Dark Night of the Soul

by Kristi Belcamino

  We stared at each other. I couldn’t stop smiling. As soon as I set foot on Italian soil, I’d been delirious with happiness.

  “I love you, Gia.” He paused.

  Now was my chance. I could just spit it out. Three little words. That I felt. In the most amazing place on the planet. I could do it. But I choked. I took too long and the moment was gone. He withdrew his hand. “I hope this is the first of many vacations we spend together … in our lives.”

  My throat started to close up. Our lives was a long time. But I let the two words sit and settle. After a few seconds, I realized instead of my normal claustrophobic feeling, the thought of “our” intertwined with “lives” sounded pretty damn good.

  For the first time, I could picture a life with Bobby. I mean, we didn’t have to make anything formal, of course. We were only in our early twenties. We could be together for years and never make it something stuffy or formal. Look at Brad and Angelina. Well, before they tied the knot. That was probably what ruined them anyway. They had to get all traditional and conventional. They blew it.

  Still. I wished I could say the words. Maybe once the wedding hoopla had died down. After Dante’s wedding, we were heading to Sicily. My mother owned a villa there that now belonged to me. I’d avoided dealing with it since her death. For good reason. The man I had killed, the guardian who had raped my mother when she was young, had given her the villa and surrounding property. I was going to visit it and then sell it since it was probably purchased with blood money.

  The only reason I hadn’t sold it already is I wanted to see inside it first. I wanted to explore it for hints of my mother. For some sign that she had ever been there. My hunch was that he gave her the villa and she ignored the gift from her rapist. But I wasn’t sure. She traveled to Italy a lot when I was young. I needed to see it for myself. It was one last piece of unfinished business when it came to my mother’s life and death.

  There were so many things I didn’t know about her. She had always been secretive about her past and her family and when I learned about the rape I understood why. But I still had so many questions. Why did people act strangely in Sicily when I mentioned her name the last time I was there? What secrets had she kept?

  I was hoping a visit to the villa would reveal more. And maybe then I could say those three fateful words. Fateful because I suspected they would change everything.

  Just then Uncle Ricco appeared with some warm bread and our wine.

  By the time dessert arrived, a slice of lemon cake with Limoncello-flavored crème in the middle, we were falling asleep on our feet. The jet lag had hit us hard and fast. When I looked over, the movie star guy was gone. We had the patio to ourselves.

  We stumbled home and tumbled into the massive pillowy bed, keeping the French doors windows wide open to the sea breeze, falling asleep to the soothing sounds of the waves hitting the rocks far below.

  I woke in the dark night, sitting straight up in bed, heart pounding, confused. The bluish moonlight showed unfamiliar shapes and shadows around me. Then I heard the crashing of the waves. I was in Italy. For Dante’s wedding. The warm body beside me was the man I loved. I shivered and drew the covers up around me. But I couldn’t lie back down. Not yet.

  The dead woman’s face loomed before me in the dark, haunting me. Her silky Italian voice whispering in my ear. “Sei tu.” It is you.

  Chapter Four

  Queen of Spades

  When I opened my eyes, the room was lit with golden sunshine and a crisp breeze carried with it the salty scent of the sea and the sweet aroma of wildflowers. I’d fallen asleep to the sound of waves crashing on the rocks below, but now there was a soft, soothing, murmur of water lapping against stone, as if the sea was slowly rousing itself.

  I stretched my arms above my head and inhaled deeply. Bobby was buried under the covers beside me, his back turned, soft breathing sounds coming from his warm body. Carefully, I moved to the edge of the bed. I’d sneak away and make coffee while he slept in. My phone showed it was nine in the morning. Late for me.

  Ever since I started trying to put my father’s company back together, I’d been getting up at five and sitting in my office chair by six. My hard work in cobbling together the remains of my father’s import business made me feel, for the first time in my dilettante life, that I had earned—and possibly even deserved—a vacation.

  The work had been good for me. I’d created a mixed-use development that housed formerly homeless people and gave them a chance to work in the building at the street level businesses below. The idea took off and now I was working with cities in Atlanta and Boston to develop similar projects.

  It was a far cry from only a year ago, where I was out every night obliterating myself with alcohol until I left with a one-night stand or the bartender kicked me out.

  It was a luxury to sleep in again. And it felt good not to wake up with a hangover.

  But I was craving coffee. Inching away from Bobby’s sleeping form, I froze when he grumbled something in his sleep. But then I was at the edge of the bed and able to slip out from under the covers and onto the stone floor.

  Throwing a fluffy white bathrobe on, I padded down the curving stone stairs to the kitchen and fished out the moka pot and a fresh bag of beans. Worried the sound would wake Bobby, I took the grinder and hid in the pantry, closing the door until the beans were ground into an intoxicating powder. Bobby had made me a coffee snob. He had worked at a coffee shop with its own roaster in college and now had me hooked on the good stuff.

  A lot of the changes in my lifestyle were influenced by Bobby’s solid presence in my life. He had showed me that it was okay to grieve my family’s untimely deaths. We met the night before my brother Christopher’s murder and two years after my parents had been killed.

  My fucked-up way of dealing with my grief had been driving too fast, drinking too much, doing drugs, and sleeping around.

  I still liked to drive fast. And God knows, I liked my booze, but I now realized there was a time and place for both. I kept my speed trials to the Laguna Seca racetrack and I tried not to drink a lot on weekdays. I learned the hard way that too much bourbon at night made for a shit time at work the following day.

  God, I was becoming so boring.

  But even thinking this made me smile. The coffee was percolating into the top of the moka pot when I noticed the table outside on the stone patio overlooking the sea had fresh fruit, and a pitcher of orange juice, and loaf of bread. There was also a stack of newspapers. The caretaker, God bless him, had already been here this morning!

  Cradling my warm coffee mug, I headed out to the table and flipped through the paper, an Italian newspaper in English. I skimmed the headlines.

  “Italian fashion house to go fur-free.”

  “Inmates visited by Pope tried to escape with him.”

  “Charges dropped against a plastic surgeon who had twelve patients die under the knife.”

  “Queen of Spades declares war on La La Cosa Nostra”

  I paused on that last one. Who the fuck was the Queen of Spades?

  I read on.

  “The elusive mob boss, the Queen of Spades, has declared war on La Cosa Nostra after a boy riding his bike was gunned down during an exchange of gunfire between drug dealers and an angry store owner.

  “She is crazy. A woman going after La Cosa Nostra? Ridiculous.”

  But the Queen of Spades is different than traditional mafiosi, others said in the article.

  “She shows up out of nowhere and starts taking out the drug dealers. There is proof that opioid deaths have declined since she showed up. She claims to want to make Sicily’s streets and towns safer. She’s welcome in Calabria, anytime, said Pizzo Mayor Giacomo Camelli.”

  But Police Chief Carlo Massimo said just because she’s targeting other criminals makes her no less of a murderer.

  I felt Bobby behind me before I heard him. I leaped up to hug him. He buried his face in my hair and started kissing the back of my neck.<
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  “You smell so good. I just want to lick you all over,” he said in a low voice in my ear that made me weak.

  “The coffee is getting cold,” I gestured helplessly at the moka pot.

  “I don’t care about coffee.” He scooted my chair back and then picked it up and me in one smooth move so I was facing him. Then he reached down and pulled me to a standing position, grabbing me by my hips and pulling me close, grinding himself into me until I was moaning with desire.

  “You. Are. Damn. Sexy. Santella.” He said the words in my ear in a deep voice that sent shivers down my spine. His lips traced a path down my neck, down my collarbone and then paused to look up at me. “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone in my life.”

  He growled the words and ripped the robe off my shoulders so hard I gasped. I reached up and ran my fingers through his silky hair, my mouth hard against his.

  We made love like it was the last day before the apocalypse.

  I’m not gonna lie. We broke a piece of the patio furniture. But it was worth it.

  After a short nap on lounge chairs by the pool, soaking in the Mediterranean sun in the buff, Bobby padded into the kitchen to make more coffee. I took a sip of coffee from the mug he handed me and sighed. “If I could spend every morning like this I would die happy.”

  “You can.”

  I gave him a skeptical look. “Buying new furniture every day could get expensive,” I said, gesturing to the chaise lounge we had demolished.

  “Very funny,” he said. “I meant you could spend every morning… with me.” He sounded tentative. Although he sometimes stayed the night, I had made it clear that he needed to keep his own apartment. Moving in was a big-time commitment in my book.

  “Let’s eat,” I said to change the subject. “We’re meeting Dante and Matt at the florist at three.”

  I ignored the fact that I’d skirted his insinuation in the old Gia way. The Gia I didn’t want to be anymore. Talk of a life together was a little too soon. I fantasized about it, but was too afraid to say anything out loud.

  Besides, we did need to eat now if we were going to make it to the florist on time. It was Italian tradition for the groom to pick out the flowers for the bride. With two grooms, they’d decided to go do it together and, rather than each hold a bouquet, have Mrs. Marino, Dante’s mother hold one. Matt’s mom was boycotting the wedding. While she seemed to accept that Matt was in a relationship with Dante, attending the wedding was apparently too gay to handle. I felt bad for Matt.

  “I’ll make us toast for brunch,” I said, slicing the loaf. “Fire up that grill, would you?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Bobby said.

  “Ma’am? Seriously,” I griped. “I’m twenty-three. I don’t think anyone can call me ma’am for another twenty years.”

  “I can think of a few other choice names to call you when you’re bossing me around like that …”

  “Watch it.” I threw the heel of the bread at him.

  “What?” he said, settling in at the table. “Now that we’re in your homeland, you gonna take out a hit on me or something if I don’t behave? Call your mob family?”

  I glared at him.

  “Need some reading material?” I tossed him the paper. “Don’t make fun of the mafia. They are probably listening to us right now. Speaking of the mob. There’s an article in there about some mafia boss who’s a woman. Check it out. She sounds like a bad ass. Going up against La Cosa Nostra.”

  “Sounds like she has a death wish.”

  “Maybe.”

  “For sure.”

  “Hey, I just remembered. Don’t forget to practice your ‘Per cent'anni’ toast.”

  As the best man, Bobby had to give the Hundred Years of Good Luck toast at the rehearsal dinner. He didn’t answer. “Bobby? Did you hear me?”

  “Huh?” He was immersed in the newspaper.

  “The toast. The best man’s duty. Don’t forget. Tonight.”

  “Piece of cake.” He ran a hand through his silky hair and then looked back down at the paper. “Wow. This woman, the Queen of Spades? How come we haven’t heard about her?”

  “Um, because we live in America.” I refilled his mug with coffee and handed it to him.

  He took a sip and made a happy sound. “Perfect!”

  I went back to the grill, placing the bread slices on it now that it was hot.

  “What’s it say about her?” I asked.

  He had flipped to the inside page to read the rest of the article. “Nobody really knows what she looks like or who she really is. She leaves a playing card, the Queen of Spades, on porches and on dead bodies. It’s her calling card.”

  For a second, a flicker of something flashed across my mind, but before I could grasp ahold of it, it was gone.

  Bobby was still talking. “They don’t know if she’s young or old. Nothing. But she apparently has a band of loyal followers who are highly skilled assassins. This says she’s declared war on Sicily’s mob boss after a boy on a bike was killed yesterday.”

  I flipped the toast. It was nicely browned on one side.

  “Good for her. My kind of woman.”

  I took the paper out of his hands. “Enough reading. Go get some jam. I saw a few crocks on the fridge. And maybe some honey. Oh, and the butter.”

  “Cool. Be right back.”

  After a few minutes, when he hadn’t returned and the bread was toasted, I put it on a plate and headed in to check on him. He was juggling three bottles of jam and a butter crock. He turned and, startled by my sudden appearance, dropped the jam jars, which went skittering across the counter and sent a bottle of olive oil crashing toward the floor.

  I stood, frozen, looking at the seeping mess.

  Bobby touched my arm. “Gia? You okay? I was talking to you and you didn’t answer. It’s just a spill. I’ll clean it up, no problem.”

  “Oh.” I stared at the glinting slivers of glass and the seeping yellow-greenish oil on the tile floor.

  “What? Was that some million-dollar brand of olive oil or something retrieved from the ancient ruins of Pompeii.” He was joking but my throat was dry.

  I smiled and tried to brush off the dread that had streaked through me. It was just a dumb superstition, anyway.

  But I couldn’t shake the memory of my godfather’s horror when his wife had dropped the small carafe of oil onto the floor at their Carmel home. She had made the sign of the cross, but my godfather had cursed up a blue streak in Italian, saying she had cursed them. She clutched her protruding belly with wide eyes. Within six months, both she and the baby died.

  “It’s just a stupid superstition. God, I wish my parents would’ve never told me about them. I’ll never be able to put a hat on a bed again in my life.”

  “I thought that was something they made up just for Drugstore Cowboy?”

  “No, it’s an old superstition. Something about the priest putting his hat on the bed when he gave last rites or something. They’re all absurd.”

  “And yet,” Bobby said. “You still let them bother you?”

  I shrugged, unrolling a massive stack of paper towels to blot the oil once he got the glass picked up.

  “What’s the broken glass mean?”

  “It’s not the glass breaking, it’s the spilled olive oil,” I said.

  “Okay. But what’s it mean?” He met my eyes.

  “I don’t know exactly.”

  “Come on, spill it. No pun intended.” He was on his knees, plucking fragments of broken glass out of the oil slick and putting them in a big bowl.

  “Something stupid, like bad luck and misery spill into your life with the oil.”

  “Whatever.” He smiled.

  I couldn’t manage to smile back.

  “What other superstitions do you believe in that I need to know about?” he asked.

  “Birds that fly into your house. Whistling indoors. Not marrying on a Friday.”

  “Phew. Glad Dante’s wedding is Thursday.”


  “Right?” He took the broom from me.

  “Oh!” I exclaimed. “If you’re single and someone else is sweeping, don’t let them touch your feet with the broom.”

  He jokingly reached for my feet with the bristles. I shrieked and backed away. “No, seriously, if the broom touches my feet it means I’ll never get married.”

  He paused and smiled. “What are you trying to say, Gia?”

  I glared at him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Tipping the broom toward me, he said.

  “So, should I touch you with the broom?”

  “Knock it off.” I was getting angry.

  “Are you trying to say that you do want to get married someday?” His grin melted the anger away.

  “I’d like that possibility.” I said, haughtily. “But only with someone who doesn’t make fun of my superstitious nature.”

  He laughed. I did, too. I took a deep breath, exhaled and tried to brush it off and lighten the mood. “Okay, here’s one for you. It’s the most important Italian superstition you need to know about. If you forget the rest, you must remember this one.”

  He rolled his eyes. He blotted up the oil with the paper towels and put them in the bowl.

  “No, really. You ready?” I hollered from the walk-in pantry as I searched for a broom.

  “I guess you’re going to tell me no matter what, right?”

  “Right. So … the most important one to remembers is always, always, always make eye contact when someone makes a toast.”

  “Or you have seven years of bad luck?” He was clearly still irritated.

  “Worse. You’re right about the seven years. But it’s not bad luck. It’s seven years of bad sex!”

  His eyes widened. “I’d rather have the other misery. You know, the one from spilling the oil.”

  “I know, right?”

  “I’ll go grab my jacket and we’ll leave,” he said.

  As soon as he turned away, my smile faded. I was too superstitious to say it out loud, but knew that if I lost another person I loved, I didn’t think I could go on. I stared out at the lanai. Shards of sunlight reflected off the sea below and scattered prisms of light across the pool area.