“We don’t, either. We’re trying to figure out why someone would target you. Why La Cosa Nostra assassins would target you specifically.”
Just then my phone died.
Dante was right. It was all my fault. But none of it, not a god damn single part of it, made sense.
I heard shouting from above. I leaned over and saw three faces peering down. I waved. One man scratched his head. Yeah. Good luck figuring out how to rescue me.
After a few minutes, a rope with a pulley and harness dropped down beside me.
A FEW HOURS LATER, I was sitting in the inspector’s office. I’d had the driver take me directly to the police station. I needed answers. But when I was told Inspector Brossard would be back soon and told I could wait in his office, I regretted my haste. I had stopped in the bathroom and looked like death.
My shirt was ripped and sopped in blood. My hair was tangled and a blue goose egg protruded from above my left eye. It went well with my scar, I thought. The leg of my pants was ripped, too.
I’d tried to wash the dried blood off my hands, but I needed new bandages for my side and leg. I probably should have had the driver drop me off at the hospital first. Oh well.
When Inspector Brossard recoiled at the sight of me, I knew I looked even worse than I’d thought.
I held up my hand. “I’m going to the hospital as soon as I’m done here.”
He turned and walked out, saying over his shoulder. “I’m driving you there right now.”
I waited a few seconds and when I realized he wasn’t coming back, went looking for him. He was waiting by the door, holding his car keys.
At the hospital, I got seven stitches in my side, four in my leg and an MRI scan.
The doctor scratched his chin looking at the results. He said something in Italian that the inspector laughed at and said, “Si.”
“What?”
“He said you have a thick head.”
“What does that mean?”
“No concussion.”
“Well, I’ll be goddamned. That’s a first.”
“He says you can go home now.”
Home. What was home? An empty loft in San Francisco? Home was where those you loved were. I had no home.
The inspector must’ve seen the look on my face. He took my arm by the elbow, gently guiding me toward the door. “You hungry?”
For a second, I was going to say I needed to go see Matt and Dante and Mrs. Marino on the second floor of the hospital, but then I remembered. Matt was dead. I nodded, fighting back tears. I swiped at my sniffling nose. I’d have some food and then go find Dante and beg his forgiveness.
The café Inspector Brossard steered us to was like a secret hideaway.
He stopped at a turquoise door and knocked three times. The woman who opened the door wore a flowered apron over a sleek beige shift and greeted him with a kiss on both cheeks.
She smiled at me and they spoke in Italian while I tried to peer past her. A long hallway was lit at the end by daylight and I could see the blue shimmer of the sea in the distance. Leading us down the hallway, past several closed doors, the woman made small talk with Inspector Brossard. I could make out a few words. They were talking about children and school and bocce ball and the beach. Something coming from a hidden kitchen smelled amazing but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was. I also couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten.
When we got to the end of the hall, I nearly gasped. The doorway opened up onto a wide patio that spanned the entire width of the house. It was filled with tiny fountains and massive pots of flowers. Five small tables with white cloths were pushed up against the balcony. The woman led us to one in the middle and filled our water glasses with the carafe of water already on the table.
Inspector Brossard spread his napkin on his lap and I followed suit.
The woman promptly appeared again with small plates of bruschetta that contained some type of seafood sprinkled with pink sea salt.
I tried one. “Yum.” But instantly I felt guilty enjoying food while Bobby’s body was in a dark box or worse, in the hold of an airplane on his way back to California. The inspector was watching me. He hadn’t touched his food. I finished chewing and met his eyes. He cleared his throat.
“I think that you should go home to America. Soon. Sooner the better.”
“But I thought you didn’t even want me to leave town?”
“That was before I suspected that you were the assassin’s target.”
I avoided his eyes, taking a bite of the bruschetta. “I can’t leave yet. Without knowing why.”
Brossard popped a bruschetta in his mouth and made an approving sound. He finished, dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin and said, “It’s not safe here.”
That’s when I remembered Bobby’s funeral was only a few days away.
“I need to be back in the States in a few days anyway.” I said. I didn’t tell him I was sticking around so I could kill the murderer myself.
“We can’t provide security for you,” he said as the woman placed a dish of some type of pasta and seafood swimming in buttery broth. “Maybe you should consider hiring a bodyguard?”
“Maybe.”
“What were you doing in Calabria?” He shifted suddenly and wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“You heard about those murders, right?” I twirled the pasta onto my fork. “The two young men?”
“Of course.”
I took my bite and chewed it carefully and as slowly as I could, but he was staring at me, waiting. Finally, when I couldn’t prolong it any longer I swallowed. Then I took a sip of water before answering.
“The newspapers said the Queen of Spades killed them.”
“That’s what we think.”
“We?” I was blotting my chin. A little of the buttery sauce had splashed. Classy.
“There is a chance,” he lowered his voice and looked around, even though we were utterly alone. “There is a chance they were two of the shooters. From the hotel.”
I threw down my napkin. “You got to be kidding?”
He shook his head.
I sat back thinking about it. I’d been in shock from Bobby’s murder and Matt’s death and the blow to the head in the car crash. My thinking had been fuzzy. Now, it all was crystal clear:
Of course. I’d never considered that the two dead men in Pizzo were the motorcyclists because I had thought the motorcyclists were The Queen of Spades henchmen. But then a thought struck me. Maybe they were. Maybe she was ruthless enough to kill her own men if she thought they were a threat or might roll over on her. At this point, anything was possible.
INSPECTOR BROSSARD dropped me off at Mrs. Marino’s hotel. I’d never gotten the address where Matt and Dante were staying for their honeymoon. I knew it was some extravagant home nearby. Before Brossard let me get out of the car, he made me memorize his personal cell phone number. I repeated it back three times.
“Again,” he said. He looked over his glasses at me.
I rolled my eyes. But did it.
Finally, he let me go. I stood on the sidewalk until his car left. I knew I was delaying the inevitable. I’d dialed Mrs. Marino and Dante on the drive over and neither had answered, both calls going straight to voicemail. Anything that was left of my heart shredded into even smaller pieces. People who I loved, and who I’d thought loved me back, had abandoned me at my worst hour. I would confront them in person. Get on my hands and knees and beg that they forgive me for whatever small part I had played in the murders. If there had been any chance my angry words at the rehearsal dinner had set these madmen off, I would beg their forgiveness and continue begging until the day I died. I wouldn’t give up. I would do whatever it took for them to know the extent of how goddamn sorry I was.
But I had to steel myself to do so.
Finally, taking a deep breath, I pulled back my shoulders and entered the hotel. But a few minutes later, I walked back out. Mrs. Marino had checked out two hours ago.
S
tanding on the sidewalk, I tried her number again. This time it rang. I heard fumbling. She picked up for a second and then promptly hung up on me.
“What the hell?” I stared at my phone. A few seconds later, a text appeared.
“Sorry. Can’t talk. Plane about to take off. We are heading home.”
“Is Dante with you?”
“Yes.”
“Can you please tell him I need to talk to him?”
Nothing.
“Please.”
Again, no response. No little bubbles.
Maybe she’d shut off her phone for take-off. Or maybe she was ignoring me.
A CAB DROPPED ME BACK at the villa. Even though it wasn’t late, I fell into bed and slept like the dead all the way through until early the next morning. When I woke, the sun had not yet risen. I showered in a daze and packed my things. Check out was today and I knew another couple or family or movie star dude would be arriving any minute.
I was happy to leave the villa behind. Memories of Bobby lingered in each room. I walked past the kitchen counter where the caretaker usually left my breakfast and newspapers. Instead, a paper bag sat on the newspapers and some other papers. I’d grab them on my way out.
Inside the bedroom, the bed was made and my bags had been packed, my clothes folded between scented sheets of tissue paper. I stripped, wadding my own clothes into a ball and stuffing them in the outside pocket of my bag. They belonged in the trash, but I wanted to leave the room clean in case the new occupants arrived before the caretaker came back.
Rummaging through my suitcase, I tossed everything on the bed looking for something to wear. At the bottom of my bag was a small white box with a red ribbon. I reached for it and then drew back as if it burned me. Taking a breath, I tried again and this time opened it. A small silver whale tail lay nestled on black velvet.
I had planned on giving it to Bobby when we got to Sicily. Instead, I looped it around my neck and fastened the clasp. It hung down in the hollow between my breasts. I stood naked, looking at myself in the mirror, staring at the whale tail.
The squawk of a seagull outside my window startled me back to life.
Bobby’s bag was beside mine. I unzipped it, my heart racing. The black linen shirt he had worn for the rehearsal dinner was folded on top. I pressed it to my face, closing my eyes and inhaling. It smelled like him. I placed it on the bed
In the shower, I put the water to near scalding and washed the grime and blood off me as best I could without wetting the bandages on my leg and chest.
After I dried off, I slipped on Bobby’s black shirt and tugged on some cut-off jean shorts and sandals.
Lugging our bags into the kitchen, I stopped to peer into the paper bag. The caretaker had made me lunch. A roll stuffed with prosciutto and some fresh fruit. Underneath the stack of papers was a large white box with a small envelope attached. My name was typed on the outside. I ignored it and lifted the lid to the box.
A silky navy dress lay inside. Armani. My size. And black patent leather stilettos. My size.
My first thought was: Dante.
The envelope contained an invitation. Gold words on a black background.
There was no description of the event. Just a time and date and location: Villa dei Fiore.
An address followed. 287 Calle dei Fiore. Sicily.
The street was named after the villa?
Nine tonight. In Sicily.
No indication of who it was from. I was about to crumble up the invitation when my phone dinged. The number was blocked. Not Dante.
“See you tonight.”
I stared at the words.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE WIND BLOWING IN the windows of my rental car whipped my hair around my face. I had two more stops to make before I left town.
I’d stopped at the post office and sent my suitcases and Bobby’s suitcase back to America. I had packed a duffel bag with a few toiletry items, two changes of clothes, and the outfit I was wearing to the mysterious party.
I wanted to travel light.
In addition, I’d gone to the bank and withdrawn several thousand dollars so I could pay cash for the car and any hotel I used. I didn’t need nosy Inspector Brossard tracing my movements.
He’d know what I wanted him to know. And that was it.
I didn’t need him worrying about me, anyway. Or worse, trying to stop me, or protect me.
The cash would also help me buy a gun if I could just find someone to sell me one. The last time I’d try to buy a gun in Sicily, I’d ended up with a concussion. I’d have to be smarter this time around.
Simona the florist cried when she opened the door and saw me standing there. I tried to brush off her sympathetic clucking about Bobby and Matt as she held the door for me to enter.
“I’m sorry. It’s too soon.”
She threw her hand up to her mouth, horrified. “Forgive me. You are right. We all grieve in our own way on our own time. Please come in.” She opened the door wider.
“I’m sorry,” I said, standing spread eagle, immobile. “I can’t come in. I’m on my way out of town, but I need to ask you something.”
She waited silently.
“When we were here the other day, there was a woman all in black, hunched over walking down your road toward town. Since the road dead ends at your place, I thought maybe you might know who she is.”
I didn’t know why but a few hours ago while I was packing I got the strongest feeling that I needed to go talk to this woman and so here I was, standing here feeling stupid while this sophisticated Italian woman stared at me. I waited. It seemed like she was never going to answer.
She let out a big breath of air. “That is Strega Nimonetti.”
“A witch.”
Simona shrugged. “She helps me with spiritual things. She was supposed to come see me the day your friend had the appointment, but she never came up to the house. She saw something that spooked her, she said.”
“Me?” I remembered the woman putting up her hand to ward off my car. The fear in her eyes.
“No.” Simona seemed confused. “The client I had before you. A Sicilian man. A rather brutta figura man, if I do say so myself.”
An ugly figured man.
“He looked attractive when I saw him drive by.”
“I’m not talking about his physical attributes.”
“Aha.” A la bella or brutta figura—a beautiful or ugly appearance—also had to do with attitude, poise, and grace. Not just physical attractiveness.
“Strega Nimonetti lives down across from the butcher’s. She is on the second floor. First door on the right.”
I STOOD IN FRONT OF the door, heart pounding, feeling foolish. My knock remained unanswered. I tried again, harder this time. Then I heard a shuffling sound. The woman was coming up the stairway behind me carrying a bag bulging with food, fruit spilling out the top. I’d passed the market on the way here and knew she had walked several blocks.
She was concentrating on each step and then looked up and noticed me. She froze and her hand slipped. The bag tilted and an orange spilled out and rolled down the stairs. We met eyes. She didn’t look afraid, only resigned.
I only hesitated a moment before I rushed down past her and retrieved the fruit that had toppled down the stairs. I came back up and plopped it into her bag with a smile.
“Come,” she tapped me with a gnarled hand and pushed me toward the top of the stairs.
I held her bag as she carefully unlocked the door and entered, leaving the door open behind her. I peered in. She flicked on a light and gestured for me to come in.
Following her into the kitchen, I helped her unpack the bag. The apartment was tiny. A one room studio with a small galley kitchen and table at one end and a twin bed and TV on the other. The fruit was placed in a large bowl on the table and she put some pasta and cheese in a tiny refrigerator under the counter. She put a kettle on the stove and set out two cups with tea bags in them, gesturing for me to sit at the t
able. I did and she placed a plate of biscotti before me and then threw open the curtains and lifted the window by the table. The window offered a spectacular view of the sea. A cool breeze filtered in, ruffling the flowered curtains. As she bustled at the stove, tending the kettle, I sneaked a glance around the small space.
There were no strange satanic ritualistic black magicky stuff or even items I would image a superstitious old woman to have. Instead, it was a tidy small home.
Finally, she poured our water for tea and sat down with a content sigh.
“Do you speak English?”
“So-so.”
“I saw you. At Simona’s.”
She nodded.
“You were scared?”
“Yes.”
“Of me?”
She pursed her lips together and shook her head.
“Of the other man?”
“A little.”
But I didn’t buy it.
“I saw you look at me when I passed. You put up your hand like you were afraid of me. I don’t understand.”
“You are Bonadonna.”
I drew back and raised my eyebrows, opening my eyes wide.
“What did you say?”
“Bonadonna.” She said it matter of factly.
“What do you mean by that.”
“I saw.” She took a sip of her tea as if she hadn’t just blown my mind.
I tilted my head now and leaned forward. “Saw what?”
“The bad things.”
A chill ran over me. “What bad things?” I could barely get the words out.
“The death. The hotel.”
“My boyfriend?” My voice grew shrill. “The shootings? You saw that.”
She looked sad and pressed her lips together as if she hated to confess this.
“You knew they would be shot at the hotel? You saw this?”
“No, not hotel. Not guns. I just saw death. Blood. Close to you.”
I closed my eyes for a second. What the fuck was going on?
Then I stood, angrily. “I don’t understand. How could you know?”
She shrugged nonchalantly and dipped a biscotti into her tea water, ignoring my distress.
Gia Santella Crime Thriller Boxed Set: Books 1-3 (Gia Santella Crime Thrillers) Page 43
