Gia Santella Crime Thriller Boxed Set: Books 1-3 (Gia Santella Crime Thrillers)
Page 47
I hung up the phone and stared at it. He wouldn’t call back.
Heading over to the bar, I poured a few fingers of bourbon, whistled at Django and headed to the roof.
The night sky was clear for once. The stars were visible, a rare sight in San Francisco.
Folding myself into my usual chair under the grape arbor, I gazed at the sky. I was alone. I had lost everyone I loved. Dante was alive, sure. But I’d lost him. For now.
Every member of my family had been murdered, including the man I’d secretly hoped to one day make family by marriage. It had been hard to admit it, but when I was at the funeral, I had looked at Bobby’s parents and realized I had expected them to be my in-laws one day. I had known deep inside that Bobby and I were meant to be together. No more.
For a second, I realized, that I did have one living family member in the world. A crazy, mafiosa was busy fighting for justice in Italy. Fat good that did me here. I might as well be alone in the world. I wouldn’t know how to reach her if I wanted to.
As I thought that, I reached over and retrieved the pack of cigarettes from their hiding place in the potted fern. I tapped out a cigarette. But it was stuck. I tried again. Something was jammed in the pack. I fished around. It was a small rectangle of cardboard.
In the light from the street lamp, I read it.
It was a business card, black with red, embossed spades on diagonal corners and the silhouette of a red queen in the middle, her head turned, holding a sword. I flipped the card. A red raised phone number was on the black back of the card.
I ran my finger over the numbers and smiled.
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Gia and the Lone Raven (Gia Santella Crime Thrillers 4)
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(January 19, 2018)
CHAPTER ONE
GIA AND THE LONE RAVEN
By Kristi Belcamino
Baja California
THE SUN BEAT DOWN ON my bare back and limbs like heaven on earth.
The gentle rocking of the boat, well, hell, let’s call it what it was—yacht—underneath me was lulling me into a sweet complacency. Afro-Cuban music piped through some hidden speakers and the slightest breeze lifted the back of my hair off my neck as I sat up.
My drink was within arm’s reach. I leaned over toward it, knocking my turquoise swim top off my lounge chair onto the teak deck. No tan lines for me. My body was slick with baby oil straight out of 1970. I’d only been in Cabo for five days and already my body had turned a sleek mahogany color.
The tall glass containing my third mojito was still cool. I vaguely remembered the pool boy, or whatever the fuck he was called, taking my other two glasses while I was drowsing and plopping this one down. Tilting my head back, I gulped the cold, tangy liquid until I got to the crushed mint leaves at the bottom. I set the glass back down hoping a refill would appear soon. My buzz was wearing off.
Judging by the sun straight overhead, I had a few more hours left until I had to act.
Plenty of time to get sober and get my wits about me.
Right now, I was playing a role and working it to the hilt: spoiled playgirl who only cares about booze and sex, baby.
I knew that somewhere Chris was clocking how many drinks I had. Anything less than I’d been drinking the past few days would be cause for suspicion. I couldn’t pour the drinks out surreptitiously because I had no idea how many goddamn hidden cameras were on board this floating mansion.
For the most part, Chris had acted the same this morning, waking me up by kissing my bare back until I begged him for more. But when he flipped me over, his hands had crept up and clasped my neck. For a split second, the look in his eyes had me worried and I’d mentally prepared to send my knuckle into his jugular, but as quickly as I thought that, he released his grip and relaxed, leaning his head back, heaving and snorting in ecstasy. I guess a little neck squeezing got him off. Super creepy. I didn’t mind a little gentle hair pulling in the sack, but anything beyond that and I’d kick the guys ass from here to next Tuesday.
As he rolled over and stared at the ceiling, I stole away to the bathroom, relieved that I found out his alarming predilections only a few hours before I planned to bail on him. He’d been hot enough for a few days of fun, but strangulation was not my thing. It was all good, though. If all went well, I’d be long gone before he wanted any more nookie from me. I glanced toward the front of the yacht toward the large stateroom where he said he was going to hunker down and watch football all day. There was no sign of life.
Draining my glass, I reclined again. On my back this time, closing my eyes behind my dark sunglasses, feeling the heat of the sun spread its warmth over my body, making my back arch in pleasure.
I had drifted off when I heard a clattering noise. I smiled, but didn’t open my eyes. Pool boy with refills. But then I felt something ice cold and sharp on my sternum between my bare breasts. My eyes flew open.
Chris stood over me. One hand had my dueling knife up high. The other hand drew my sparring knife slowly up the side of one breast, toward my nipple.
“What the fuck are these, Gia?” He waved the dueling knife in the air.
Carefully, slowly, I grasped his wrist and inched the blade away from my skin.
“Easy, sailor.” I sat up, keeping my hand on his wrist, eyeing him, searching for signs of intoxication or drugs. Chris was a tanned, lithe, blond surfer who was a little dull–in both the brains and personality department—but had a body made for hot sex. He’d inherited a fortune when daddy died young.
He spent his days on the yacht where he lived full time in different ports, chasing the waves. He was supposed to head to Todos Santos tomorrow. As far as he knew, I was going with him. After we met, he’d dropped all the desperate money-grubbing women waiting in the wings for a marriage proposal. He knew immediately that unlike them, I didn’t want him for his money. Only his body. And, to be fair, his access to the man I was hunting.
My soothing voice, seemed to relax him. I moved his arm with the knife off to one side and sat up.
“I see you found my Sicilian knives. They are for my training. Remember I told you? The Gladiatura Moderna? Italian martial arts?”
“I don’t remember any of that shit.” He looked confused. And drunk. He wove unsteadily on his feet.
“Sure, you do, baby.” I leaned over to rub his bare leg. He jerked away. My mouth grew dry. I was instantly sober.
“That’s not all I found, either.” At his words, I saw, just past him, the last person I wanted to see in the entire world at that moment. I didn’t know his name so I called him James because he looked like James Franco’s doppelganger. Dante stood in front of him, eyes wild with panic. Because James was holding my third knife to Dante’s throat.
The gig was up.
Fuck me.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
KRISTI BELCAMIN
O IS a Macavity, Barry, and Anthony Award-nominated author, a newspaper cops reporter, and an Italian mama who makes a tasty biscotti. As an award-winning crime reporter at newspapers in California, she flew over Big Sur in an FA-18 jet with the Blue Angels, raced a Dodge Viper at Laguna Seca and watched autopsies.
Her books feature strong, fierce, and independent women facing unspeakable evil in order to seek justice for those unable to do so themselves.
Belcamino has written and reported about many high-profile cases including the Laci Peterson murder and Chandra Levy’s disappearance. She has appeared on Inside Edition and her work has appeared in the New York Times, Writer’s Digest, Miami Herald, San Jose Mercury News, and Chicago Tribune. Kristi now works part-time as a police reporter at the St. Paul Pioneer Press. She lives in Minneapolis with her husband and her two fierce daughters.
Find out more at http://www.kristibelcamino.com. Find her on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/kristibelcaminowriter/ or on Twitter @KristiBelcamino. Sign up for her VIP Reader Group here and get a free novella.
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COPYRIGHT
All the characters in these books are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
First Printing, 2017. Printed in the United States of America
Copyright © 2017 by Kristi Belcamino
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the address below.
Kristi Belcamino
PO BOX 18641
Minneapolis, MN 55418
Covers by Sarah Hanley
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