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

by Kristi Belcamino

  “Of course, it is.” I tilted my glass toward him in a toast. To each his own, I guess.

  The man gave me another bow and disappeared back into the crowd, off to look for someone down to fuck, I guess. I pressed my back against the black velvet wall so nobody could sneak up and surprise me again while I took in the scene.

  I eyed the dark figures, waiting for someone to approach me. Someone who wanted me there, someone who had invited me there. A few heads seemed to turn my way in the dark, but nobody came over. I was relieved, but also impatient. I began to wander the perimeter of the room, making a wide berth around the people having sex on chairs and couches. For a second I felt woozy and dizzy and confused in the dark. A little disoriented. A side effect of my blow to the head, probably. I grew dizzy, so I stopped near a small table with flowers. As I got closer, I saw they were bouquets of black and red roses.

  A memory surfaced. The display at the florists. Right after I’d seen the movie star zip away in his vehicle. Brutta figura the florist had said. As soon as I thought this, a man materialized at my elbow. My face grew warm. Even though his eyes were covered in the mask, I knew. It was the movie star guy.

  Again, something about him was extraordinarily familiar. At the same time, that knowledge struck a chord of fear in me. However I knew him, it was not in a pleasant circumstance. At the moment I realized this, my vision blurred and the dizzy feeling made it hard to stand. Before I knew it, the tumbler I was holding clattered to the floor.

  “Oh dear,” the man said. “I’m terribly sorry.”

  I couldn’t see who he was speaking to, only saw dark figures surrounding me.

  “I’m afraid our guest is feeling ill. Federico, will you help me get her to the library?”

  “Si, Signore Turricci.”

  At hearing the man’s name, I flailed my arms and legs in an attempt to get away, but found out that I had zero control of my body. I felt sluggish and as if my limbs weighed a thousand pounds. I tried to focus but my vision was distorted. I struggled against the overwhelming feeling of ennui, trying to escape. But I was helpless. I felt the tiniest prick at the back of my arm, where the man was holding me firmly and I knew I’d lost. Still, for a split second, I tried to fight the blackness closing in on my vision.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  A MAN WAS HAVING SEX with me, but it wasn’t Bobby and it wasn’t consensual. The room was nearly black, although I could see the flickering of candles and winged shadows flitting above and beyond the body pressing into me. And even though I couldn’t see the man above me, I knew for sure it was Satan himself. The slightest red glow surrounded him as if it were his aura and he breathed heat into my mouth making me choke and gag. I fought and clawed at him, but seemed paralyzed, unable to move or speak. I woke screaming and thrashing in a cold, dark place.

  My first thought was crushing relief that the rape had been a dream. My second was that I was imprisoned, chained to a cold, hard stone floor. I could hear the sound of waves crashing as if they were only a few feet away. More winged shadows seemed to flicker above me, but I knew they weren’t real. Then a deep weariness overcame me and I closed my eyes to the darkness again.

  This time when my eyes opened, I was greeted by a dim blue-gray light and the sensation of bone-shuddering cold. My fingers and toes felt numb. I was shaking uncontrollably and my teeth chattered. I still had on my dress but my shoes were gone, my feet bare.

  I tried to move my hands, I was shackled to cuffs pounded into the stone below me. My ankles were also cuffed. I was surrounded by stone walls. I twisted my head to look around, but the movement made me nauseous. I arched my neck and beyond my feet was blue sky and the sea. I was in a cave. A cold, dank, dark, cave.

  “Help!” I screamed, my voice hoarse. The shriek echoed. I was alone. Once my voice ricocheted and then died, the only other sound was the sea, which seemed to lap at my feet. As soon as I thought this, I realized that the tide could be out. I looked around in horror, searching the rock around me for wet spots. I didn’t see any and put my head back down. The cave looked dry. It appeared to be above sea level.

  That’s when I heard someone clear his throat behind me and my skin prickled in fear. I hadn’t seen anyone back there, but there were pockets of shadows outside my peripheral vision.

  I smelled smoke from a cigarette. The smell brought me right back to the night on the balcony when I was smoking while Bobby was getting gunned down below me.

  The events at the party house came back to me. They had called the movie star Turricci. And I’d been drugged. Even though I was still groggy, my eyes darted around looking for some possible means of escape. I was at a loss. I tugged at my shackles but they didn’t budge. My fuzzy mind raced. I had to escape before the nightmare I’d had come true.

  For a long time, I waited, tensed for the person behind me to say or do something, but nothing happened. Eventually, I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer, some residual effect of whatever they had drugged me with the night before, and sank into blessed nothingness.

  I woke coughing and blinking, to voices. The cave was no longer dark, but dimly lit with candles. I lifted my head and saw shapes outlined in the cave opening. Three men. They spoke Italian. They were all smoking. The smoke filled the cave and made me cough more.

  One of the figures drew closer. I lay my head back down. He stood over me. He had slicked back, greasy hair with long sideburns. He saw that I was awake and said something in Italian. He strode over to where the other men stood, silhouetted against the brightness of the sky beyond. A lithe figure appeared from one side and headed my way.

  As he got closer, I saw it was the man they had called Turricci.

  For the first time, I saw him up close, without his sunglasses or a mask.

  He had chiseled cheekbones and brilliant green eyes that stood out against his olive skin. No wonder I’d thought he was a movie star.

  He was carrying something. A longsword. My eyes widened and my mouth grew dry. He lifted it and moved toward my face. I froze. If I jerked away I would impale myself. With the faintest touch, the tip of the sword touched the scar on my cheek.

  “Who did this to you?”

  I glared at him. His green eyes were dead. There wasn’t the slightest hint of warmth.

  He moved the sword to the other cheek.

  “Maybe you need a matching one. On this side, too?” He pressed the tip onto my cheek. I felt the prick and then the sword was at my neck.

  “What do you want?” It sounded childish and I instantly regretted my words. I squinted up at his face. That’s when I realized why he had seemed familiar. I’d seen a picture of him before. On Turricci’s yacht when I was last in Sicily. In addition, I realized with shock that he looked like the woman who had died in my arms on the San Francisco sidewalk. The same green eyes. I thought back to my conversation with Turricci: He hadn’t actually said he didn’t have children. He’d said I was the only flesh-and-blood child he had.

  “Your sister tried to kill me in San Francisco.” It was a guess, but I knew I was right.

  He shrugged. “My twin is impetuous. She does not think before she acts.”

  His twin. My heart thudded. He was speaking about her in the present tense.

  “You’re both adopted.”

  He didn’t answer. I spoke, almost to myself, mumbling. It was starting to make sense, slowly molding into something that had shape and substance.

  “You are the target,” James had said. Inspector Brossard had said nearly the same thing. It was all connected.

  It was making sense. Sick sense, but still. “Turricci left everything to me. Instead of you. You and your sister. Because he thought I was a blood relation.”

  In Italy, being bound by blood was sacred. I remembered some of Turricci’s dying words to me, before he found out I wasn’t his daughter: “Now I’ve connected with my own flesh and blood, my own child. I will not die alone. Il sangue non è acqua.” Blood is thicker than water.

 
I stared at the man, watching for some reaction, some acknowledgment that was I was saying was the truth. But he ignored me. His eyes were cold.

  “What do you want from me?” I asked again, even though I knew the answer. It was pretty damn obvious at this point. I knew all about vendetta and family loyalty.

  “Your blood.”

  “Why?” I tried to sound fierce, but my voice wobbled. I wanted to know how much he knew.

  “Of course, you don’t know. It is not for your sins. It is to pay for your family’s sins.”

  It had to be the inheritance.

  “I don’t want his money. I don’t want anything he left me. None of it.” I spit the words out.

  He scoffed. “To my sister, that mattered. You saw my house last night. I don’t need my father’s money.” He looked down for a second. “My sister didn’t, either. I was going to take care of her. She would have had everything she ever wanted or needed.”

  My mouth grew dry again hearing him mention his sister. At least this time he referred to her in the past tense. He knew she was dead.

  “I didn’t know who she was,” I said. “I tried to make her last few seconds comfortable.” An image came back to me: stroking her hair, half of her head missing.

  He prodded me with the sword, running it along my jaw.

  I narrowed my eyes. “But if I had known she died trying to kill me, I would’ve made her death ... less pleasant.”

  His face remained blank, expressionless. But then he sighed, pulling the sword away from my cheek.

  “Because you made my sister’s last moments peaceful, I will make your own death quick,” he said. “But it must be painful.”

  I held my breath.

  “I must have something to send as proof of your death. It will be your head, I’m afraid.”

  I didn’t understand who would want proof of my death. I thought I’d found the person behind all of this, but was I wrong? My brain still felt fuzzy from my concussion and whatever he’d drugged me with. I felt groggy and couldn’t wrap my mind around the meaning of his words. Instead, I’d need to concentrate on getting free. The whys and hows could be answered later. But I still had to ask.

  “Who?”

  He cocked his head.

  “Who wants proof of my death?”

  “She does not want it, but she shall have it.”

  “Who?” He had said “She.” I knew the answer before he spoke.

  “The Queen of Spades.”

  He noticed my frown.

  “You are the one thing she cherishes.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  Before I could wrap my mind around that, he was beside me and in one fluid motion, ran the sword from my neck to my waist, slicing open my dress. The silky folds fell to my sides.

  “You are very cold.” He said it as a statement. “But in death you will know true cold.”

  He let the sword clatter to the cave floor and began to unbuckle his pants. He began to unbutton his shirt, his eyes growing hooded, not leaving my bare chest. The light from a candle flickered behind him, outlining his form in a faint red. My nightmare was coming true.

  Every fiber of my being wanted to spit and fight and kick him, but the cuffs made any movement besides lifting my head and hips nearly impossible. Any karate moves I knew were impossible with my arms and legs immobile. I could use my hips and head, but that would require drawing him in closer. And my teeth. They were a weapon that could inflict a lot of damage.

  I closed my eyes and whispered, low enough that I knew he couldn’t hear. “Why don’t come closer, mother fucker. You’ll wish you’d killed me when you first saw me.”

  He arched an eyebrow. For a split second, I worried I’d whispered too loud, but he leaned in a bit.

  “What is that?”

  He leaned down even more. He still wasn’t close enough. The sword was just past my reach on the cave floor. I stared into his eyes. There was not a glimmer of warmth. He was wriggling one arm out of a sleeve when someone at the cave entrance said something in Italian and there were sounds of a scuffle. I heard small murmuring and groans, but I couldn’t see what was going on. His eyes shifted toward the cave door and before I could react, he’d scooped the sword into his hands and was racing toward the back of the cave.

  I arched my neck and saw him disappear behind a wall of stone. A blur of black zipped past me.

  The man with the sideburns was above me, pointing a gun at my head and saying something in Italian. But as he spoke, there was the slightest whirring sound and his eyes grew wide. He slumped to his knees. The black hilt of a knife stuck out of his ribcage. His gun clattered to the ground behind him.

  Still, it was silent. Fear coursed through me. Lifting my head, I saw three figures again. This time, they were shapely. Women.

  One stood in the middle with long flowing hair. I couldn’t make out any of their features. They were silhouetted against the bright blue sky and sea beyond.

  She said something in a low voice that I couldn’t understand. Within seconds, the two other women, wearing masks and black cloaks were at my side, using bolt cutters to free my ankles and wrists from the shackles. And then they were gone.

  I sat up, rubbing my arms and legs and trying to pull the scraps of my dress over my bare chest. The entrance to the cave only showed the sea before me.

  The bodies of three men lay around me, sprawled in unnatural positions. All stabbed apparently, with knife wounds to their heads and chests. One man’s neck was sliced from side to side.

  A dark bundle lay near the entrance to the cave. I scooped up the gun that had fallen from the dead man’s hands, pulled myself up on trembling legs and went to investigate the bundle. It was a black leather backpack. A pair of knee-high boots sat beside it.

  Reaching my hand in, I felt clothing. I fished out a pair of thick black leggings, a long sleeve black shirt and some socks. There was more inside the backpack, but first things first. I was freezing, so I ripped off my shredded shirt and pulled on the T-shirt and then pulled the leggings and tugged on the socks and boots. As I pulled the shirt over my head, I froze. I caught a whiff of something familiar but before I could identify it, it was gone. Even when I held the shirt up to my nose, I could no longer smell it.

  I rummaged in the backpack and felt more inside, so I started taking it out in handfuls: A bottle of water, a map, a bag of dried fruit and nuts, a cell phone.

  I held the pack upside down to make sure nothing else was inside. A stack of euros bound by a ribbon fell out with a thud. A car key clattered onto the rocks. And the prayer card from my grandmother’s funeral. The one the Italian woman’s mother had given me. I drew back from it as if it were going to bite me. The last time I’d seen the card it had been in my phone case. Which was gone, with my phone in it. But then I lifted the prayer card. It wasn’t the exact same card. The card I had was worn on one corner. This one was pristine on all four corners. I dropped it as if it were on fire.

  I stared at the objects on the cave floor. At the clues left for me.

  Clothing. Food. Water. Money. A map. A throw away phone. A key. My grandmother’s prayer card.

  I’d been afraid to admit it, but the truth was right there. The Queen of Spades had saved me.

  Maybe even given me her own clothing to wear.

  I studied the map, eating the nuts and dried fruit and gulping the water down. It was an old hand drawn map of Sicily. With an X marking one location. How quaint.

  The Queen of Spades was telling me where to go.

  The map contained small colored pencil drawings that marked roads, some trees and only a few houses. There were two main spots on the map. One had an X on it. Not far, down another road, was a tiny drawing of a villa overlooking the sea. It was a pale green color. The villa Turricci had given my mother. I’d never been inside. I didn’t know if my mother had, either. I know she hated her rapist guardian so maybe she’d ignored his extravagant gift. But he was long dead at my hand. Instead of an
“X” there was a time by it. 7 p.m.

  Fortified by my snack and warmed by the clothes, I stood. Time to get out of here. I peeked outside the cave entrance. The rocky shore was below and right in front of me was a steep winding path leading around a blind corner. It was my only way out. I shoved everything back in the pack and headed out.

  The trail led to a road. At the top of the road was a small car. And of course, the key fit.

  The inside of the car had that same disturbingly familiar smell when I first closed the door. But, like with the shirt, the scent disappeared before I could identify it.

  I checked out my new wheels. A gun in the glove box. It was beside a piece of paper with flowery written words:

  “La vendetta è mia —Deuteronomy 32:35.”

  I didn’t need to be fluent in Italian to know what it said: “Vengeance is mine.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER, I pulled up in front of a small stone church with an adjacent cemetery.

  The X marked a small gated cemetery. From the car, I could see that all the headstones said Bonadonna.

  A plaque on the fence said, “Our duty is to protect the innocent.”

  It was the same principle I embraced from my Budo karate practice.

  My passion, the one belief I held most dear, was that it was up to me to fight for those who could not fight for themselves. It was the main philosophy that ruled my life. I’d thought I came into that belief on my own, but now I realized it was in my blood, in my D.N.A.

  I dialed the inspector’s personal cell phone with the throw away phone.

  “It’s Gia.” I knew he wouldn’t recognize the number.

  “Where are you?” he said. I glanced at my watch. I’d keep the call under thirty seconds in case he was trying to trace my call.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow. I need your help.”

  I read him the saying.

  “Want to elaborate? Any reason you read this to me?” he asked.