Queen of Spades

by Kristi Belcamino

  Queen of Spades

  Kristi Belcamino

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Prologue

  “Do you like to play cards?”

  He froze at the sound of the silky voice behind him. Only he could detect the slight accent. But then again, he’d known her since they were children.

  “Vincenzo, I asked you a question.”

  His name on her lips turned his face icy cold.

  Her spicy, exotic perfume filled his airways as she drew near. She moved closer stealthily, silently. The only indication that she was directly behind him now was a slight disturbance in the air and that heady scent filling his nostrils. He fought against the desire to inhale deeply. Just as he’d fought against his attraction to her the past year. How many times had she innocently brushed by him and he’d been caught up in the smell of her perfume? How many times had he tried to recapture Eva’s unique and elusive scent in his memory? It was a fragrance he’d never smelled on another woman—and he’d smelled his fair share of perfumes over the years—from cheap drugstore sprays to customized parfums designed in Paris. This scent was difficult to identify. If he’d ever smelled it on someone else, Eva’s inimitable chemistry had transformed it into something intoxicating.

  He felt the cool steel on his neck at the same moment she pressed her warm body fully against him from behind. Even as he felt the icy fingers of death race down his spine, he was aroused. That lush body pressed up against him and the cloud of her scent sent an ache of desire rippling through him. A lust he’d kept at bay, even refusing to acknowledge it to himself. Now, he let himself feel it and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes against the candlelight.

  Then he smelled something else—something emanating from her pores. He paused. It wasn’t fear. No. Nervousness? No. It wasn’t that, either.

  It was excitement.

  But not the same thrill he felt in his groin. It was not sexual. This was blood lust. This was eagerness. This was her anticipation of the delicate glide of metal across his neck, carving into his flesh. He knew it. He recognized it. After all, he’d felt it himself. It was much, much stronger than pure sexual desire.

  As he thought this, his own ripple of fleeting desire was quickly extinguished. He had to think. He had to say something to stop her murderous vengeance.

  A silken lock of her hair brushed his cheek, and he squirmed in a mix of pleasure and terror.

  “I don’t know about you,” she whispered, her breath hot in his ear. Her voice was low, husky, mesmerizing. “But I love playing cards. I bet you can guess which card is my favorite?”

  The queen of spades. As soon as he thought the words, a white-hot bolt of pain raced across his neck, from his left ear to his right. He cried out in anguish, but there came only a thick gurgle and a small exhalation.

  His last thought as he watched his own blood spurt wildly onto the table in front of him was that the crazy old woman on the sidewalk had been right—he’d never see the likes of heaven.

  One

  1990s

  Los Angeles

  Eva White tried to sneak a look at her cell phone beneath the table but her downward glance didn’t escape the Queen Bee at the front of the class running the parent volunteer meeting.

  “Mrs. White?”

  “Yes?” Eva jerked her eyes up.

  “I think you would be a great candidate to head up the committee organizing the food drive.”

  Eva pushed down her revulsion at the woman’s sickly sweet tone and plastered a smile on her face. “I think you’re right. Food drives are near and dear to my heart.”

  It wasn’t a lie. Back in Sicily, she’d made sure nobody who lived in her village ever went hungry.

  “Wonderful,” Krystal said. “I’ll mark you down as chair. Remember, for every dollar donated to the Santa Monica food shelf, Tilly Conway’s mother will match it with an equal donation to our school fundraiser.”

  It was a totally fucked up way to raise money, but if it meant that a Los Angeles food shelf was able to benefit from some of the wealthy families in the school—even in a convoluted way—Eva was all for it. She’d hacked into Krystal’s bank account last year just to make sure the woman wasn’t depositing most of the fundraising money into her own account but, surprisingly, all the money raised went straight back to the school.

  “So, I can count on you?” Krystal asked.

  Eva nodded.

  “You are now the food drive chair.”

  “Fantastic,” Eva said, matching the blonde woman’s fake excited tone. “And Matthew and I will match the food donations, as well.”

  Krystal beamed. “That’s so generous of you.”

  But Eva wasn’t done speaking. “But I think in our case, we’ll match the donation with an equal one that will also go to the food shelf.”

  “That’s a brilliant idea!” Nikos said. He was one of the dads Eva had become friendly with over the past year. His son, Ricardo, was a sweet kid.

  Krystal’s face fell, but she quickly rallied. “Wonderful. I’ll let the principal know.”

  “Fantastic,” Eva repeated and smiled widely.

  Kill them with kindness. It had been her motto the past ten years. It was a viable alternative to killing women like Krystal Diamond. But Eva had left that part of her behind when she fled Sicily. That way of life felt like a vague memory—something another person had experienced, somebody she’d read about in a book. So, Krystal Diamond was safe. For now.

  The woman had apparently kept her maiden name, which was about the only thing Eva approved of about the pretentious PTA head. But what kind of name was Krystal Diamond, anyway? Jesus. It had to be a stripper name. Or maybe a porn star name.

  Eva shifted in her uncomfortable plastic chair. Eva wasn’t overweight, and was, in fact, very fit from a daily home workout modeled after the Navy SEAL team’s training. But she was Italian and did have curves—especially on her backside. Her ass simply wouldn’t fit into this tiny, orange plastic chair made for a fifth grader.

  A few seats down Nikos shifted uncomfortably, as well. He caught her eye and smiled. She smiled back.

  Luckily, Krystal Diamond had missed it all. Smiling was forbidden unless the smile was directed her way. But Krystal was at the front of the room, distracted with her head down, going through a thick file folder. Yeah, definitely a fake name. Like her boobs. No way they were the real deal. No. Fucking. Way. No one with boobs that big could have a butt small enough to fit neatly into the little orange plastic chair, could they? No self-respecting Malibu trophy wife would go that big, even when you
r husband was the top plastic surgeon to the stars. Eva frowned. Maybe that was it—Dr. Andrew Wyatt used his wife as a model for his porn star clientele. Eva could just imagine him waving his skinny little arms and saying, “Allow me to show you my work first hand. Krystal, darling? Please show these women your tits.”

  Eva snuffled back a laugh.

  Nikos shot her a glance of alarm but then winked. He was her age and attractive. She knew it was his Greek heritage that appealed to her. Even though she’d married a hot American man with blonde hair and blue eyes, she couldn’t deny that men from her part of the world had an undeniable, earthy sexiness about them.

  That diversity was one reason she’d enrolled Lorenzo and Alessandra in this elite school. Though she had to put up with fuckwads like Krystal, the student population ran the gamut from Somali-Americans to Japanese-Americans. She didn’t want her children to feel like misfits in Beverly Hills schools. But she had to admit, the Rembrandt Academy still didn’t exactly provide a realistic slice of American life—every family with a kid in the school was filthy fucking rich.

  Speaking of that, why did they even need to do fundraisers, anyway?

  Krystal droned on at the front of the classroom, organizing committees and assigning tasks to the thirty parent volunteers crowding the room.

  In a way, Eva admired Krystal’s leadership skills. And whatever her faults, Eva could not deny that Krystal’s son, Yates, was possibly the sweetest child on the planet.

  Poor thing couldn’t help who his mother was. And he couldn’t help his unfortunate name. Who the fuck named a baby Yates? Yates Wyatt sounded like a poet wearing a dinner jacket while riding a donkey in the old west. But the kid was a sweetie. His mother wanted him to be a doctor like his father, but he claimed he wanted to be an opera singer. Jesus Christ. The kid wasn’t even out of elementary school, and his parents were already planning out every second of every year until he was thirty!

  Alessandra had befriended Yates in the first grade until Krystal had put the kibosh on their playdates. Every time Eva had reached out to her about it, Krystal made some excuse. She usually claimed Yates was busy with Little Mozart or Chinese lessons or some other bullshit. But every time Alessandra asked him about it the next day, the poor kid said he’d gone straight home and stared at the iPad all evening while his mother locked herself in her office.

  Alessandra and Yates resorted to secretly hanging out at school during lunch hour.

  Krystal had her back turned, doing something with the iBoard, so Eva snuck a glance at the time on her phone. Crap. Twenty more long minutes. She’d planned to swing by Delmonico’s and pick up a platter of sashimi and a sesame kale salad for dinner. She also wanted to grab a ham and cheese brioche for Matthew’s breakfast. He’d texted that his flight had been bumped up, so he’d have to head straight to the airport in the early hours the next morning.

  He’d promised that when he returned, he’d take an entire week off for a staycation and they could unwind and make love every day while the kids were at school.

  She could hardly wait. She sighed and stretched languidly.

  Krystal heard the sigh and shot her a sharp look.

  “Mrs. White, did you have a question?”

  She smiled. “No. But thanks for asking.”

  Krystal turned her attention toward another victim. Heidi, the mother of one of Alessandra’s good friends.

  Nikos grinned at her again. He held up his phone, keeping it below the level of the table. He was playing a video game. He mimicked a yawn and then scraped back his chair. All heads turned his way. He stood and held his phone up in the air. “Sorry. I just got a text. Emergency at the office.”

  And with that he was gone.

  Eva stared at his retreating back with undisguised jealousy. What the hell? Is that all it took? A fake emergency? He’d been playing a damn video game for God’s sake.

  “As I was saying…” Krystal said in the front of the room, clearly annoyed.

  For a split-second Eva felt sorry for her. After all, the woman’s entire life revolved around the annual school carnival. As soon as one year’s event was over, Krystal would send out emails about what they would do the following year. Planning for the event began six months ahead of time.

  But then any pity dissipated. Krystal had been downright mean to Eva since the first day of Lorenzo’s kindergarten orientation four years ago.

  And yet, today, here she was volunteering under Krystal’s tutelage.

  The things she did for her children…Lorenzo had begged her to volunteer, saying if she didn’t she’d be the only mother not on the committee.

  Reluctantly, she’d agreed.

  Someday, when they were older, she’d explain to Lorenzo and Alessandra the sacrifice she’d made kowtowing to such a controlling bitch, but for now she’d do whatever it took to make sure she and her family blended in.

  Her phone vibrated. Eva looked down.

  The picture that appeared on her phone took her breath away. She shot up out of her seat. Her world spun, and her legs grew weak and unsteady. She stumbled, clutching at the table to keep herself from collapsing. Her phone fell to the floor. It landed face up. A photo of a man’s severed head filled the screen.

  She couldn’t get air into her lungs. Her vision closed in. Her legs had grown useless. She slumped back down into her chair and felt a hand on her forearm. It was Heidi’s.

  “Are you okay?”

  The words ignited Eva into action. She scrambled to her feet, grabbed her bag and phone, and began to run, calling “Thank you,” over her shoulder to a bewildered Heidi.

  She’d barely made it out the door, her three-inch designer heels clacking on the pavement, when someone grabbed her arm and yanked her back.

  “Excuse me!” She recognized the high-pitched squeak. Krystal. “You did not ask to be excused from the meeting.”

  “Fuck off, Krystal.”

  Eva wrenched her arm free so forcibly, a few of Krystal’s fake nails went flying. Krystal spluttered in rage, but Eva was already across the parking lot.

  She was almost to her vehicle when the driver of a silver Porsche slammed on the brakes, skidding to a halt inches away from her thighs. She kept running, barely registering the woman’s concerned face hanging out the window asking if she was okay.

  In her Mercedes SUV, Eva’s hands trembled so violently it took her three tries to get the key in the ignition. With her foot pressed to the gas, she fumbled under her seat and unsnapped a small case. She threw it on the passenger seat. As she squealed out of the parking lot, she barely noticed the other cars darting out of her way.

  With the salty Pacific breeze whipping her hair, Eva raced down the highway, flying past slower cars. She pushed back thoughts of her family. It was dangerous to allow herself to get caught up in sentimentality. It would weaken her. She had to reach deep down and draw from her dark past if her family was going to survive.

  Her darkest memories rose to the surface. A moonlit Sicilian night full of bloodshed:

  Walls splattered with crimson arterial spray; pools of coagulated blood turned black; clothing stiff with dried blood; a hand with ruby red fingernails placing the queen of spades card on a motionless chest; a head held by the hair with blood dripping onto the ground out of the jagged flesh that had once connected the neck to the body…

  The mutilated body of her Sicilian lover and fiancée sprawled under a white sheet.

  It all came back, blotting out the golden Southern California sunshine pouring through her driver’s side window.

  Two

  1970s

  Sicily

  The rolling hills of Sicily—so green and lush—rendered a stark contrast to the view of white-capped Mt. Etna soaring above the horizon. Like the majestic Sicilian volcano, beauty often concealed the darker ways of the world.

  The idyllic and scenic Italian island, nestled just off the toe of Italy’s boot, was home to some of the most ferocious and cold-blooded killers on the planet.
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  At first, none of this touched Eva. She had led a carefree life when she was young. But then she was recruited into the family’s business and found she thrived on the thrill of covert missions and delivering secret packages in the dead of night. It took a while for her to realize just what business her family was in—the Mafia.

  But it didn’t take long for her to adapt.

  As a teenager, when her father was sent to prison, she was the one tapped to deliver the important messages—the pizzini—that allowed him to rule from behind bars.

  It was standard practice in the Cosa Nostra—the Sicilian Mafia. Because only females could visit Mafioso in prison, they became messengers. Most of the time, the handwritten messages were delivered on tiny scraps of paper that were then conveyed to the prisoner in code. Other times the women or children who could have physical contact with the prisoner could pass on the pizzini themselves.

  Prison officials were none the wiser. It ended up being yet another of the millions of times in history that women were underestimated. After serving as her father’s courier for so many years, delivering important pizzini, Eva had proven herself.

  Her two half-brothers—Luca and Stefano—resented her for it. But they’d never liked her anyway. They thought they should succeed their Mafioso father—that they should be the ones he turned to and trusted. But her father knew that they were more like their backstabbing mother. They were greedy and immoral and disloyal to a fault.