Blessed are the Merciful

by Kristi Belcamino

  All was right in the world. I’d hesitated to show him the papers proving Stefano was his son. For some reason, right or wrong, unfair or not, I wanted him to love Stefano regardless. He had taken in Alejandro as his own. I wanted the same for Stefano.

  As soon as I saw him with Stefano again, I knew he loved him no matter what and I couldn’t wait to let him know that the baby was his.

  A very small part of me was sad for Alejandro. If the results had come back differently, I could’ve told Alejandro that Stefano was his biological brother. Right now, as far as we knew, Alejandro didn’t have a blood relative in the world. Of course, with DNA testing, we could easily find some distant relation. But I’d let him do that when he grew up. It would be his choice.

  Just then Grace and Alejandro came running down from the house.

  “Mama, it’s amazing. You will love it here,” she said.

  The two children walked past us toward the water, talking about all the things they’d planned to do over the summer.

  The Saint came and stood beside me.

  “I think it is safe for them to take the boat to the mainland every day for school.”

  I turned to him in surprise. “Really?”

  “Oh yes. Eva is a woman of her word. As long as you stay out of the public view and remain dead to the world, you and the children will be safe. You can go into town to shop and socialize. But for now, you should stay in Italy.”

  “I suppose there are worse places to be imprisoned,” I said looking around.

  I stared out at the sun dipping low on the horizon, nearly touching the water in the distance, bathing the ocean in a warm orange glow.

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” I gestured around me. “For all of this. For everything.”

  “You don’t need to. You are family. Your mother is the love of my life. Making her happy is my main priority. It always has been, since the day I met her so many years ago. And part of making her happy is making her daughter happy. And keeping her safe.”

  Donovan was back at my side. He put his arm around me. Stefano had fallen asleep, arms and legs akimbo as I held him. Grace and Alejandro had sat down where the water met the shore. The Saint had his arm around my mother.

  We were all silent watching the sun set on the Mediterranean. We were all together. And safe.

  Nothing else mattered.

  As the sun dipped to touch the ocean, I marveled at my life—how I had ended up on an Italian island surrounded by more love than I could have ever imagined.

  EPILOGUE

  Twenty years later

  My grandson Sean was in his high chair screaming bloody murder. Grace bent over looking into our tiny refrigerator for some mashed carrots she’d put in there for him the night before.

  When she found them, she straightened and wobbled, her pregnant belly throwing her off balance. I’d warned her not to fly down to see me at nine months pregnant, but she said it would be a blessing if this child, a baby girl, was born in Italy. Then the baby would have dual citizenship. Italian and French, like her father.

  Jon Pierre took the carrots from Grace and began feeding their son, speaking soothingly in French, but Sean swatted the spoon away. It went flying and skidded across the tiled kitchen floor, smearing orange mush everywhere.

  “Merde!” Grace swore in French.

  Alejandro, who was at the other end of the table with his daughter, five-year-old Gabriella, laughed. However, Gabriella looked at her baby cousin in horror. Throwing food was not cool. But when their father laughed, she laughed too and began speaking rapidly in Italian.

  Alejandro’s wife, Lourdes, stood with Donovan at the stove pouring batter and flipping pancakes with assembly-line precision and then handing them to me. I delivered the fresh ones with a flourish, plopping them down on the plates.

  Stefano walked into this raucous scene, rubbing his messy hair and squinting his blurry eyes. My beautiful son was the spitting image of his father as a young man. And his dating life proved that. I hoped he didn’t get serious until he finished school. He was heading back to college in Milan in the morning.

  He opened the oven door and leaned in to inhale the smell of lasagna.

  “Mama mia. I cannot wait.” He kissed his fingers and threw them out, a typical Italian gesture to indicate something was delicious and he was hungry.

  My boy was half Irish-American by DNA, but all Italian when it came to his personality.

  Even though I hadn’t lived in America for two decades, hosting a Thanksgiving feast was my not-so-covert method to get all my family home for a few days in the fall.

  We didn’t do turkey, or “fowl,” as my European Union children called it. We did a massive pan of three-cheese lasagna with sausage, pancetta, sage, butternut squash, topped with my secret ingredient—raspberry jam and pistachio crumbles. Decadent.

  It took hours the day before to assemble, but my children would rebel if I tried to serve anything else. I’d do anything to make them happy while they were home. Their visits, usually four to five times a year, were my greatest joy.

  Over the past few years, I’d slowly grown used to having an empty nest. Donovan and I had plans in the spring to visit New Zealand for a month and then to fly to Brazil for another few weeks before stopping at our Parisian flat for a few months to spend time with Grace and the new baby.

  Seven years before, I’d received a letter with no return address. Inside, I’d found the deed to a Parisian flat and two airplane tickets. There were only a few words scribbled on a slip of paper to explain the gift.

  “Fit for a princess. – E.”

  It was my get out of jail free card. And possibly her way to make up for taking away my life. What she didn’t realize was that my life on the island was a dream come true.

  We spent our days reading and swimming and fishing and sailing and cooking and laughing. It had been a good life. A simple life.

  Since the letter had arrived, our family had made up for lost time, traveling the world as often as we could, but we were always happy to return to our idyllic island hideaway.

  The year before, Eva had been assassinated by one of her own men. When I heard the news, I didn’t feel anything. Not relief. Not sadness. Nothing. Too many people I loved had died—The Saint, my mother—for me to waste time and energy grieving over someone I barely knew.

  Now, as I watched my husband flip pancakes, a wave of gratitude filled me.

  Over the years, he’d shrunk a bit. And now his hair was fully gray. And when he laughed, the lines around his eyes crinkled. But despite all this, I still thought he could grace the cover of a Sexiest Man calendar. Maybe a Sexiest Senior one, but still.

  He frequently told me that I was still as beautiful as the day we met, but he was lying. I was stubborn and refused to let my hair go gray. But I did cut it to my shoulders. I had about fifteen more pounds on me than I’d had in my “fighting-weight days,” but I was happy. I no longer worried about things like that. All that mattered in the world was that my family was healthy and safe.

  Seeing them gathered in my home now, I sighed contently.

  Despite the chaos in the kitchen, Donovan somehow heard the sound and looked over. He met my eyes across the crowded, noisy room and gave me the same smile he had first given me thirty years earlier that had melted my heart.

  My heart was full.

  Everything I had ever wanted was here in this room.

  I didn’t know what the future held, but I knew one thing for certain:

  I was blessed.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE:

  Man is it tough to see a series end, isn’t it? It was bittersweet to write this one. But Gabriella Giovanni’s story, at least what I had to tell, is complete. But I have many other great reads for you to check out. You can get some of them for FREE. See the graphic on the next page or go here https://www.subscribepage.com/KristiBelcamino to grab a free book and be the first to find out about my upcoming releases and discounts on my books.

  T
hank you so much for reading my books!

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  GRAB THE FIRST BOOKS in the Gia Santella Crime Thriller series at a 50 percent discount. Read on for an exclusive excerpt and more information.

  What readers are saying about the Gia Santella Crime Thriller Series:

  “I opened my kindle and fell into the world of a fantastic new character. Great storyline, richly developed settings, and Gia. I am hooked. Kudos to the author for creating a character and series world that is truly special. Highly recommended!”—Stephen Campbell

  “Whoa! Kristi Belcamino has done it! She has created yet another take-charge, intoxicating character who is a fierce protector of those she loves. The new girl in town is named Gia Valentina Santella, and she is smoking awesome.” — The Reading Room

  “Gia is a smart and kick ass new heroine to root for!” – Erin A.

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  “Gia is a fierce, gusty woman who is willing to sacrifice and do everything and anything to not only protect but avenge her family and friends.” – Sharon Long

  JUSTICE AT ANY COST.

  For her, vendetta is not a choice—it’s her destiny.

  When Gia Valentina Santella's parents died four years ago, she fled small-town Monterey to pursue the high life in the big city where she could smother her grief by playing house in a luxurious high-rise apartment with sweeping views of the Golden Gate Bridge.

  Armed with a hefty inheritance, it didn't take long for Gia to carve out an empty life for herself in San Francisco, slumming at art school, racing her red Ferrari up and down the coast, and getting hammered at the city's finest establishments.

  Then one day, a letter comes in the mail and everything changes. The death of Gia's parents was no accident.

  They were murdered.

  Now, Gia must find who really killed her parents at the same time she's frantically trying to keep one step ahead of the murderer who is now intent on making her his next victim.

  Gia in the City of the Dead is the first book in the Gia Santella series of dark, page-turning suspense thrillers. If you like daring and unforgettable heroines and aren’t offended by a few “F” bombs, you’ll love this heart-pounding thriller kicking off an exciting new series.

  EXCERPT

  GIA IN THE CITY OF THE DEAD

  CHAPTER ONE

  North Beach, San Francisco

  I eyed the brunette in the sparkly underwear as she whipped her long hair and draped her tanned legs around the silver pole, sliding one stiletto-heeled foot up and down, up and down.

  Her breasts, naked and swinging, were bigger than mine, but she was about the same size and weight. No stretch marks. Hips still slim. Childless. No thin white band on her ring finger. Single. Fake diamond studs. Not doing this for fun or to rebel against daddy. Fuchsia toenail polish. Definitely not from the Bay Area. Perfect white teeth and flawless skin. Not a crankster. No identifying tattoos.

  She would do.

  I slid three twenties under the strap of her G-string and told her to meet me in the private room at her break.

  Waiting in the tiny, mirrored room, I rummaged around in my bag for a roach, but came up empty. Must have smoked it last night. At the bottom of my purse, my fingers brushed some loose shake so I licked them and stuck them back into my bag. I poked around until tiny green flecks stuck to the pads of my fingers, which I licked again. I was plucking a few stray flakes off my lipstick when she walked in, wiping tiny beads of sweat away from her temple with a small white towel.

  She leaned back against the door and untied her short silky robe.

  “Hey, honey. What’s your name?” she asked, fluffing her hair. My back was to her, but I didn’t take my eyes off her face in the mirror.

  “Gia,” I said and smiled. Yes, she would do perfectly.

  “I’m Candy.” Sure, you are. She sidled up to me, pressing her bare breast against my arm from behind, trailing her fingers down my arm as we watched ourselves in the floor-length mirror.

  “It’s not what you think,” I said, gently pushing her away.

  Ten minutes later we had a deal.

  I slipped back into the night, ignoring the groups of men huddled on the neon sidewalks outside, smoking and cat calling everyone who looked like they might have a vagina—whether they were born that way or not.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The previous week ...

  The throbbing head pain keeping time with my heartbeat told me last night had been a doozy. Even if I didn’t remember any of it.

  Without opening my eyes, I knew it was time to get up because I could hear the noisy gurgling of my Nespresso in the kitchen. The espresso machine was programmed to kick on at two every afternoon so that when I rolled out of bed hot coffee would be waiting. It was a rough life.

  If I got dressed quickly, I could still make it to a Budo session at my dojo before I had to go see my godfather in Monterey. I stretched and yawned and then froze at the sound of clanging in my kitchen.

  As I yanked the covers up over my naked breasts and reached under my huge stack of pillows for my gun, a vague memory surfaced — a cute face, tight ass, and deft hands. I’d brought some guy home from the bar last night. I groaned. He should’ve been long gone. I put the gun back. If he was banging pots and pans around in the kitchen, he probably wasn’t a serial killer.

  A curly-haired head peeked around the doorframe. “Hey, Gia. You hungry? It’ll be ready in a jiffy.”

  I stared until his head withdrew. He whistled as he walked back to the kitchen. Jiffy? Whistling? That did it. This guy was way too polite and chipper to be my type. I closed my eyes trying to piece together what had happened the night before. I vaguely remembered Scott, the bartender at Anarchy, refusing to fill my glass again despite me wadding up hundred dollar bills and throwing them at him. How much had I had to drink? It must have been a lot because Scott had never cut me off before. The last thing I remembered was stomping off to find someone else to order my booze for me.

  I must have found the guy who was now in my kitchen.

  He seemed harmless. I shrugged on my kimono and tried to avoid looking into the mirrored doors on my closet as I walked past, but still managed to get a glimpse of a green-silk-robe-wearing witch with wild hair.

  I stopped in the bathroom to splash some water on my face, again avoiding the mirror. I glanced into the small metal trash can near the toilet.

  Terror streaked through me when I didn’t see a neatly tied up condom inside. I dumped the contents, tissue paper, cotton balls, eyeliner pencil shavings onto the white tile floor, heart pounding, and knelt down. On my hands and knees, I combed through the debris. Nothing. I even stooped down and looked behind the toilet. He could have flushed it. But probably not.

  In my bedroom, I flopped down on my white sheepskin rug and looked under the bed with a flashlight. I searched every corner of the room. I stuck my gun in my nightstand and tore all the covers off the bed, tossing the duvet, sheets and pillows across the room.

  Still, nothing.

  The whistling from the kitchen made me wince.

  Time to face my houseguest.

  I leaned on the doorframe leading into my small kitchen. The guy was putting slices of sourdough bread in my toaster. Eggs and milk were on the counter. Butter was sizzling in a frying pan on the stove. The guy was cute. But none of that mattered. I cleared my throat. He looked up and smiled.

  “Listen ...” I closed my eyes for a second. Did we have full-on intercourse? Did we use a condom? I was too humiliated to ask. “I’m sure you’re really sweet. But you have to leave now.”

  When I opened my eyes, his smile had faded. I tried again. “I drank a lot last night. It’s better if you leave. Now.”

  “Hey, I’m a feminist,” he said,
holding his palms out. “I don’t take advantage of drunk women. If anything, you talked me into coming back here. I kept saying it probably wasn’t a good idea, but you insisted otherwise. You practically dragged me home.”

  I cringed. He was probably right. But I still needed to get rid of this nameless, chivalrous stranger. “Like I said,” I began again. “You seem like a really nice guy. But you need to go.” Did we have sex? I couldn’t make my lips form the words.

  “No problem.” He didn’t seem angry, only disappointed, maybe even a little hurt. For a brief second I felt a twinge of guilt, but quickly dismissed it. I needed to get this stranger out of my house immediately. Before I freaked the fuck out.

  He grabbed a leather jacket off my dining room table. I noticed an empty wine bottle and two glasses on the table along with what looked like the remains of a pumpkin pie. Guess I had brought the party back here.

  When the door finally clicked closed, I sunk onto the chair on my balcony with a cup of espresso and a pack of Dunhills. I felt another stab of guilt remembering the guy’s face when I told him to leave. For a split-second I wondered if I should have gotten his name, in case ... No, I wasn’t going to go there. For now, I was going to assume that we hadn’t had full-on sex. It would be odd for me, but not totally unheard of. He seemed like a good guy. I know I’d made him feel bad by kicking him out, but what else was I going to do?

  Besides I had a date with the godfather today. Something I was both looking forward to and dreading. Apparently, Vito had a favor to ask me. Something he could not tell me over the phone. My stomach knotted thinking about it and the trip to Monterey. Ever since my parents died, any visit home brought a flood of painful memories.

  As a result, I usually ended up drinking too much and having to stay over in the guesthouse of my godfather’s Carmel home.