“Sono Americana e Italiana.”
He made a pffting noise and waved his hand back over his shoulder.
He held out the gelato cup. “It’s free. No money.”
“I love gelato, but I can’t have strawberries. I’m allergic.”
He raised an eyebrow and then looked over my shoulder. He raced over to a man who was scooping out the gelato, said something and came back, grabbing my hand.
“You know that Pizzo is famous for two things?” he said. “Strawberries and tartufo di Pizzo. Come.”
“I’m not sure what that is, but I think I surely must have it.”
He led me by the hand through the crowds. He was adorable.
Inside a small gelateria, he ordered for me.
The man behind the counter handed me a cone of gelato with fudge and sugar dripping from it. The man shook his head when I pushed euros across the counter, letting it sit there.
I took a bite of the gelato: chocolate and hazelnut. Oh, my God.
The man smiled at the sounds I made. For a second, I flashed back to Bobby sitting in the restaurant the night before we left San Francisco. Not long after that, everything in my life had taken a turn for the worst. The car crash kicked off the bad luck that culminated in Bobby’s murder.
Trying not to show my despair, I smiled at the man, gently pushed the euros across the counter saying, “Please” in English—somehow the word for “please” in Italian escaped me—and walked out, swiping at a few stray tears.
The boy ran after me. “My uncle is mad you pay him. It’s a feast day.”
“That’s your uncle?”
The boy looked up and took in my tears, concern lining his face. “You don’t like?” He gestured at my dessert.
“I love,” I said. “I just was a little sad. It reminded me of someone I loved.”
“Someone gone?”
I nodded. I was here for a reason. Not to sample the wares in this incredible town. I looked around. The square was packed with people. Any signs of two murders here the day before were long gone.
“Can you show me where the men were killed here yesterday?”
He was a sharp kid. His face scrunched up. “You know the men killed here? Is that why you are sad?”
“No.”
He seemed satisfied with that answer and led me over to a statue in one corner that was topped by a bust of a haughty looking dude. The pillar said, “Umberto 1, Pizzo MCMII.”
“Here?” I asked.
He nodded. The stones around the statue looked damp as if they had been recently washed, but there was no sign of blood.
“Who’s the dude?”
“King Umberto.” He said it as if I were an idiot. Which maybe I was. There was some significance to the bodies being left right here. I knew it. Just then, the man at the booth where the boy had been working, whistled. The boy scowled but leaned over and kissed my hand. He held my hand and looked up at me, eyes soft.
“I must go, my queen,” he said, and raced off.
I stood staring at him. Why had he called me his queen? I chalked it up to the Italian flirtatious nature. But still, it disturbed me to be called “queen” when I was hunting the Queen of Spades. For a second, I wanted to chase after him and ask what he meant, but I saw that the man had sent him on some errand scurrying up a back stairway.
The bakery was two doors away. I decided to Google the king to see if there was some significance to the bodies being left at his feet.
My phone screen was hard to read in the sun, so I stepped into a dark doorway and scrolled through the tiny text. Not much. Looked like the king was loathed for being an authoritarian and ultimately killed by anarchists after a few failed attempts. But then as I read on, my eyes widened. His assassin was an Italian-American living in New Jersey who came overseas strictly to murder the king.
Although there had been several unsuccessful attempts to take the king’s life by fellow anarchists, Gaetano Bresci had succeeded, shooting the king to death on July 29, 1900.
It made sense that the Queen of Spades, who was in her own way an anarchist, by declaring war on the La Cosa Nostra, would leave the bodies at the feet of the king’s bust.
Just then my phone rang again. My heart leaped, hoping it was Dante. It was James. I stared at it for a second this time before sending it to voicemail. This time he didn’t leave a message. I had three unheard messages on my phone from him. But then, a text popped up from him. “I’m sorry about Bobby.”
I reeled. How did he know? Then I remembered the shooting had obviously made international news. For a second, my finger hovered over the button to call him back. But I couldn’t deal with his sympathy right then. It would make me weak. And more than anything, right now I needed to be strong.
I tucked my phone into my bag.
The shadows were growing long so I headed toward the bakery, pushing the door open.
A woman in her late thirties, her red hair pushed back by sunglasses, was behind the counter reading a book. She wore all white and a giant thick white apron.
“I’m looking for Donny?” I hoped she spoke English.
“I am she.” She arched a perfectly manicured eyebrow. She must be used to people assuming she was a male. “May I help you?”
“Do you have a second?” I looked around. The glass cases were mostly empty. A few crumbs left behind. The baskets behind the counter only contained a stray roll or two and one loaf of bread. It was too late in the day to buy bread at the bakery in this part of the world. No self-respecting Italian would wait until after lunch to buy bread.
Donny stood and came out from behind the counter. She brushed her hands off on her apron and untied it in the back.
“I was just going to take a break.” She smiled. I declined to point out that reading an Umberto Eco paperback behind the counter might be considered “taking a break” in most places, but to each her own. She disappeared through a back doorway for a few minutes and then came back with tea and a plate of small cookies. No strawberries in sight, thank God.
We were halfway into our tea when I finally brought up the murders.
Her eyes met mine over her tea cup. “I thought that was why you were here.”
“Why?”
“I read the papers. You were part of the group of Americans in the Hotel Rizzoli shooting.”
It was not a question. I swallowed the lump lodged in my throat and nodded.
“My boyfriend.”
She placed her hand on my mine. “I am sorry.”
“I saw a woman there. On the street, outside. She had long dark hair and wore all black, formfitting clothes ...” I trailed off. The way she became still told me I didn’t need to say more.
“Did you see her face?”
“No, only from behind.”
She took a sip of her tea before speaking again. Carefully she set it down, arranging it so it lined up perfectly with the colorful square of tile on the table.
“You think it is the Queen of Spades?”
“Yes.” I searched her eyes. There was no reaction.
“Why did you ask about seeing her face?” I said.
“Nobody knows exactly what she looks like. She appeared here in Calabria a few years ago. Out of nowhere, it seemed. But she was instantly connected. She had faithful followers like that.” She snapped her fingers, the red nail polish a crimson blur. “She is mysterious. But deadly.”
“I think she killed my boyfriend.”
The woman looked thoughtful, placing her chin on her hand. “Why?”
I opened my mouth. I was speechless. I had no motive. But she was there. And she ran off before the police arrived.
“Why do I think that or why did she kill him?”
“The Queen of Spades doesn’t kill innocent people.” The same arched eyebrow. This time it pissed me off.
“My boyfriend never did a thing to hurt a soul in his life.”
“But the La Cosa Nostra,” she said, jutting her chin toward the square wher
e the bodies were found. “That is right up their alley.”
“Killing those young men?”
She laughed loudly, throwing her head back as she did.
“No,” she said once she was done. “That was the Queen of Spades. She killed them because they were La Cosa Nostra. I meant the Hotel Rizzoli? That sounds like La Cosa Nostra.”
She met my eyes, not looking away. It made me uncomfortable but I was determined not to look away.
“Why couldn’t it be both? Her and them?”
“They are her sworn enemies.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” The woman looked over my shoulder, her forehead creasing. “I mean obviously because the La Cosa Nostra ... well,” she shrugged. “Are criminals, but other than that? I don’t know.”
I thought about that. It was what the newspaper had said. The Queen of Spades had declared war on the other mafiosi.
“But the motorcyclists could be working for her. She was overseeing them ... in the shadows, making sure the job was done.”
The woman tilted her head. “If it was her hit, if she had been the one who ordered the murders, do you think she would be within one hundred miles of there? No. There is a reason she has never been seen or caught.”
“She didn’t know I was out on the balcony and saw her.”
“The Queen of Spades would never take that risk.”
“Maybe she made her first mistake.” I said, staring until she looked away.
She stood. “I must go check the dough now.”
Before she slipped through the doorway, she paused, and as if it were an afterthought said, “Be sure to check out our famous sea caves before you leave the country.”
It didn’t make sense, but her comment was so wooden and odd that it sent a tremor of unease through me. Sea caves?
Keeping an eye on the door in case she returned, I wandered over to the counter, looking for something. I didn’t know what. Some clue. Something that would lead me to the Queen of Spades. The paperback lay splayed open, forgotten. She was about half way through The Name of the Rose. Good book. But the name “Umberto.” Same as the statute of the king outside. A lot of fucking creepy coincidences in Italy. Things that never happened in America.
A small boy was standing by my car when I got to it. He looked like a smaller version of the boy who had helped me earlier. Same big brown eyes and ridiculously long eyelashes. When I got closer, he noticed me and his eyes lit up. “Regina di spade. Regina di spade. Regina di spade.”
He was chanting the words gleefully and dancing around. Then he took a stick and dipped and thrust and parried here and there like a pirate with a sword.
Must be pretty boring being a kid in Pizzo, I thought. Finally, I had to be aggressive to get to my car door, which he seemed to be guarding.
“Move it or lose it,” I said, getting closer. He stepped aside and did the most eloquent bow, that I stood struck for a moment until he winked, tapping his heels together with military precision.
“Go find someone your own age to play with, Jack Sparrow,” I muttered.
Just then the older boy showed up. He cuffed his little brother in the head and I felt bad.
He scolded him in Italian.
“He’s fine. He was just being a kid.”
The younger boy smiled. “Queen.” He looked at his older brother whose cheeks grew red.
“Why is he calling me that?” Then I remembered the older brother had also called me that earlier.
He shrugged. “You know, the Queen of Spades.”
“What?”
Just then a man walked out of a store and yelled. The boys scuttled away toward him, the older boy looking back at me apologetically and then blowing me a kiss. The younger boy turned and saluted me, standing at attention. Weird little dudes.
I watched them in my rearview mirror as I drove away.
Queen. Shit.
They thought I was the Queen of Spades. Son of a bitch.
As I pulled around the block, I passed the alley behind the bakery and glanced down it. Donny, the baker, stood outside smoking and talking animatedly on a cell phone, hands waving around.
Have to go check the dough, my ass.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
BEFORE LEAVING TOWN, I pulled over to the dirt shoulder overlooking the sea below. The water below didn’t even look real. The turquoise color was brilliant. The sun was low on the horizon, casting an orange and pink glow that was spreading across the skies and the seas. It was like a movie. I’d planned to show Bobby all of this. To give him his first glimpse of southern Italy. To share all this beauty with him. To watch staggering sunsets like this together. To take him to Sicily where my ancestors were from. To make love to him in the warm waters of the Mediterranean. No more.
All my dreams had been shattered.
It seemed like a lifetime ago that Bobby and I had talked about visiting Sicily together. I’d wanted him by my side when I finally entered the villa that Turricci had given my mother. It was high time I sold it, washed my hands of something that reeked of his rapist blood money. But I wanted to at least look inside and see if there was any sign that she’d ever been there. Maybe some remnant of her preserved.
It was not something I was looking forward to doing, but I had taken comfort knowing that Bobby would be by my side. No more.
Something about being in the old country, where my mother and father had lived, felt both comforting and terrifying. The way people reacted to my mother’s name. Bonadonna. It was with both awe and fear. I didn’t understand.
There were too many secrets surrounding my parent’s pasts and I didn’t think I had the strength to uncover them. It was all I could do to stay focused on the only thing keeping me alive: my thirst for revenge.
My phone dinged. I looked down, hoping it was Dante. It wasn’t. It was James. Again. “Call me. Important.”
Taking a deep breath, I dialed.
“Thank God,” he said, exhaling loudly. “I was about to buy a ticket to Italy and come hunt you down myself.”
“I’m fine, James. Thanks for your condolences.”
He was quiet for a second.
“God, Gia. I am so goddamn sorry.”
“Thank you.” My view got a little blurry. Quit being so fucking nice to me, James. You’re making me lose it.
“But, that’s not why I was calling.”
I waited without answering.
“It’s about the Italian woman who died.”
I didn’t understand. How did he know about Luisa Giuseppe, anyway? Again, I didn’t answer, just sniffled a little.
“She had your name.”
“What?” My mouth was open and I could feel my face scrunched up. The sun was now a glowing red orb on the horizon, about to dip into the sea.
“In her SUV. On the floor. There was a piece of paper with your name and address.”
“The woman in San Francisco?”
“Yes,” he said. “Wait? Who did you think?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Gia, we think she was trying to hit you.”
“What the fuck?” It didn’t make any sense. “Who is she, anyway?”
“Her name is Tzipora Lucchesi.”
“Huh.”
“Does that name mean something to you?”
“Not a goddamn thing.”
“She’s Sicilian.”
I shook my head as if trying to clear it. What the hell was going on? “I don’t understand, James.”
“We’re trying to get an address for her. I’ll text you when we locate one.”
There were a few seconds of silence. The sun was being swallowed by the water, which now was dark.
“Listen, I better go now.” My voice had softened. I felt guilty for avoiding his texts. I was so stupid. I’d thought maybe he was trying to hook up with me again and out of loyalty to Bobby had avoided his calls. He was calling me as a cop. Maybe even as a friend. Not as a lover.
“Gia? Watch you
r back.”
“Maybe she was looking for her phone and lost control of her vehicle.” With my name and address on her lap.
“I’m dead serious. Promise me you’ll watch out?”
“Sure, James.”
I hung up. Of course, it wasn’t an accident. In a flash, I remembered the look in her eyes when she saw my face. And her words: “Sei tu.” It is you.
AS I GOT TO THE EDGE of town, the road dead-ended at a T and the sky began to darken. I stared at the signs pointing in opposite directions.
One way led south to where I had originally planned to catch a ferry to Sicily and explore my mother’s villa. This morning, I’d called and made a hotel reservation at Hotel le Palme, near where I could catch the ferry to Sicily the next morning. Just in case.
The other way, north and to my right, would lead me back to where Dante stood vigil by his new husband.
I headed north.
It would be late when I arrived at the hospital. But I knew Dante would be sitting vigil by Matt. I would stay with him. I would not leave his side. I would hold his hand and comfort him while he tried to comfort Matt.
I was wrong in saying the only thing keeping me alive was the desire to seek revenge. The other thing that kept me going was my love for Dante and my desire to be there for him.
Dante was my brother. Even if we didn’t share blood, I would be there for him. No matter what. He was the closest thing to family I had.
I would let my hunt for the Queen of Spades wait until Matt was recovered enough to go home to America. And then I would devote every spare moment of my life to hunting down the person who took Bobby away from me.
Having this plan filled me with relief. It gave me purpose. A reason to live.
Like most of the roads I’d been on, this one wove dangerously close to the steep cliff plunging to the sea below. I held tight to the steering wheel, concentrating on the halo of light cast by my headlights on the narrow road. It seemed that it wouldn’t even fit two cars. I felt like I was half into the opposite lane no matter how hard I hugged the mountain on my side.
My phone pinged and I glanced down, expecting, hoping it would be Dante. Figuring it was from James. But when I pressed on it I gasped. It was from Bobby. My heart shot up into my throat. Impossible.
Gia Santella Crime Thriller Boxed Set: Books 1-3 (Gia Santella Crime Thrillers) Page 41
