Queen of Spades

by Kristi Belcamino

  As she crested the landing on the second floor, she paused, breathing heavily, and listening hard. Several doorways flanked the hall before her. From her earlier vantage point of the bedroom, Eva knew it was either the second or third door down. Holding the gun in front of her, she hugged the wall, creeping forward, eyes trained on the doors to her right.

  She stepped into the master bedroom.

  The masked figure held a knife to Krystal’s throat. As soon as she saw Eva, Krystal began to cry.

  “Eva! I swear I didn’t mean it. Call your dog off. Please. I’m sorry. Please. Please.” She was blubbering now. “I hit the silent alarm. The police will be here any second. I promise I won’t say anything if you let me go. Just leave now. I’ll tell them it was a false alarm. I promise. Please don’t kill me. Call him off. Eva! Please.”

  Up close, Eva realized the masked intruder was male.

  Foolish woman. Now she would die. Eva didn’t know if she had time to stop it now that Krystal had confessed to the police coming.

  Eva met the eyes of the man in mask. They were dark, but that was all she could distinguish. But they also sent a clear message: he was going to kill Krystal, and he wanted Eva to watch.

  “Drop the knife,” Eva said. To her dismay, her arms were trembling. The man in black looked pointedly at the wildly shaking Ruger in her hands. The next few seconds came in snapshots—the slightest movement as his fingers tightened on the blade at Krystal’s throat; Eva harnessing every ounce of her energy into her trigger finger; raising the gun steadily and quickly; squeezing the trigger smoothly; firing off two shots one after the other directly into the man’s forehead; kneeling to tuck her gun back into her ankle holster.

  Then everything sped up to double time—the masked man slumped to the ground in a heap, his knife clattering onto the marble floor; Krystal’s mouth opening in a long blood-curdling scream; the sound of sirens in the distance.

  Pushing Krystal out of the way, Eva knelt by the dead man and ripped the rubber mask off. She stared at a face she’d never seen before in her life.

  Meanwhile, Krystal’s wailing and weeping continued, and the sirens grew closer. Without a backward glance, Eva raced out of the room toward the stairs, jumped down six at a time, and then hurled herself onto the back deck. She leaped off the side and raced into the bushes in the direction she’d seen the man come from just as the first squad car pulled into Krystal’s driveway. She tumbled down the steep hill for about twenty feet until it leveled off. A small deer path led further downhill, so she sprinted down it, hoping it would lead her where she needed to go. Above, she heard shouting and more sirens.

  Ninety yards away she saw it. A road. And the gleam of metal from a small, dark SUV. It was parked on a residential road below Krystal’s house, outside of the gated community. Eva darted toward it, hoping her hotwiring skills from long ago would still work on a newer car. But no sooner had she thought that, she saw the silhouette of a head in the driver’s seat. She pulled up short, but only to reach down and take her gun back out of its holster. As she stood straight again, she readjusted her grip on the gun and headed straight for the vehicle at a sprint.

  She was within fifteen feet of the SUV when the driver gunned the engine and peeled out, scattering gravel and dirt and dust.

  Eva held the gun before her, tempted to fire at the receding vehicle, but was blinded by the dust cloud. It sent her into a coughing fit.

  Instead, aware of the sirens just up the hill from her, she sprinted after the vehicle, keeping to the shoulder. About a quarter mile later, she saw what she needed: a driveway with a vehicle parked in it. Within seconds, she’d hotwired the minivan and roared off, heart pounding, with an eye on the rearview mirror.

  She soon realized the gunman and his accomplice had planned their escape route well. They’d chosen that particular spot to park because the road was out of the gated community and led straight to a major artery in Los Angeles—the 405 freeway. Soon, Eva was on the freeway, blending into traffic and heading back to her new home. She tucked the stolen minivan into the garage and, after checking the security footage to make sure her home had remained unmolested, she stripped and stepped into the shower.

  Although she didn’t have blood or guts on her—only dirt and twigs stuck to her hair and clothing—she needed to wash the murder off. She hadn’t killed anyone in more than a decade. And this kill might have been the wrong one. The figure in the SUV might have been the woman she was truly after. While she’d only seen the silhouette of a head through the vehicle’s window, there was something strikingly familiar about the person—something about them that she knew, something she recognized.

  If she was right, it had almost certainly been the woman who’d killed her family, and she had been this close to her. Eva swore and wanted to punch something. She’d killed the wrong person. There was no room for even the slightest miscalculation. Though she’d done it to save Krystal’s life, Eva knew it had been a mistake.

  She leaned her forehead against the shower wall, letting the scalding water pound down on her scalp, and realized she’d lost the taste for murder. What had once given her a sense of limitless power, now filled her with regret. In hindsight, she knew that under the same circumstances, she’d do it again. But she no longer took pleasure in taking a life. It had become so distasteful to her, she had to steady herself from collapsing onto the shower floor in a heap.

  She told herself it would be different if it was a murder of vengeance, but killing that masked man had left a bad taste in her mouth. She was questioning herself. Could she have shot to disable instead of kill? She didn’t know. But what she did know was that after she avenged her family’s murder, she’d turn herself in.

  As she thought this, she batted away a small thought creeping into her mind—a nagging sense of doubt that whispered in her ear: You’re weak. You’ve lost your edge. You won’t be able to kill again. When you are faced with the woman who slaughtered your family, you will crumble. You will never avenge them. You will die in vain.

  “STOP!” The word echoed in the bathroom. Swiping at her eyes, she realized she was overtired, dehydrated, hungry, and on the verge of delirium. But she didn’t move. Instead, she stood there in the steamy shower, her face pressed against the slick tiles, and fought the urge to vomit. Finally, after some deep breathing exercises, she was able to finish washing herself.

  It was only when she stood wrapped in a thick towel, shivering and teeth chattering, that she realized she’d been shaking nonstop since she stepped into the house.

  Thirteen

  1990s

  Los Angeles

  “The blonde is alive. My man is dead. And Eva is underground.”

  He said it in an even tone and waited for Ludovicus “Luigi the Arm” Mazzo’s reaction. And sure enough, the older man’s displeasure could nearly be felt through the phone line even from more than 6,000 miles away.

  “Cagacazzo!” The Arm did not sugarcoat his feelings about people who failed to follow his orders. He’d just called Vincenzo an incompetent idiot.

  Vincenzo swallowed back his injured pride and tried to keep his tone matter-of-fact, without whining in justification.

  “She showed up early. She killed my man. In front of the blonde.”

  The silence stretched on for a few long seconds before the man in Sicily spoke.

  “This is good.”

  “But we failed.”

  “Maybe not.”

  The Arm’s plan had been to lure Eva to the scene of the murder. The hitman had waited in the bushes until he saw Eva’s car drive up. The idea was as soon as the hitman did his job, he’d return to the car where Vincenzo would call 911 and report that Eva White had killed Krystal Diamond. There was no way Eva could escape. Even if she managed to drive away before police arrived, the security guard at the gate would testify he saw her and her fingerprints would be all over everything, implicating her.

  But everything had gone sideways. Eva had killed the hit man and
escaped. That was fine. After all, Vincenzo had planned to take the hitman out himself after Krystal’s murder. He didn’t want to leave any witnesses behind.

  But still, Vincenzo had made a mistake. He’d foolishly assumed Eva had grown soft over the years. That becoming a mother would’ve taken the bloodlust out of her. He was wrong. She was possibly more powerful than ever. Even more reason he should kill her outright instead of adhering to the Arm’s plan. Because for some reason, the old man had convinced himself that Eva living with the massacre of her family—and being blamed for it—was the worst possible punishment he could exact upon her.

  Vincenzo bit his tongue but was tempted to say, “Just because this is what you lived through does not mean it is worse than death.”

  But how did he really know? So instead of screaming into the phone, hurling accusations and arguments, Vincenzo simply asked, “What now?”

  “Wait for my instructions,” the Arm said.

  The line disconnected.

  Fourteen

  1990s

  Los Angeles

  Eva slept for nine hours before she woke up, throat parched, weak, and nauseous. After gulping three glasses of water in the kitchen and wrapped only in the sheet from her bed, she saw the bowl of fruit left by the real estate agent. She stood at the bar counter and ate three oranges, two bananas, and an apple before she turned to the cupboards.

  Bare.

  She’d order food and have it left at the front gate. She needed to eat. She needed to build up her strength. Yesterday’s mission had shown her that she had grown soft. If she hoped to avenge her family before she died, she had to return to the woman she’d been in Sicily.

  Pumped up by the sugar rush from the fruit, Eva downed another glass of water and began her morning exercise routine.

  It was a regimen she’d begun immediately upon arriving on American soil. She performed the exercises religiously each morning. Until this week, she’d only missed two mornings in ten years—once when the morning sickness she’d experienced with Lorenzo had been at its worst, and the other was the morning after her wedding when she and Matthew woke in Cabo San Lucas on their honeymoon.

  “You must really love me,” he said after she’d made love to him, showered, dressed, and grabbed her bag for them to head to the beach.

  She’d turned and smiled. “Why do you say that? Obviously, I do.” She held up her left hand, the wedding ring gleaming in the light, and fluttered it at him.

  “I didn’t think I’d ever see the day when you skipped your morning workout.”

  “Today, the first day I am Mrs. Eva White, is an exception. But it won’t happen again. I’ll be up early working out tomorrow while you’re sleeping in.” She laughed as she said it, and her tone was lighthearted, but she was dead serious.

  He smiled but then grew somber.

  He wrapped his arms around her from behind and kissed her neck before whispering in her ear, “I don’t know why you need to keep your secrets from me, but I love you enough to trust that you have a good reason. Whatever it is, you know I will love you no matter what. I will also love you forever, even if you never tell me a single thing about your past. You know that.”

  Tears pricked at her eyes. She turned in his arms and said, “Matthew, it’s because I love you more than life itself that I can’t share everything with you.”

  He stared at her for a second before answering, “I know.”

  It was the last time he’d brought up her past and her secrets. His trust in her had made her fall more deeply in love with him than she could’ve imagined possible.

  That’s why she had to avenge his murder. Her husband and children had been innocent. They had died for her sins.

  She would never rest until she settled the score.

  This burning desire propelled her through her grueling routine. Two hours later—after going through her Navy Seal workout of push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups, dips and then an hour on the treadmill—she was done and in the shower. This time she ended the scalding shower with a blast of cold water, counting until she’d stood under the icy needles for two full minutes.

  After she was dressed, she sat cross legged on the wooden floor and meditated, then did some simple yoga stretches before opening her laptop and placing an order for food delivery. Fish. Vegetables. Fruit. Eggs. Nuts. Her body was her weapon, and she needed to fuel it properly for battle. She also ordered a yoga mat, black lingerie, five pairs of thick, black leggings, and five black long-sleeve shirts, work out gear, running shoes, a high-powered smoothie maker, and protein powder. She was in training.

  Only when she had ordered what she’d need to survive for the next few weeks did she click over to the local news websites. Only two stations still had stories posted on her. The first one repeated old information. It hadn’t been updated since the night before. But the second station had just been updated that morning. She clicked on the recorded video. It was about the incident at Krystal’s house.

  She knew killing the masked man had only solidified her standing as a suspect, and yet she still flinched seeing her honeymoon photo on the computer monitor. Hopefully, Krystal wasn’t savvy enough to have noticed that she’d dyed her hair black.

  The news anchor switched to footage of Krystal standing in front of her home. Repairmen in the background were replacing her windows.

  “I talked her into letting me go,” Krystal said into the camera. “She told him, the guy with the knife, to let me go, but then she shot him. Right in the head. Oh, my god. Oh, my god.” Krystal was fanning herself, hyperventilating.

  “It’s okay Mrs. Diamond. Take your time,” the reporter said, nodding sympathetically. “Were you the only one home at the time?”

  Krystal ignored the question. “She killed a man right in front of me. In front of me. Dead. In my own bedroom. I’m being treated for post-traumatic stress disorder. I haven’t slept or eaten a bite since then. I told my husband I can never sleep in this house again. We are selling our house. We are leaving immediately.”

  “Can you tell our viewers more about how the man was shot?”

  “She did it while he was still holding me. I mean, maybe she was a bad aim and was aiming for my head. Why would she kill one of her own?”

  “Can you think of a reason why she killed him?”

  Krystal scrunched up her face, her turned up nose wrinkling. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Did you say earlier he was holding a knife to your throat?”

  “Yes. He could have sliced my throat open. What if he jerked from the gunshot and the knife went in me?”

  The reporter looked at the camera. “When we asked police if Eva White was now a suspect in her family’s slaying because of this recent incident, they would only say she’s a person of interest. Ken.”

  The cameras cut back to a well-coifed man in the newsroom.

  “Thanks, Belinda. Have they at least named Mrs. White as a suspect in the homicide at Mrs. Diamond’s house?”

  “No, Ken. They are continuing to call her a ‘person of interest’ in both crimes.”

  Fools. Eva clicked off the website in disgust. Maybe she should have let the witch die. Who was to say that Yates was better off with her alive? Maybe his life would’ve turned out better if his mother had died. Any mother like that would surely be poison to a child, wouldn’t she?

  But Eva knew she’d do it again. Every instinct in her directed her to protect the innocent. It was her mother’s fault. Her mother had been the one to take in strays during Eva’s childhood. Whether it was a cat with a litter of kittens or a neighborhood kid who was neglected at home, Eva’s mother had raised her to believe that caring for the less fortunate and vulnerable was her duty in life.

  Thinking of her mother sent a sharp bolt of pain behind Eva’s eyes. She didn’t even know if her mother was still alive. She’d once gone to the library and searched for information on her mother, looking in and around Rome, but nothing had come up in the search results.

  Eva pa
ced and prowled her new home. She was going to have to ditch the stolen car. On second thought, that would be too dangerous. She’d have to steal some license plates first and then switch them out before she could ditch the car. Meanwhile, she needed a set of wheels. But first she had to wait for the food delivery.

  Restless, she moved every single piece of furniture out of the large living room—the couches, the tables, and the TV—and began practicing her Gladiatura Moderna routine.

  She was a little rusty. The smooth and flowing moves required of the ancient knife-fighting, martial-arts form eluded her on this day. She vowed to make it part of her daily workout until she regained the fluidity of her youth.

  If she executed a move clumsily, she forced herself to repeat it. Over and over again.

  She’d worked up a sweat again by the time her phone dinged, alerting her to the delivery waiting at the bottom of her driveway. Wiping the sweat off her face with a towel, she reviewed the security footage.

  Everything had been done according to her directions. She’d have to risk driving the stolen van down her long driveway to pick up the delivery. But from what she’d seen reviewing surveillance camera footage at her front gate, traffic was rare. It looked like the two neighbors above her—one a doctor and, further up the road, a Hollywood executive—were not home often. The doctor, a woman who worked in the oncology department at USC, seemed to work twenty-four hour shifts. Her vehicle would leave and not return for a day, coming home in the morning and then staying put for another two days before leaving again for another twenty-four-hour period. Perfect. It looked like she had a maid service that came once a week, but it had been there the day before.

  The Hollywood executive left his house around nine and returned by eight. Information she’d found online showed he was divorced. His wife lived nearby in an expensive Beverly Hills home. A brief scan of the divorce papers showed the couple had joint custody of a son.