Dark Night of the Soul

by Kristi Belcamino

  “My mother doesn’t have a sister.” I could feel my face contort.

  She shrugged. “As you wish.”

  She swiped her blade on a kitchen towel, wiping away the blood.

  Tilting her head, she listened. Then I heard it. The rumbling sound of an airplane. It grew louder and, in one fluid motion, she tucked her sword back into her sheath and slipped out the open French doors to the deck. She stepped off to one side and disappeared from my sight line.

  For a second, I froze, unsure what to do. Chase her? Yell after her? Run away?

  I raced to the glass doors and flung them open, rushing outside.

  Off to one side was a set of steep spiral metal stairs that led to the beach and a dock. A small seaplane was at the dock and I got a glimpse of black as she stepped into the plane. A scream caught in my throat. It was too late. I had so many questions.

  But the seaplane chugged away, churning up the water around it.

  I stood stock still on the deck watching as the plane took off, soaring into the brilliant swirling orange and pink Sicilian sunset, leaving with the aunt I’d never known I had.

  The Queen of Spades.

  Epilogue

  A Lifetime

  The Queen of Spades, my aunt, had sent her coterie of soldiers to clean up and whisk me away from the villa.

  A woman with hair pulled back tightly in a bun had ordered me to strip and shower and then dressed me in more identical black clothes before putting me in the back of a black car that had taken me to a hotel in Palermo.

  When I protested, she put her finger to her lips. “Please. You must do as we say. You can come back to the villa tomorrow.”

  I was too exhausted to argue. I fell into bed and slept like the dead.

  In the morning, I hired a driver and let myself into the villa.

  There was no sign of the slaying. Not a stray drop of blood spatter anywhere. Taking one last look around, I tucked the card into my bag and locked the villa doors behind me.

  It was time to go home.

  I wasn’t sure what awaited me there. A big, slobbering, lovable dog. A few good friends worth their weight in gold. But also: a lot of painful memories. I knew I would see Bobby everywhere I went in San Francisco. He would linger in my bed, at my kitchen table, at our favorite bars and cafes. Everywhere I went. He would always be there.

  But I needed to learn to live with that.

  If anything, that is what Bobby had taught me. It was okay to grieve and still love someone. But it wasn’t okay to squander my life away, wrapped up in my grief. It was okay to take that chance, to love someone knowing you could lose them. It didn’t feel like it right now. But I knew it was the truth.

  It was time.

  I would not fear love. But I knew I still needed to fear for my life.

  The Queen of Spades had warned me. I couldn’t call her my aunt. It still hadn’t sunk in.

  Learning to live without fear, meant calling Dante. And calling him. And stopping by his house. Over and over, if necessary.

  I stood in the back of the cathedral. For once I wasn’t the only one dressed in black.

  The mahogany coffin at the front of the church seemed like a lifetime away.

  There was no way I could walk up there, down the aisle to the front of the church, where people were paying their respects. It felt physically impossible.

  Bobby’s parents stood on each side of the coffin, accepting hugs and murmured words of sympathy. His mother had aged since I saw her. Her hair was grayer and her eyes were deep pools of shadows. His father now seemed stooped. An old man.

  These people didn’t know me. I meant nothing to them.

  I loved Bobby enough to respect this and stay far away from them. All I would bring them was more pain. Moving toward the back of the church, I had my hand on the door and half-turned, casting one last glance up at the altar.

  Where my love’s body lay.

  His mother’s eyes met mine. I froze. She gave me a slight nod. It wasn’t an invitation to stay. It wasn’t a reprimand. But it was an acknowledgment. I would mourn Bobby my own way. In my own time. But I didn’t know if I would ever allow myself to love someone like that again.

  The cost was too much.

  I’d lost everything because I had made Bobby everything. It was a mistake I’d never make again.

  Later, at the cemetery, I stood near a grove of trees by a hill as they lowered the casket into the ground. I waited there, pressing my body against a cold tree trunk until the crowd had left. I waited, watching Bobby’s mother stand alone. She didn’t know I was there, but together we watched the backhoe driver cover the casket with a mound of dirt. Her back remained stiff and formal, unmoving. I watched until she pressed her fingers to her lips and touched the coffin gently. Then, she pulled her collar up and walked to the black car idling nearby.

  Back in my loft, I dialed Dante’s number again. It went straight to voicemail. At least he hadn’t blocked my number yet. That was something.

  “The funeral was awful,” I said into the empty air. “His parents hate me. Like you do, I guess. But I love you. And I’ll be here when you decide to forgive me. I told you that it was my fault. That they were targeting me. Not Bobby. Not Matt. And I’ve also told you that more than anything in the world, I wish they would’ve found me first and that Matt and Bobby would still be alive. One day, when you believe me, I hope you can forgive me,” I trailed off and was silent for a few seconds. I took a breath. “I love you, Dante. I’m not going to give up on you.”

  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.

  Want more Gia? Turn the page for a sneak peak of book four, Gia and the Lone Raven.

  * * *

  Then read on for information about your free GIA prequel.

  * * *

  Or better yet, pick up a box set for the first four books at a 50% discount HERE.

  Sneak Peek

  Gia and the Lone Raven

  Baja California

  The sun beat down on my bare back and legs 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 hidden speakers and the slightest breeze lifted the hair off my neck as I sat up.

  My drink was within arm’s reach. I leaned toward it, knocking my turquoise swim top off my lounge chair onto the teak deck. No tan lines for me. My bo
dy was slick with baby oil—straight out of 1970. I’d only been in Baja for five days and already my body had turned a sleek mahogany color. Bonus of being Italian-American.

  The tall glass containing my third mojito was slick with condensation, but still cool. I vaguely remembered the pool boy, or whatever he was, 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’d plenty of time to get sober and get my wits about me. This would be my last drink. I needed to be sharp, ready to fight.

  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 it was possible that Austin was clocking how many drinks I had. Anything less than I’d been drinking the past few days would be cause for suspicion. He’d been acting strange all morning. And not because his feelings were hurt. I worried he was on to me. That he’d spoken to Marc. 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, Austin 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.

  When Austin rolled over and stared at the ceiling, I stole away to the bathroom, relieved that I’d found out about his alarming predilections only a few hours before I planned to bail on him. Strangulation was not my thing. If he liked erotic asphyxiation, that was all on him.

  But none of it mattered. Because if all went well, I’d soon be long gone.

  Now, sitting in the sun, I glanced toward the front of the yacht where Austin said he was going to hunker down in the “lifestyle room” and watch football all day. The lifestyle room was basically a huge playroom for big man babies. It had white padded walls on two sides, another wall was a movie screen, and the fourth wall was a window overlooking the sea. When you wanted to watch a movie, the fourth window went dark by way of some magic I couldn’t figure out. A white padded structure the size of two king-size beds took up most of the floor space. I’d passed the room on the way to breakfast and peered in. Austin had been propped against dozens of pillows, with a remote the size of a book in his hands. I fled before he could call for me.

  Now, I hoped he’d pass out on the bed for the next twenty-four hours. Until I could leave.

  I took a sip of my drink and reclined again. On my back this time. I closed my eyes behind my dark sunglasses, feeling the heat of the sun spread its warmth over my body. I sighed with pleasure.

  I’d drifted off when a clattering noise woke me. I felt something ice cold and sharp on my sternum between my bare breasts.

  Austin stood over me. One of his hands held my dueling knife up high out of reach. His other drew my sparring knife slowly up the side of one breast, toward my nipple.

  “What the fuck are these, Gia?” He waved my dueling knife in the air—a tribal patterned, round-bladed, hand-engraved, high-chromium stainless steel beauty that looked like a stylized meat cleaver.

  I grasped his wrist and inched the blade of my sparring knife away from my skin.

  “Easy, sailor.” I sat up, keeping my hand on his wrist, eyeing him, searching for signs of intoxication or drugs. Austin was a tanned, lithe, 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. Up until yesterday, I’d thought he was sweet and even felt a little sorry for him. Big mistake.

  He spent his days on the yacht hopping from one tropical port to another, chasing the waves. He was supposed to head to Costa Rica tomorrow. As far as he knew, I was going with him. After we met, he’d dropped all his other playthings. He knew immediately that unlike them, I didn’t want him for his money. He didn’t know that I only wanted him for what he could do for me. Specifically, his access to the man I was hunting.

  “I’m not kidding, Gia,” he said. “What the fuck are these?” He waved the dueling knife again.

  “I see you found my Sicilian knives. They’re for my training. Remember I told you? The Gladiatura Moderna? Italian martial arts?” I slurred my voice a little. Wouldn’t hurt for him to think I was wasted.

  “I don’t remember anything about knives.” He looked confused. He was unsteady on his feet and his eyes were glassy. He was right, I’d never mentioned it to him.

  “Sure, you do, baby.” I leaned over to rub his bare leg. He jerked away.

  “That’s not all I found, either.”

  At his words, my mouth grew dry. I was instantly sober.

  Then I saw, just past him, the last two people I wanted to see at that moment. My best friend, Dante, and the man I was hunting, who was holding a knife to Dante’s throat. My best friend’s eyes were wild with panic.

  The gig was up.

  Fuck me.

  Chapter One

  Seven days earlier …

  The customs officials waved me into Baja without a second glance.

  Who knew? Maybe my luck was turning around.

  But a few miles later, faced with a seemingly never-ending river of red taillights, I laughed at my naivety. Traffic to Tijuana was at a dead stop. A low concrete barrier separated the opposite lanes of traffic on the four-lane road. The road ran parallel to a tall corrugated fence separating Mexico from America. It was dotted with large white crosses made of simple boards. Each cross had a name or said “no identificado.” Unidentified. What the fuck?

  Soon, their significance became crystal clear. One stretch of fence, just below a skyscraping lookout tower, had a row of life-sized brightly painted coffins attached to it. They said “muertes.” Death. And had a year and number. An orange one said: 2003. 390+.

  Nearly 400 people had died trying to cross the border into America that year.

  The week before I’d read a touching story in the New York Times about border agents in San Diego opening a portion of the fence for three minutes so an American man could wed his Mexican bride. An attorney was working to secure a green card for the woman, but it was expected to take as long as a year before the couple could be together again.

  The memory of reading the newspaper reminded me that Bobby and I used to love gathering all the Sunday newspapers and reading them in bed with coffee and biscotti.

  I wiped away my tears. Bobby was gone. And there was nothing I could do for the dead. I had to focus on what I could do right then, in that moment. I couldn’t change the past, but maybe I could influence the future. I had a plan. It was simple. Find Dante. Convince him to forgive me. Bring him home safe to his mother.

  Two days ago, I’d finally gotten up the nerve to go beg Dante for forgiveness. I couldn’t stand another day without him. We hadn’t spoken for two excruciatingly long months. His husband and Bobby were murdered in a mass shooting in Positano. I’d killed the man behind the murders, but Dante had never forgiven me, saying the shootings were my fault.

  He was wrong.

  More than twenty bottles of vodka and a hundred straight-to-voice-mail phone calls later, I gathered up the courage to confront him and beg his forgiveness. Only to find he’d sold his restaurant and home in Calistoga and taken off to Mexico. His mother, Mrs. Marino, gave me the scoop and begged me to find and bring Dante home for Christmas.

  I’d dropped my Ferrari and dog off at Mrs. Marino’s house in Monterey, grabbed the keys to Dan
te’s old Jeep, and headed south.

  Now, with the sun beating down on my bare thighs through the Jeep’s windshield, I felt a lightness that I hadn’t felt for months. As if I could breathe again. I rolled down my windows, letting in the slightest breeze. After several gray, dreary days in San Francisco, I was ready for some sun and heat. The long line of cars in front of me puttered along, kicking up small dust clouds.

  The Jeep crested a small hill, and I saw that past a certain point in the road, where it wove extraordinarily close to the fence, the traffic flow opened up.

  At the bottleneck, a lone police car sat with strobes lights lazily churning. Only one lane was closed. The other lane was open, but cars crawled past before accelerating up to normal speeds again. Talk about Sunday driver looky-loos.

  I’d obviously left the fast-paced American life behind. Fine. Bring on the siestas and beach and frosty beer. I was ready for a little R & R. Right after I found Dante.

  The tall buildings of Tijuana shimmered in the hazy distance. I’d stop and get a fish taco and a beer or two, fuel up and drive until dark. If I were really lucky, I’d have Dante in my passenger seat and be back in Monterey by the weekend. But I was never lucky.

  Within a few minutes, I was down on flat land and creeping closer to the police car. Off to my right, on the narrowest strip of dirt bordering the fence, a few people with dirty, tear-streaked faces crouched. Then I was at the bottleneck. I looked to my left and realized what the hold-up was.

  In front of the squad car a rectangular lump was covered with a white sheet. A dead body. Probably killed by a hit-and-run driver while trying to cross the busy road. Those people I’d seen close to the fence had made it across the road, but one of their party hadn’t. Jesus.