Queen of Spades

by Kristi Belcamino

  “I know I have no right to come to you with this. But I didn’t know where else to go—and frankly, you seem like you are the type of person who helps people anyway.”

  Eva laughed. “I do?”

  Tim and Jonathan shot each other a look.

  Jonathan looked over toward the hallway leading to Dolan’s room.

  “We can’t even imagine what you are going through,” he said.

  Tim ducked his head. “We’re so so sorry.”

  Eva nodded her head to acknowledge their words, but kept her gaze steady.

  “This might be a way to help with that—by helping someone else in a desperate situation,” he said.

  His words, essentially echoing what Dolan had said, softened her resistance a little.

  “What’s going on with your friend?” she said.

  “It’s another custody deal,” Jonathan said, pouring wine in a glass and handing it to Eva. “Her husband—the abuser—works in the district attorney’s office. He’s protected not only by the prosecutors but also by all the cops on the force. Nobody believes Julie. Or if they do, they’re afraid enough of him to keep their mouths shut. The problem is, a judge is about to rule on custody arrangements. And here’s the thing—the judge is crooked, too. He takes graft on the side. Julie has proof of it. But she worries if she brings it up, they’ll punish her. The judge knows she knows. He’s going to rule against her anyway. She’s desperate. She’s ready to kidnap her daughter and flee the country, but her husband is suspicious and is having her followed twenty-four-seven.”

  He paused meeting her eyes.

  “Jonathan, I just told Dolan this—I’m leaving for Italy soon. I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”

  His face fell. “I understand. I knew it was a lot to ask. I know,” he glanced at Tim. “And we also realize this would be a risk to you. We know that the police are still after you.”

  Eva shot a glance towards Dolan’s room.

  “Don’t worry, he doesn’t know,” Jonathan said. “I apologize. I never should’ve asked you to do something that might put you in jeopardy of being caught.”

  “It’s fine.” Eva nodded somewhat curtly.

  “Is there anything we can do to help?” Tim said. “To help clear your name?”

  “I was set up by a pro,” Eva said. “At this point, I think the detective might actually believe me. But it’s going to be hard for him to prove it. At least I have a bead on where the real killer is.”

  “That’s why you’re going to Italy?”

  She nodded.

  “How are you getting there? I’m sure you’re on every no-fly list out there. No offense,” Jonathan said.

  “Flight out of Cabo San Lucas.”

  Saying the name sent a pang of pain through her. She had such wonderful memories of her honeymoon there, where she and Matthew had sunbathed, whale watched, snorkeled, and watched sunrises from a private villa far off the tourist strip.

  He stood. “Again, I’m sorry I asked. I just didn’t know where else to turn.”

  Without warning, all of her resistance dropped away. She couldn’t turn her back on this woman. Not as a mother. Even though she’d lost her children, she would always be a mother. Nobody could take that away from her. She thought about what Dolan and his father were trying to tell her—The way to cure sadness was to help someone else who was less fortunate. It was her salvation. Suddenly Eva knew she would help. She had to help. Not just to help her with her own sadness, but because she couldn’t allow a child to suffer if it was within her power to do something.

  “What do you want me to do?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jonathan said.

  Eva stared at him for a few seconds. She picked up her wine glass and drained it before saying, “Consider it done.”

  Thirty-One

  1990s

  Cabo San Lucas

  Eva woke early the morning of her flight. She slipped out of her hotel room while it was still dark and made her way down to the sandy beach a block away.

  Her hotel was in the heavily touristy area of Medano Beach, which was not far from the marina but very far away from the private villa where she and Matthew had stayed during their honeymoon. However, one of their favorite restaurants was nearby. Pausing at the entrance to the beach between two restaurants, Eva plucked her sandals off her feet and looped the straps through her fingers.

  Just as her bare feet hit the cool sand, the first broad strokes of orange and petal pink glowed in the eastern sky. She made her way down to the wet sand, avoiding the soft waves lapping onto the shore reflecting the golden sunrise.

  As she walked along the beach, she felt the shadowy presence of the restaurant looming to her left. She kept her eyes straight ahead, refusing to look up at the large deck where she and Matthew had spent several evenings sipping margaritas. It would hurt too much to do so and would accomplish nothing.

  That life was over. She was no longer that person. She was no longer Matthew’s wife or Alessandra and Lorenzo’s mother. She was not even Eva Lucia Santella anymore. Not really.

  She was the Queen of Spades.

  And on her airline ticket, she was Lucia Michaud.

  Before leaving, she’d spent her two last days in America making sure Julie’s husband realized what a terrible idea it was to seek custody of his child. Waking up to cold steel pressed against your nutsack by a masked woman will do that to you.

  In just a few short hours, she’d be on board her flight. And by this time tomorrow, after two quick stops, she’d land in Rome. From there, she’d rent a car and drive to Sicily.

  She couldn’t wait.

  Thirty-Two

  1990s

  Italy

  Eva kept her huge, dark sunglasses on the entire flight. After the plane landed on Italian soil and the passengers came to their feet, Eva hoisted her black leather backpack onto one shoulder. The woman across the aisle smiled at her, but Eva kept her face stony.

  She was not here on pleasure, and she had no idea how many people still knew about the hit on her life. To avoid the woman sitting beside her during the long flight, she had pretended to sleep. The one time the woman tried to strike up a conversation, Eva had answered in Arabic—just in case the woman spoke Italian. Even though she looked like the average Midwestern grandmother, you never knew.

  Striding through the airport, Eva realized that she didn’t stand out. There were numerous other women with long dark hair, black sunglasses and all-black clothing.

  Maybe this would be easier than she thought.

  After paying cash to rent a Fiat convertible, Eva set off south toward Sicily.

  By the time she got to the ferry that would take her across the water to her homeland, she was exhausted. Rather than force an encounter before she was ready, she decided to rent a hotel room and get a fresh start in the morning.

  She’d purchased a dagger and long sword on the drive down, detouring an hour out of the way to swing by a shop she’d found online. The blades were crafted by a family that had been bladesmiths for four generations. The steel was L6, a carbon, cobalt, and nickel steel of the highest quality.

  The hand-tooled leather sheaths were silky smooth like butter.

  She’d tipped the old guy running the shop and then kissed her own fingertips like the old timers did to show her appreciation and compliment his artistry.

  He’d blushed.

  Now, safely ensconced in a hotel room overlooking the harbor and ferry boats, Eva pushed a dresser in front of her hotel room door and sank into oblivion on the lumpy bed.

  The next morning when she woke, it was already close to noon, and she’d missed the morning ferry. But it was okay. She would spend the day hunting down someone who could procure her a firearm.

  After eating a cornetto and downing an espresso in the hotel dining room, she ducked into the kitchen. The cook barely gave her a glance. She headed toward the busboy. Earlier, when he’d cleared her plate, she noticed a tattoo on his wrist peekin
g out of his long, white shirt sleeve. She caught his attention and nodded toward the back door. She slipped out into the alley and was waiting near the trash cans when he emerged. She held up a handful of euros.

  “I need a gun.”

  He looked in both directions nervously.

  “Today.”

  “I need one day to get it,” he said.

  She pulled out a few more euros.

  “Today.”

  “I can sell you my own. That is the only way. But I will be putting my own life at risk as I walk home tonight after my shift here.”

  She took out another stack of euros. “Do you feel safer now?”

  “Just a moment.”

  He walked back inside, taking her money with him.

  She wasn’t worried. She knew where he worked.

  A few minutes later, he came back holding something wrapped in heavy, white linen napkins.

  “Ammo?”

  “It’s loaded. You can get more over on the next street.”

  “Okay.”

  Without another glance at the boy, she turned and left. When she got to the end of the alley and was about to step into the light, she turned. He was still standing there watching. When she turned, he scrambled toward the restaurant door and disappeared.

  Eva stood on the deck of the ferry, a large black scarf and her huge sunglasses hopefully keeping her disguised. The sight of her homeland on the horizon caused mixed emotions—excitement, sorrow, and fear.

  When she stepped foot onto the Sicilian island, Eva said a silent prayer—that the land would protect her and help her fulfill her mission of vengeance. Now that she was back in Sicily, she felt the draw of that vendetta. It was woven into the very fabric of her being. Her DNA screamed to avenge her family’s murders.

  Although she longed to go to her old home, she knew it would be foolish. That would be the first place Vincenzo would wait for her if he suspected she had followed him. And she suspected that Vincenzo was reporting to someone. The price must still be on her head.

  At this point, she had to move and act as a fugitive.

  Even knowing this, she also had no choice. She had to go after Vincenzo. She would start at his old family home. She would have to be stealthy and go up into the hills above and then sneak down through the forest to the back of the house. Coming into town from the road would be too obvious. Word would spread quickly about an unfamiliar woman poking around in the village.

  She got back into her convertible and headed south. She would round the island the long way, stop at a small sea village for the night, and then be up before dawn. Hopefully she would be able to scout out the house before the break of day.

  Close to suppertime she found a small inn that would suit her purposes. The older couple who ran the place didn’t seem very tech savvy or up to date on current events. If her image had made the Italian news, they most likely would not have seen it.

  They had an old-fashioned sheet for guests to sign in and told her they only took cash, didn’t use credit cards, and didn’t have internet.

  “Perfetto!” Eva had said, telling them she was looking for a break from her high-tech job.

  Eva pushed back the curtains to reveal a stunning view of the sea lit up by the moonlight. She fell into a deep sleep, programming her internal clock to wake up in just a few hours.

  Thirty-Three

  1990s

  Sicily

  Vincenzo was having his after-dinner espresso when the call came in on his cell phone.

  “The old man at the inn outside of Marsala says she is there.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get someone over there. I want her followed.”

  “No need. She is going to your childhood home, Vincenzo. I am certain.”

  “You are right.”

  From the minute he landed on Sicilian soil, Vincenzo had put out the word that Eva Lucia Santella might be coming home.

  He’d been right.

  He sat for a moment. His wife walked by and put her hand on his arm, smiling. He stubbed out his cigar and exhaled loudly. “I will handle this alone,” he said into the phone.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  He hung up and reached for his wife, lifting her skirt.

  “Vincenzo, the children!”

  “Children,” he said without looking at them. “Go to your rooms. Now!”

  But by the time they’d walked out, he’d changed his mind. He dismissed his wife, who scurried away to the kitchen where his mama was washing dishes.

  He made his way in the dark to the outcropping of rock behind his old house—the place where he took refuge when his father lost his temper. He’d hidden there the day the Santellas killed his father and ordered his mother to pack up and leave within twenty-four hours. She had called her family in Catania to come with trucks and pack them up. He stayed near the rock outcropping, refusing to go with her. He hadn’t believed his father was really dead. He would return any minute and stop this nonsense.

  But his mother had seen something in the big box that had arrived on their porch—something that had made her drop to her knees and wail. She’d tucked the box under her arm and went next door to call her family, telling him that his father was dead, and they were going to live with his Uncle Eduardo. It was a brutal, cold-hearted way to break such shocking news to a young boy.

  He’d run behind the house into the woods. His father couldn’t be dead. He’d said goodbye to him just that morning.

  After his mother found him and dragged him into the car, he only had one goal in life—to avenge his father’s murder.

  That desire for vengeance grew stronger when he turned eighteen, and his mother told him he was the man of the house. It was then that she’d told him what was in the box—his father’s head—and a note for her to disappear unless she wanted Vincenzo to face the same fate.

  As she told him, she handed him a neatly tied package. He undid the thick string with trembling fingers. Inside was his father’s bloodstained shirt.

  “They found it near a puddle of blood down by the docks, Vincenzo. They never found his body. But I know this shirt. Look,” she pointed toward the hem. “I sewed that myself. It is your father’s shirt. Now that you are a man, it is your duty to fulfill the vendetta.”

  But by that time, Vincenzo was already well on his way to vengeance. He’d spent the past three years cutting school to run errands for the local mob boss, Antonio Teverola, in Catania. The day he turned eighteen, he begged the boss for a bigger role.

  “What can you do?” Teverola asked, squinting his eyes at the young man before him.

  “I can kill.”

  The boss laughed. “You talk big.”

  “I can. Just tell me who. I will do it.”

  “Why so much hate?”

  “It’s not personal,” he said. Teverola had laughed uproariously, but then he sobered. “I might have something for you. It’s very dangerous. If they catch you, they will kill you.”

  “Who?”

  Teverola knew he wasn’t asking about who might catch him. “Judge Gianluca Falcini. You will have to go into his chambers and do it there.”

  Vincenzo didn’t blink. Usually, the name of the anti-Mafia prosecuting magistrate made people squirm. Or scowl. But he had remained expressionless and said, “I need a gun.”

  The mob boss nodded.

  “When?”

  Teverola looked at the clock on the wall. “Tomorrow.”

  Vincenzo dressed like a messenger and was able to enter the inner chambers of the court by saying he had a message that only the judge could hear.

  Once inside, the judge had looked up from his desk and frowned just as Vincenzo lifted the gun with the silencer and put a bullet right through the middle of the man’s forehead. He then leaped out the three-story window into a tree, shimmied down, and was gone before anyone was the wiser.

  After, he lived with Antonio Teverola as his son. The mob boss
made sure the boy received exquisite training from the Mafia’s most deadly hit men.

  Vincenzo spent his days perfecting his assassin skills while secretly dreaming of the day he would return to the northern part of Sicily and avenge his father’s murder.

  But one day when he was twenty, he was pinched after killing a policeman’s brother and sentenced to three years in prison. While there, he heard strange rumors—his childhood friend and now, most deadly enemy, Eva Santella, had become a made woman.

  Her own half-brothers hated her, which he found fascinating, even if they were half-brothers. And her father was a joke—a dried-up, useless old man rotting away behind these very same prison walls.

  Over the years, he’d tracked the Santellas. When he mentioned the Santella name to Teverola, the mob boss had ordered him “hands off.” And when Teverola spoke, there was no room for argument. Those who had disobeyed him had been killed by Vincenzo himself in terrible ways.

  Vincenzo knew he was the boss’s favorite assassin, but he also knew he was not the boss’s only assassin. And that loyalty must be a two-way street. Vincenzo had seen the cold stare when the boss had ordered him to kill his consigliere—Teverola’s childhood friend and long-time confidant and advisor. The consigliere had betrayed the boss in a small way—by accepting money from a sworn enemy—but it was still a betrayal that could not go unanswered.

  While in prison, Vincenzo continued to kill on demand as ordered. But then the boss joked that he was doing such a good job as a hit man in prison, he might arrange for Vincenzo to serve a longer sentence. Having an assassin in prison was a boon to the business.

  While Vincenzo laughed along, he was keeping tally of Teverola’s insults and making plans. Because in prison he had met a soldier of Teverola’s only powerful enemy— Ludovicus “Luigi the Arm” Mazzo.

  A Sicilian Mafioso, Mazzo was interested in taking over and unifying Sicily under his rule. One by one, he planned to take out all the other mob bosses.