Keeping my eyes on the road, I took my foot off the gas a little and held the phone up in front of my face, keeping one hand on the steering wheel, watching the road with my peripheral vision. I read the words hearing Bobby’s voice in my ear. He’d sent the text during the wedding. It had been delayed.
“You look so beautiful tonight. Being at Dante’s wedding makes me think things about us that would probably freak you out. I know imagining a future is tough for you now. Maybe one day it won’t be.”
Tears dripped down my face. The words on the screen grew fuzzy. I reached and dropped the phone into my bag. That’s why when a big truck came zooming around the corner, the headlights blinding me with my already blurry vision, I panicked, and jerked the wheel toward the mountain. The truck whizzed by and I felt my tiny car wobbling, caught up in the backdraft of the truck. I saw the looming backend of the truck in my rearview mirror as it disappeared around the corner and then in front me, black where my headlights should’ve reflected pavement and then I was freefalling into space.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE FEELING OF EMPTINESS and weightlessness only lasted seconds before a bone-shattering impact turned everything black.
When I opened my eyes, the first thing I thought was that my head was cracked open like an egg. That would be the only explanation for the crushing pain at my skull. I also was dangling by my seat belt, head first facing the sea below. A few branches stuck up, blocking my view out my windshield, seemingly the only thing between me and infinity. My headlights beamed out into space. Gingerly I turned my head. A bush was halfway through my driver’s side window. The passenger side door was open and my bag was gone. I needed my bag. It had my cell phone.
Reaching down I clicked off my seatbelt.
The movement caused the car to shift slightly. I held my breath. Nothing happened, but it was clear I needed to get out of the car. And find my phone. The bush blocked my way on the driver’s side. Slowly, carefully, I moved toward the open passenger door. The car wobbled a little but stayed put.
Once I was in the passenger seat, my feet on the dashboard and my head toward the back seat, the car slid. I gripped the seat back in terror. The car only slid about a foot and lodged on something else. I think the big bush had anchored it.
I wasn’t taking any chances though. The area off to my left side was less steep. I leaped, grabbing for a bush, hoping my movement wouldn’t send the car plunging until I was clear. My escape triggered a small avalanche of rocks and dirt. The car grumbled and moaned again, but stayed put.
The car’s headlights lit the steep ground around the bush. Everything seemed to have fallen to a ledge just below where I was. It was a small flat rock platform the size of a twin bed. It leaned back toward the hillside and was partially covered by a rock I now saw my car was lodged on. I scrambled on all fours, crab walking, still clinging to the bush until I came to the edge of the dirt. There was about a three foot drop to the rock below. I eased myself down until I felt something solid under my feet. I instantly squatted. Heart pounding, I scrabbled so my back was pressed against the mountainside, breathing hard.
When I finally had the courage to scoot away from the edge, I took in my surroundings. It seemed that I was about halfway down the cliff—between the road and the sea below. Peering up, I looked for a path that might lead me to the road, but all I saw was my car suspended a few feet above me, the headlights facing down blinding me.
I’d been saved from tumbling into the sea by a massive bush and a giant boulder that served as a shelf above the rock I was on. The shelf jutted out about two feet. I needed to get under it ASAP because if my car broke loose, it would land on me or take me out with it as it plunged into the sea. The lip of rock was my only possible protection. It might give me a fighting chance. Or it might not. If it broke off with my car, everything would tumble into the rocky shore below.
Groaning I reached for my side. My shirt was wet with blood. I lifted it and saw a gash below my ribs. The cut looked pretty good and blood was coming out, not much, but steadily.
I held my hand to the cut and it came back red. I looked around. The rock I was on also had caught some debris from my car. There was the book I’d read on the plane, The Branson Beauty. The car’s bumper. A bottle of water. Then I spotted it. My bag. It was hanging on a bush just past the rocky ledge I was on.
Keeping my eye on the edge of the cliff, I scooted over to the bush. The strap of my bag hung down where I could reach. I tugged, but the bag didn’t budge. The bush was on a small wedge of ground sticking out from the cliff. My efforts sent dirt and pebbles crumbling and skittering off the edge.
I needed to get closer. I scooted onto a small portion of dirt, leaving the relative safety of the rock behind. I held my breath, hoping the ground could take my weight.
When nothing happened, I reached over and gave the strap another tug. This time my purse whipped free and landed on me. Again, I leaned back, afraid to even breath. When the earth didn’t disintegrate under me, I scrambled like a madwoman over onto the rock surface, my feet sending small pebbles off the cliff edge tumbling to the rocky shore below. I tucked myself under the small outcropping of rock and put my bag on my lap. I rummaged inside for my phone.
Thank God it was intact. But first I had to staunch the bleeding from my side. I found a small square bundle wrapped in plastic. It would do just fine. I unpeeled and unfolded the maxi pad and stuck it to my cut and then held it in place by wrapping strips of my T-shirt around my torso.
The effort exhausted me and sent waves of agony zigzagging through my skull. My head hurt so bad I was dizzy. I leaned back against the rock and with trembling fingers punched in Dante’s number. It rang once and then went straight to voicemail. Just as if he sent it there. I dialed again. Same deal. I tried a half dozen more times with no luck.
He was avoiding me. I sent him a text. “In car crash. Need help.”
That oughta get his attention.
A warm sticky spot had formed on the rock under my leg. I lifted it and saw a pool of blood. Somehow, the back of my calf had been sliced ragged. Now that the shock was slightly wearing off, my head, side, and leg all began to throb at once. I ripped off a piece of my shirt and bound my leg. The blood didn’t seep through so I counted that as a win.
Gingerly I felt the tender bruise on my head. It hurt like a mother fucker, but I’d live. Probably. If I could get up that cliff. I leaned over and tried to see how far down I’d crashed. My eyes blurred a little. I probably had a concussion. Again.
In fact, you could say that every time I visited Italy, I’d gotten one. Lame.
I sat back. The movement sent a wave of nausea through me. I couldn’t fight it. I leaned over and vomited. Yeah, damn good chance I had a concussion.
Feeling the rest of my body with my fingers, I decided that I was lucky. Knocked my head on the dash. Cut my leg and side on something. But that was about it.
Dante hadn’t returned my text. I called Mrs. Marino.
I could tell she had picked up the phone, but she didn’t say anything. Then I heard the soft sounds of weeping. Trepidation rippled through me.
“Mrs. Marino?”
She sniffled. “Matt’s gone.”
I leaned back, staring but seeing nothing. Then I realized I hadn’t answered.
“No.” My voice was so low I didn’t know if she heard me.
“He died this afternoon.” Mrs. Marino cleared her throat. “Dante is taking it very badly.”
My words came back. “Oh, my God. Poor Dante. My heart is breaking for him. I need to call him.”
“He blames you. I’m so sorry, Gia.”
At first I didn’t understand what she said. But then her words sunk in.
“What?”
“Give him some time.”
“But—”
“Give him some time and space. He’ll come around.”
“Mrs. Marino?”
“I have to go now, dear.”
She hung up.
Dante fucking hated me.
Oh, my God. Maybe I had caused the shooting. Who the fuck did I think I was messing with La Cosa Nostra? What kind of privileged Italian-American princess goes over to Italy and confronts the mafia. Only a stupid, stupid, stupid one. I closed my eyes.
A truck rumbled by on the road above. It was enough to send the car scuttling down the hillside. I ducked under the jutting rock even more, pulling my legs in to my chest. I was jolted as the car struck the rock above my head and then teetered for a moment a few feet away from me before plunging into the sea below.
My heart was pounding in my throat and I couldn’t breathe. I waited for the rock I was on to dislodge and follow the car. When nothing moved, I scooted to the edge and peered down. The headlights shone for a second and then went out.
The ringing of my phone startled me. Without looking, I punched the answer button.
“Gia,” I said.
“Mrs. Santella?”
The voice was vaguely familiar.
“Yes?”
“This is Inspector Brossard.”
“It’s miss,” I mumbled.
“We have some new information,” He went on. “We are going to need you to come in for questioning again.”
“I won’t be able to do that,” I almost laughed as I said it.
There was a pause. “I went by the villa where you are staying.”
His voice seemed so far away. I was only half-listening. I was suddenly tired and my mind was drifting.
The sea before me, so dark that I couldn’t distinguish the horizon, was a dark mass of roiling power. It was hauntingly beautiful and yet, deadly. The menace drifted up to my rock prison. It could take a life in an instant. I suddenly felt very sleepy. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. The weight of the phone in my hand seemed extraordinarily heavy. I could hear the inspector’s voice, but it was faint, not really registering.
I was back in Monterey as a child. I remembered horror stories as I was growing up about newlyweds honeymooning on the Monterey Peninsula. They always underestimated the power of the sea.
More than once, we’d read in the local paper about a bride or groom who met an untimely death when they posed for a picture on a rock and then were swept away by rogue waves. Or the tourists caught in riptides while frolicking in seemingly docile waters.
The worst was a family visiting from Kansas. The eight-year-old boy decided to go swimming in a cove but got caught in a riptide. His father jumped into to save him and got caught. And then the grandfather dove in to try to save them both. Three generations gone in one morning.
“The caretaker said you have not been there for the past two nights.”
Inspector Brossard’s voice brought me back to the present. “If you don’t come in willingly, I’m afraid we’re going to have to bring you in forcibly.”
I let the phone drop onto my shoulder. Then it slipped onto my lap. I heard the inspector’s voice as if it were very far away. “Ms. Santella? Ms. Santella.”
I opened my eyes long enough for my finger to press down on the glowing red picture of the phone and silence the tinny voice. I closed my eyes again. I began to drift off to sleep. But wasn’t that the worst thing to do with a concussion? I couldn’t remember.
The thought of sinking into oblivion suddenly seemed like the best thing ever.
My boyfriend was dead. Everyone I loved had died violently. Except Dante. Who hated me. It was too much.
Life was meaningless. I had nothing to live for anymore. It was a cold, hard, fact. Tragedy after tragedy had pushed me to this place, to the edge: literally the brink of a cliff and figuratively, the brink of oblivion.
What was my purpose on this earth? I couldn’t see one. Not anymore.
The night was dark. The sea below seductive. The crashing waves called to me. It would be so easy. I was not a coward. I was not afraid to die. I scooted out from under the rocky outcrop. My feet, ankles, and then my knees were suspended in the air, hanging above nothingness. I sat with my legs dangling on the edge. There was nothing between me and the rocks below. It would be painless. It would be quick.
It would erase the gut-punching pain that I couldn’t escape. Right then, the emotional agony that overwhelmed me surpassed the sharp pain in my leg, side, and head. I scooted another inch, so I was perched on the edge of the rock. I leaned my torso forward. Just a little more and I would tip the balance and tumble to the rocks below. The fall would be exhilarating. The momentary release from my pain welcome and then, at the bottom, blessed oblivion.
My vision was blurry. I swiped at my eyes and my hand came back wet. I was crying. The sounds coming from my mouth were sobs. I was gasping with sobs, trying to catch my breath. The weeping had taken me off guard.
Without the headlights, the sky was velvety black. That’s when I noticed the new moon. A deeper black than the night with the thinnest halo of brilliant light around it.
“Benvenuta Luna che mi porti fortuna!”
The words from a long-ago day on the beach during the summer escaped my lips.
My mother had told me that greeting new moon, asking it for good fortune, and bowing thirteen times would surely bring you good luck.
I dipped my head thirteen times and said it thirteen times. To my surprise, my movement didn’t send me tumbling off the cliff.
The new moon superstition was dumb. I knew it was childish and ignorant and primitive. I didn’t give a fuck about all that because this week I had seen bad omens come to life.
Sitting on this cliff overlooking the sea, tears running down my face, any reluctance I had to commit cold-blooded murder had fled me. I was out for vengeance. I was out for blood.
My fear of being an evil, violent person, was gone.
I wasn’t evil. I wasn’t violent. But I could be both. Fuck with those I love, and I would be both. I was still the big-hearted person that Bobby had believed in. I vowed to never let go of that person I had become through Bobby’s eyes. The person who could care and love and still fight injustice. All of those people were inside me.
When I finally finished crying, I lay down. I closed my eyes and curled my legs up to my chest, hugging myself. I would sleep on it. In the morning, if I hadn’t rolled off the cliff in my sleep or died from going to sleep with a concussion, then I would make plans to exact my vengeance. I fell asleep to the image of a female’s black silhouette standing in the moonlight.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
BLINDING SUN REFLECTING off the sea woke me. I squinted, confused. Then scrambled back from the cliff edge. I’d make it through my own dark night of the soul.
I would live.
With a caveat. I’d decided to live for one thing and one thing only: vendetta.
But first I needed to get the hell off the cliff and get to a doctor. My head still hurt like hell.
The inspector was happy to hear from me.
“We were going to send out a search party. We saw that you’d never checked into your hotel.”
He knew I had reservations at Hotel le Palme?
“It’s very easy to trace a credit card. You rented a car with one. You made hotel reservations with one.”
I grunted. Even talking made my head hurt. I was obviously a terrible spy or criminal. Whichever way you looked at it.
“Are you heading back here? Possibly already in town?”
“Actually,” I said, looking around. “With your super sleuth skills, I’m surprised you don’t already know: I’m stuck on a cliff.”
I explained my predicament and told him where I thought I’d gone off the road. He told me he’d call me back.
A few minutes later, my phone rang. Clicking to answer, I saw the battery was about to die.
“Help is on the way.”
To my surprise, I was relieved. I guess I really did want to live.
“I will see you this afternoon?” His voice held a question. He sounded distracted.
“Can you stay on the phone with me? Just
for a little bit longer?”
His voice softened. “Yes.”
I stared at the sea before me, now calm and comforting. The menace I’d felt the night before gone.
“Why were you so certain the Queen of Spades didn’t do it?”
He exhaled loud enough for me to hear.
“We don’t make this public. She always leaves a calling card. An actual playing card. There was no card found. We looked.”
A card?
“The Queen of Spades.”
Boom. Of course, she did.
“Maybe she didn’t have time.” I knew it sounded lame.
“The shooting was not her style.”
“Oh.” I didn’t say that the reason I wanted the Queen of Spades to be responsible is because then there is no way the shooting was my fault. That the motorcyclists weren’t acting alone because I’d pissed them off.
“And,” he hesitated as if he were reluctant to say it. “The motorcyclists are known La Cosa Nostra.”
He’d said it. Like the baker. But did that make it true?
“You are telling me that the mafia was behind this?”
I don’t know why, but it seemed much more outlandish than my theory about the Queen of Spades killing a bunch of Americans: a bunch of Americans that included the man I loved and my best friend’s husband.
“I wanted to talk to you about this in person, but maybe it’s time you know. Maybe your crash off the cliff was not an accident.”
“What are you talking about? It was totally an accident.” I was fucking around with my phone and not paying enough attention to the road.
“A witness we spoke to yesterday told us something new. About you.”
“Wait?” I replayed what he had said. “About me?”
“One of the shooters asked for you.”
It took me a few seconds to understand what the inspector had just said. “My name? What?”
“He asked where you were.”
Mother fucker.
“I don’t understand.”
Gia Santella Crime Thriller Boxed Set: Books 1-3 (Gia Santella Crime Thrillers) Page 42
