Luckily for Vincenzo, his first target was Teverola.
It was no coincidence that Mazzo’s man shared a cell with Vincenzo. It didn’t take long for an alliance to be forged. When Vincenzo was released early, he wasted no time in killing his boss.
And with that act, his reputation was forged in stone. He was “the People Slayer.” He was the most cold-hearted assassin Italy had ever seen.
Meanwhile, Luigi the Arm’s reach grew. He ruled over all of Southern Italy and part of Sicily. The only mob boss that stood in his way was Eva Lucia Santella.
She was the most powerful mob boss in that area. But then it seemed as if fortune smiled on him when the other mob bosses turned against her. She’d angered them by refusing to allow her organization to participate in the sex trade. Some of the bosses let that slide but when she had killed her own blood, her half-brother, there was not a single mob boss who would defend her.
Luigi the Arm said he would take care of her. He knew that taking out the powerful woman would secure his position as the leader of all the bosses.
He sent his underboss to take Eva out, but she’d been warned and had disappeared. When the underboss couldn’t find her, he headed to the hills of Sicily where he thought the Arm was staying for the weekend in a secluded farmhouse.
But one of Eva’s soldiers followed him.
When the underboss arrived, Luigi the Arm was not there. Only Mazzo’s secret family: a woman he had loved since they were children and their love child, a beautiful nineteen-year-old promised to Vincenzo in marriage.
Once inside the wooden farmhouse, the underboss realized his mistake. He saw Eva’s soldiers sneaking up and surrounding the house. Then the underboss made his last, fatal mistake by grabbing a stash of weapons and firing from each window as if an army waited inside.
Eva’s men, armed with assault rifles, wasted no time destroying the structure, splintering the wood into slivers and slaughtering the underboss and the two women inside.
When Luigi the Arm found out, he couldn’t even mourn publicly. Most people believed the woman and teenager had been the underboss’s secret family. Only the Arm and Vincenzo could mourn their losses together. The two men made a blood oath to make Eva Santella pay if it was the last thing they did.
But when they went to seek vengeance, she’d disappeared. The rumor was that she’d fled to America.
It had taken Vincenzo and his boss years to finally find her. It was dumb luck. A young cousin of the Braccio family was on a beach in Southern California and spotted the fugitive Eva. The woman had come up from the water and entered a house on the beach.
The girl had heard the tales of the Queen of Spades after growing up in the same town. She’d even spotted her once in a local bakery. The girl had been about to go up and say hello but then became embarrassed and convinced herself she was imagining things. But she did snap a photo and showed her mother that night at the hotel. After a terse conversation between her parents, her father interrogated her about where she’d seen the woman.
The next day, Vincenzo was on a plane to Los Angeles with a new name and a plan.
His bloodthirst for Eva’s head was doubly powerful—the Santella family had killed his father and the woman he’d planned to marry.
Now, back in his home country, Vincenzo couldn’t believe that Eva had fallen for his trap. He would be waiting. At the rock. The place where he had once stolen a kiss from her while their parents were inside drinking grappa until the wee hours. It was his first kiss, and nothing had ever compared to that innocence.
He would kiss her again today again. But it would be the kiss of death—and the sweetest kiss of his life.
Thirty-Four
1990s
Sicily
Eva was glad for the waxing gibbous moon. It helped her see as she made her way down the steep, briar-covered hillside toward the old Canucci house. The thick tread on her boots helped her grip the dirt, but some broke free and tumbled down ahead of her. Something rustled in the bushes nearby. She froze, but it was only a small creature, not a person.
Armed with her long swords, dagger, and a gun, she was as prepared as she was going to get.
There was always the chance that a trap had been set and Vincenzo lay in wait for her at the house.
As she grew closer and could see the windows of the house, she realized that this was more likely than not. Inside one window she could see a faint glow as if from a candle. Someone was there.
She paused at the big rock where Vincenzo had kissed her so many years ago and wondered once again what had happened to turn such a sweet boy into a monster.
A twig cracked and she whirled. At the same time came a deafening noise, and a crushing weight pushed her entire body down into the ground, pressing her open mouth into the soil. The last thing she thought was that she was going to suffocate on dirt, and that was a cowardly way to die.
Thirty-Five
1990s
Sicily
“You have pleased me.”
Vincenzo did not dare smile. He simply bowed his head slightly.
“Do you want her before…” The Arm looked down at Eva’s limp body sprawled on the marble floor. Her head was thrown back. Her pulse could be seen throbbing in her neck.
Vincenzo tried to look confused, but his blood raced. He felt a fissure of excitement. Was Mazzo offering what he thought? No. It had to be a test.
“Sir?”
His boss gave him a tight smile and nodded. Another man leaned down, lifted Eva up, and threw her across his shoulder. She gave a slight moan.
Vincenzo wanted to ask where she was being taken, but it was not his concern. Not anymore. He’d brought her home and literally laid her at the boss’s feet. He had returned a hero.
“I am impressed,” the Arm said.
“Thank you.” Again, he dipped his head slightly in a nod.
“You may go.”
He looked up in surprise. He’d expected something more. Praise showered on him? An envelope of cash? A smile? Something.
The two of them had shared this vendetta—this hatred—for more than ten years, and this was it? Just a dismissal? Mazzo examined him coldly.
Vincenzo hid his fury and turned to leave.
Thirty-Six
1990s
Sicily
Francesca watched from the balcony above the inner courtyard. Just what was her darling husband up to? Her eyes narrowed. He’d never told her where his extreme hatred for Eva Santella came from.
Now was the time to find out. He had a meeting that afternoon in town. She would sneak into his office and read the journal she’d seen him writing in this morning. When she walked into his study, he’d been writing furiously with an evil grin on his face that she’d never seen before. When he saw her, he’d quickly tucked the journal into a desk drawer and locked it. Luckily, Francesca knew where he kept the key.
Thirty-Seven
1990s
Sicily
Vincenzo whistled as he strode down the main drag in Palermo. The salty breeze felt cool on his hot forehead, and he inhaled deeply and smiled to himself.
It was going to be the greatest night of his life.
Finally, the Arm had called him and ordered him to attend a private gathering of the mob bosses. He said to dress sharp. Vincenzo hung up the phone smiling. He’d waited a long time for this. Although he’d been pleased when he was named lo scannacristiana, he’d grown weary of the life of an assassin.
He wanted to be a fat cat like Mazzo. He wanted to live in a villa overlooking the sea. He would give his wife her own master suite. He would build an entire wing for his mama and a small home near the garden for Henrietta. His wife would be so pleased with the villa and the riches and the jewels, she would let him do as he pleased. Everything he’d dreamed of was going to be his for the taking.
He’d fulfilled the greatest mission of his life, and now he would reap the promised rewards. What luck that the dumb bitch had followed him to Sicily. I
t could not have been better planned. Now she was rotting deep within the bowels of Mazzo’s villa.
Eva would soon be dead. And he would soon be one of the most powerful men in all of Italy.
No longer would he have to run errands for his mama, who had sent him into town today to buy a wedge of Romano for her pasta dish. From now on, he would order his house staff to take care of such measly tasks. When his mother had first asked him to go into Palermo for her, his initial response had been anger, but then he realized he could kill two birds with one stone. He would pick up what his mother needed and have a little bit of what he needed. And right now, he needed Henrietta and what only she would offer. He needed to satisfy his lust if he were ever going to be calm at tonight’s party.
Henrietta did not disappoint. He’d just left Henrietta’s flat above the bar and walked quickly down the cobblestone streets and was heading toward his car when an old crone stepped in front of him on the narrow sidewalk and held up her palm to halt him. Bright eyes peeked out of a black shawl.
“Move, old woman,” he’d said.
She lifted a gnarled finger and pointed it at his chest. It trembled. He was about to bat her hand away when she spoke.
“You will never see the likes of heaven.”
He froze at the words, but quickly regained his composure. He was about to shove her out of his way when two large men came and stood on either side of the woman. What the fuck? He quickly dipped inside a store to his right, heart pounding. When he looked back outside, all three people were gone.
What the hell was going on? He emerged back onto the sidewalk and looked both ways but couldn’t see anyone who even resembled the hunched older woman and the two burly men.
He shook his head. Maybe he’d had too much wine with Henrietta.
Even though he told himself the woman was a crazy old bitch, the specter of her words draped over his shoulders like a heavy cloak as he made his way back to his wife and mother.
Thirty-Eight
1990s
Sicily
Francesca sat before her mirror, applying heavy makeup to the bruises her husband had left on her neck. The heart wrenching strains of il cuore è uno zingaro filtered out of hidden speakers in the corner of the room.
She had picked this album for a reason. It had been playing the night of their wedding, when they danced on the terrace overlooking the sea.
One lone tear slid down her cheek as she stared at herself in the mirror. That eye was also thickly caked with makeup to hide the fading, yellowish black eye beneath.
The song had also been playing the first time he hit her.
She loved him. But he would die.
His anger had gotten worse. While he used to just scream in her face, the past few months, he had taken to beating her. It had started with a slight shove onto the bed during an argument.
She’d watched as his eyes widened with the thrill of it. He’d pinned her to the bed and ripped off her underwear, entering her violently. A week later, he struck her, sending her reeling to the ground. This time when he followed up by thrusting his cock into her, she fought back. She screamed and scratched him, calling him a rapist.
He laughed. “You are my wife. It is not rape.”
But he was wrong. It was rape. And he would pay. He would pay for raping her. He would pay for laughing at her. He would pay for lifting a hand against her. He would pay. With his life.
After reading his journal, she had seen what a truly awful man he was.
He’d lived a double life. He had kept a secret family in the hills—a simple farm girl he’d known since childhood and a secret love child. It was unforgivable. And he’d kept their murders a secret from her as well. He’d lied to her their entire relationship. And he’d spent years of his life and untold thousands to seek revenge on Eva Santella.
Francesca had shaken reading the journal entries. She hated him. She hated him not only for sleeping with another woman, but for keeping a secret family. And she hated that she’d wasted so much of her life with him, turning a blind eye to his dark side. She’d put up with everything—even the occasional beating—but this was too much. He would die for this. This involved her honor. He had sullied her. Publicly? How many others had known about this over the years?
After her bruises were covered, she donned a golden silky dress. The big party was tonight. She was expected to look and act amazing, entertaining their guests. But as soon as the guests were gone, she would put her plan into action.
She leaned over and hit repeat on the operatic song. She closed her eyes and sang the words that would give her the strength to get through this night. She sang about suffering and the wound deep in her heart. How she said it was nothing, but still cried. And the line that said it all, “Per te si è fatto tard”—For you, it's too late.
Thirty-Nine
1990s
Sicily
Eva first noticed the cold wall against her back. She was slumped, somehow sitting upright, her head hanging forward, her chin touching her chest.
Her mind was still slightly fuzzy, but clearing.
She needed to assess her situation and surroundings and do a body check.
Without opening her eyes or moving, she scanned her body, starting at the top of her head and moving downward. Her head throbbed. Her wrists ached; she didn’t move them but felt something digging into them. The back of her left thigh, flung out before her, stung.
When she got to her toes she made her way back up, this time analyzing her mood—sleepy but fraught with anxiety—and then listened intently. She heard distant rumblings above. She identified the noises: doors closing, voices, furniture scraping across floors, a vacuum. And closer, the sound of water rushing through pipes.
The air was chilly and the ground under her and the wall behind her both felt damp.
She was in a basement. But she couldn’t tell if she was alone. There might be someone else there with her. She listened for any sign of life around her, for the slightest whisper of air from someone else’s breathing.
Though she heard nothing, she still waited. Finally, she opened her eyes to slits, keeping the rest of her body immobile. Her eyes scanned the room. A small bulb near the ceiling filled the room with a dim light, allowing her to make out its features.
She was in a wine cellar. The opposite wall was cave-like with a curved ceiling above a recess filled with shelves of wine. Using her peripheral vision, she saw boxes stacked to the right. Vaguely, she noted that they were labeled with various holidays: Christmas, Easter, the Feast of the Archangel Michael.
To the left, she saw a row of large, wooden cabinets.
She lifted her head. She felt cold steel on her neck. She instinctively tried to reach up to figure out what it was, but her wrists were clasped in thick steel bands. They cut into her flesh. She yanked on them. A thick chain on each one was bolted to the wall behind her. She jerked her head and was yanked back as she heard the chains on her padlocked collar jingle. The thick, steel collar was also chained to the wall behind her.
Her legs were free. She drew her knees up to her chest. Whatever had happened to the back of her thigh left a dark smear of blood in the dirt beneath where her leg had been. She managed to draw her leg up enough to gingerly prod the back of her leg with her left hand. She winced as she pressed on the wound. She felt crusty, dried blood on her torn pants. Thank God. At least the blood seemed to have clotted. That was good.
Scrunching her face up, she tried to remember what had happened. How had she ended up in a basement? As the fog in her brain cleared, it came back to her quickly. She’d been creeping up to Vincenzo’s old house. The last thing she remembered was being near the big rock where he had kissed her as a boy.
He must have been lying in wait or had someone else there waiting for her.
Whoever had hit her must have knocked her out. That would explain the pounding in her head and why she felt nauseous every time she moved.
She kept her knees up to her chest to
stay warm. The length of the chain securing her wrists to the wall allowed her to keep her hands at her hips, but no further. She thought furiously. There had to be a way to escape.
At the same time, dread filled her. There was a hit on her life here in Sicily. Vincenzo stood to gain fame and fortune for killing her. What she didn’t understand was why she was still alive. Again, he’d had the chance to kill her, but hadn’t.
Unless he was bringing her to someone else who would do the honors, so to speak. She didn’t mind dying, but she didn’t want it to be like this. Not as a helpless captive.
The sound of a throat clearing made her jump, slamming her head against the wall behind her and sending her blood racing through her body.
“You do not seem afraid.”
She whirled, as much as her collar would allow. The voice emerged from a shadowy corner by the row of cabinets hidden in darkness.
The man stepped into the light with a shuffling sound.
He was tall for a Sicilian, at least six feet, with his head nearing the cellar ceiling. He wore a white shirt that shimmered slightly in the light, made of some shiny fabric like silk. His black trousers had a perfect crease, and his polished shoes gleamed in the dim light.
His black hair was slicked back. He raised a hand, and several jeweled rings glinted as he rubbed his jaw. “You have grown into quite the beauty.”
“Who are you?” Her tone was flat, disinterested. She kept her eyes hooded, watching him through her long lashes.
“You were sexy as a nubile teen, but now as a grown woman, your sexiness is unrivaled. It must be motherhood.”
The words were like a knife to Eva’s heart. She wanted to spit in the man’s face, but he towered above her, moving closer until she was staring at his pants leg. A little closer and she could kick out his kneecaps.
Queen of Spades Page 15
