow off some steam. I still hadn’t found any drugs or sleeping pills and now faced another night in the villa alone. I didn’t know if I could bear to walk past the places Bobby and I had made love. The bed was bad enough, but if I turned my back and faced the window I could pretend he was there behind me. The thought made me sob out loud. I looked around the narrow street I was on, wondering if anyone was looking out their windows at the crazy American lady. The sun had set and a chill had fallen on the village.

  In the distance, I heard a rumble growing closer. I stopped, listening. But then I realized it was a car with a bad muffler. I was disappointed. I’d hoped the motorcyclists had been out looking for me. I would claw their faces off with my short fingernails. I would tear their eyes out of their heads. I would rip their hair from their scalps.

  By the time I let myself into the villa, my fury had exhausted me. I crawled into bed, but was instantly awake again. I thought about Bobby’s mother and how hateful she seemed. I tried to understand. To put myself in her place. She’d just lost her only son. I was some girl he may have never even mentioned. That thought was devastating, but possibly true. Who knew? He didn’t talk about his parents a lot. And he’d never offered to introduce me. I hadn’t thought about it until now, but it was a little strange.

  And his poor father. He seemed nice. I was relieved he’d given me details of the funeral mass, because I sure as hell was going to be there.

  That meant I had five days to avenge Bobby’s murder.

  I would find the Queen of Spades and I would kill her.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I DIDN’T SLEEP. I TOSSED and turned, and at one point, deep in the night, gave up and got out of bed. I stood on the balcony staring at the sea. Numb. If you’d told me that I would lose Bobby and still be able to function—to shower and brush my teeth, even eat a little—I would have told you that was insane.

  Maybe I was in denial. In some fucked-up stage of grief. All I knew was that the tears were gone. They were replaced by white-hot fury.

  All I could think about was finding the Queen of Spades. And making her pay. I wasn’t sure how. I’d only killed one person in my life and still was haunted by it.

  The truth was that I hadn’t intended to kill Mateo Antonio Turricci. He’d been cornered and facing life in prison when he found out that I actually wasn’t his biological daughter. His response was to thrust himself onto the fireplace poker I was holding. When my mother was a girl and her parents died, Turricci had become her guardian. But at some point–the details were unclear—he had raped her. She fled to America. He finally found her, and thinking I was their love child, tried to win her back by buying her a villa and promising his undying love. When she didn’t want him, he finally gave up. But he didn’t want to lose face so he killed her and my father, claiming she had destroyed his life. My godfather, and possibly brother, were casualties of his rage.

  His blood was on my hands and frankly, I didn’t want another’s. Besides my ever-present fear of losing those whom I loved, my other fear was that I would become a violent, evil person.

  Having Turricci die at my hands had triggered something inside me that I hadn’t known existed. A cold-hearted, crystal clear, blood lust that was the opposite of the hedonistic, wine-guzzling, sex-crazed, pot-smoking self that I’d always identified with. This other person inside me, this cold, calculating killer? I wanted nothing to do with her. She’d cropped up a few times when I’d been faced with pure evil. But that didn’t mean I wanted her to take over. I pushed her deep down inside every chance I got.

  Besides, I was afraid that if I began murdering my enemies, I would never have been able to stop. The flow of blood would be endless. I would like it. It would become who I was. A small part of me, probably the part connected to my shriveled-up, ever-grieving heart, welcomed that alternate reality. But the Gia I had to live with everyday didn’t want that. Not really. I wanted to be the person that Bobby had seen when he looked at me: Big-hearted. Caring. Loving. Giving.

  Even though it was hard to admit, what I loved about Bobby the most was how he made me feel. Like a person worthy of love. Like a person who deserved to live.

  Despite this, I knew that somehow, some way, I would make the Queen of Spades pay.

  IN THE MORNING, THERE was a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice, pastries, figs, and the morning newspapers. The front-page stories were repeats of the day before, saying that investigators were still trying to find the motorcyclists. And a
ll but one patient had been released. Matt.

  I dialed Dante. He didn’t pick up. My mouth grew dry. I dialed his mother.

  “Oh, Gia.” Horror filled me. Matt was dead. But then she continued. “I’m sorry that Dante is being so difficult. He’s just having a hard time. People deal with tragedy in different ways. He’ll get over it.”

  I exhaled with relief. “How’s Matt?”

  “The same. Gia, it doesn’t look good.”

  A sour taste filled my mouth. Oh god, please not Matt too.

  “I’ll be by later.”

  “Call first. Dante ... well, as I said, he’s having a difficult time.”

  “Oh.” He didn’t want me to come.

  “I’m sorry, Gia.”

  “Okay.” My voice was quiet as I hung up.

  With tears in my eyes, I rifled through the newspapers looking for mention of the Queen of Spades. I found a story on an inside page: “Queen of Spades strikes in Calabria.”

  South of here. In Pizzo. I wondered if it was near where the Italian woman’s mother lived in Tropeo. I read on. Two young men had been murdered. Their bodies were found “displayed” in Piazza della Repubblica, the town square, last night. The men were believed to be members of La Cosa Nostra.

  “Obviously, a warning,” Donny Isalo, the town baker had said.

  Obviously.

  But a warning to whom?

  I flipped to the front of the paper, looking for a phone number. The journalist thought nothing of saying the Queen of Spades was behind these two murders, but nobody would say she was behind Bobby’s slaying. I furiously punched the numbers on my phone.

  “Jeremy Stand?”

  “Speaking.”

  “My boyfriend was killed at the Hotel Rizzoli.”

  “Wow. I’m so sorry to hear that.” I could hear his fingers typing furiously on the keyboard. “What’s your name?”

  “You don’t need my name right now. I want to tell you what I saw.”

  “Fantastic.”

  “There was a woman there. Long dark hair. Dressed in body hugging black. I think she was the Queen of Spades. I saw her there. What I don’t understand is how you can say she killed those two boys with such certainty and yet the police are acting like I’m ridiculous to suggest that she killed my boyfriend.”

  “Hey, lady. I only write what I’m told. I don’t know why the cops said it was her. That’s what they told me. I just print what they say.”

  “That’s lame. You don’t know for sure it was her? You just take their word for it? The police?” As soon as I spoke I knew it sounded dumb. Of course, he had to take the police on their word.

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Okay. I understand.” I didn’t really, but it didn’t matter.

  “Can I have your name?”

  I hung up.

  I checked the map. Pizzo was near the city where the Italian woman’s mother lived, Tropeo. Looked like I was taking a road trip.

  I left a message for Mrs. Marino telling her I’d be by the hospital tonight and to please call me if Matt’s condition changed. Then I rented a car and headed south.

  The Italian woman’s address in Tropeo was up a small hill and tucked back among some trees. From the front, the tiny bungalow looked dark and abandoned. I knocked on the door, half-heartedly, so I was surprised when it swung open. A young woman answered.

  “Mrs. Giuseppe?”

  “Si,” she said. And rattled off something else in Italian. She gestured for me to come inside. In a corner of the small, sparse living room, a woman with bright blue eyes sat wrapped in a blanket. She was in a wheelchair.

  The young woman said something in Italian and the older woman smiled at me. I couldn’t help but smile back. I realized right then that I didn’t want to tell her about her daughter. I didn’t want to break her heart. But then I saw the shrine in the corner. Of course, she already knew. The funeral home or police must have been able to reach her. A small table held a framed photograph of her daughter. Candles surrounded the photo, along with a rosary and small statue of the Virgin Mary. The older woman noticed my glance.

  “My daughter.” Her voice was tinged with sadness and resignation, but her English was pretty good. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I know. That’s why I’m here.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “May I?” I gestured to the chair beside her.

  She nodded and I sunk into the chair, suddenly tired. “My name is Gia Valentina Santella.”

  Something about the woman made me feel formal and give my full name. Her eyes widened.

  “I was at the hotel where your daughter’s accident occurred.” My mouth suddenly grew dry.

  “Dio mio!” The woman made the sign of the cross.

  I blew a big breath out. There I’d said the worst part. “She kept saying one thing. Mia madre è malata e sola.”

  The woman’s forehead furrowed. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Gia.” Oh, no. Was the woman suffering from dementia? This was worse than I thought. “I wanted you to know that you were her main concern. That she was thinking of you at the end.”

  “My daughter?” The woman was confused. She had to be.

  “I just wanted you to know that she died peacefully and that she wanted to make sure I told you how much she loved you.” It was a lie, but it was the right thing to say.

  I stood up, suddenly uncomfortable and awkward.

  Then the woman smiled. It was such a beatific smile it hurt to look at. She bowed her head. “Thank you.”

  I paused. Over her shoulder, I noticed a photograph of Sicily. An area I had visited once last year.

  “Is that Sicily?”

  “Yes, that is my hometown. My husband is from here, so we move here.”

  “My mother is from Sicily.”

  The woman tilted her head. “What is her name, child?”

  “Her name was Lucia-Grazia Bonadonna Santella.”

  The woman’s eyes grew wide. She leaned towards me, nearly tipping out her chair. She reached toward me and started speaking in Italian so fast I couldn’t understand the words.

  “I don’t understand,” I said. She clutched my hand. I cast a desperate glance at the younger woman but she was no longer in the room.

  “The Bonadonnas. Saved us.”

  “My mother’s family helped you? Saved you?”

  “Yes.” She yelled something in Italian. The young woman appeared in the doorway, a concerned look on her face.

  The older woman spoke in Italian and the younger woman disappeared. Within seconds, she came back in with a small box that she placed on the older woman’s lap. The box was full of colorful prayer cards with pictures of saints and the Virgin Mary and the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Some were laminated. Some were frayed on the edges, worn soft from being fingered over the years.

  She flipped through them, biting her lip, squinting and speaking quietly to herself. Then, waving her arm in triumph, she held a card up high. It was a picture of the Virgin Mary dressed in baby blue robes with a crown of pale pink roses. She thrust the card at me.

  I turned it over.

  Lucia Maria Bonadonna. 1959-1989.

  My grandmother. It had to be. She’d only lived to thirty. She and my grandfather had died in a freak boat accident on their way to a vacation in Sardinia. The captain had sent a distress signal and seconds later the boat exploded.

  The young woman stood in the doorway now. She tapped her watch and looked at the door. It was time for me to go. I held up one finger to signify I’d only be a minute.

  I squatted down beside the woman’s wheelchair and held the card out to her. “Who was this?”

  The woman looked at me and made a face. “Who are you?”

  “Gia Santella,” I said. “Remember? My mother is Lucia-Grazie Bonadonna Santella.”

  “Aha. You look nothing like your mother. You saved my daughter.” She smiled and grabbed my hand tightly.

  I didn’t argue with her. “You kn
ow ... you knew my mother?”

  She made a distasteful face and shook her head. “No. Her family, yes.”

  There it was. Her family again. And the face confused me.

  She clutched at me. “Your mother saved us. You saved my daughter.” She leaned over and made the sign of the cross on my forehead. I resisted the impulse to draw back. I looked up helplessly at the young woman who just shook her head. I stood.

  “Can I come back another time?”

  “Yes, of course. Any friend of my daughter is welcome in this house.”

  “Thank you.” I palmed the prayer card as the young woman escorted me to the door.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I WAS IN PIZZO WITHIN the hour.

  Rounding a corner at the top of the mountain, I nearly swerved off the road taking in the spectacular turquoise sea below. Like most of the cities along the coast of the Tyrrhenian Sea, Pizzo was a city of terra cotta-roofed buildings perched clinging to the side of a cliff above the water. A thin strip of white beach dotted with colorful umbrellas lay far below.

  The town square, Piazza della Repubblica, wasn’t far from the beach on a rare stretch of flat terrain. I parked a few streets away and made my way through the square, packed with people, tents and café tables. At one end, a band played what sounded like The Rolling Stones with Italian lyrics.

  Giant glass vats of strawberries were everywhere. As I walked by, people proffered cups of strawberry gelato, strawberry cake, and tiny strawberries dotted with sugar.

  For free.

  And, as luck would have it, I was allergic to strawberries. They’d triggered a nasty rash around my mouth when I was little so I’d avoided them ever since. I shook my head at every gorgeous offering, feeling as if I was telling them to fuck off instead of just politely declining their generosity.

  “You no like strawberries?” I looked down. It was a slight boy about ten with massive dark brown eyes and incredibly long thick eyelashes.

  “How did you know I spoke English?” I said.

  “Americana,” he said. He scoffed and pointed at me, his hands going from my head to my feet. I was slightly insulted.