Black Widow
Gia Santella Crime Thrillers, Book 5
Kristi Belcamino
Contents
Find the Author
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Sneak Peek
Author’s Note
Keep In Touch
Kristi’s Bookshelf
Did You Like This Book?
About the Author
Gia and the Black Widow
Copyright © 2018, Kristi Belcamino
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Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden, without the written permission of the author.
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This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.
Find the Author
If you want to chat, you can find me HERE in my Facebook group called Crime, Coffee, & Cannoli. It’s the easiest place to reach me. I’m there every day, several times a day. In addition, it’s a great place to meet and interact with a bunch of kick butt readers just like you!
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Sign up HERE for my newsletter and receive the Gia prequel (not available for sale anywhere) as a welcome gift.
https://www.subscribepage.com/KristiBelcamino.
Prologue
Somewhere off the coast of Africa
Silver moonlight sparkled on the waves below.
I leaned over the rail as the luxury cruise ship cut silently through the smooth Mediterranean Sea headed toward yet another port.
Italy was out there somewhere across the vast dark waters, invisibly tugging at my soul, triggering memories of another summer night gazing on this same moon from the balcony of an Italian villa.
It was on that night—with despair engulfing me and grief clawing at my insides—that I realized my inescapable destiny: to always be alone.
The man I loved had just been murdered at a wedding reception, proof positive that everyone I cared for ended up dead.
Now, I stood on the Riviera Deck in the spaghetti-strapped, ankle-length, white beaded dress I’d worn to the formal dinner earlier and welcomed the chill that ran across my back, neck and arms. I let the wind whip my hair around my face so it would hide the traitorous tears streaming down cheeks.
Even though I was alone on the deck—everyone else long since in bed—I was embarrassed to be seen weeping, to be caught feeling sorry for myself.
I had more than most people could wish for in a lifetime. Except someone to love.
At least I’d made a new friend on this trip.
Natasha was one of the first women I’d ever met who seemed to meet me on equal ground. She wasn’t cattily eyeballing me and making snide comments like many of the women I’d met on this cruise—well, hell, in my life.
Instead, when we first met, she snaked her arm through mine and said, “I think you’re my type of woman, Giada Valentina Santella.”
For the past week, we’d been buddies. We’d had tapas in Cartagena, smoked weed together at an Ibiza villa, soaked in ancient Arab baths, and hung out with the Barbary apes and dolphins in Gibraltar.
Having a female friend was something brand new to me. On most days, we started out meeting at the pool. I had to admit I looked forward to seeing Natasha walk up in her black one-piece swimsuit, tossing her long red hair and flashing her brilliant smile. When she walked up, every man in the vicinity stopped and stared.
Her husband, Henry, was much older and his doctor had advised him not to take the shore excursions, so Natasha and I were on our own.
It had been a good time.
Until tonight. Henry and Natasha had argued at dinner and then dismissed me. It’d hurt my feelings, but let’s face it, I was the third wheel on their romantic cruise.
I’d been lucky to tag along for as long as I had. Normally Henry went to bed early, and we’d either hit the dance club—until they kicked us out; drink in the Star Bar—until they kicked us out, or grab our own bottles and sit on the Sun Deck by the pool with blankets pulled over us and talking and drinking and smoking until dawn.
For the most part, Natasha had treated her husband like a doting granddaughter would—kissing him on the cheek and treating him in a solicitous manner. But now something was off. As soon as dessert was served, Natasha had whispered something to Henry at dinner and his face had grown dark. He’d hissed something back and Natasha’s eyes had grown wide. Then, they both stood and left.
For a split second, I’d wondered if it’d been something I did. But then thought, fuck that shit and ordered a few more drinks.
Finally, when the staff had cleaned up and I was the only one left, a kindly man in a white waiter suit approached and kicked me out of the dining room. I’d grown comfy slumped in my blue velvet, upholstered chair, tipping them back.
I headed for the Star Bar on the Baja Deck and, feeling fancy, ordered a cognac.
My attempts to have a friend had left me lonelier than ever. Maybe my only friend was the bottle. Now, that’s a healthy attitude. I ignored the group of men at the other end of the bar, talking and staring at me.
After a long while, it was just me and Sal, the bartender. It wasn’t his real name, but since he looked a little like my attorney back in California, I just started calling him that. He didn’t seem to object since I was paying for each drink with an Andrew Jackson and telling him to keep the change. I think he would’ve kept serving me until Christmas, but some uptight fuck in a suit eventually came over and whispered to him at the same time all the lights came on.
“Why don’t you go to bed now?” The dude in the suit said. I squinted my eyes at him and scowled.
Fuck that.
The last thing I wanted to do was go back to my lonely suite and sleep.
I’d sleep when I was dead.
The truth was, lying alone in the dark always brought back memories of Bobby, and I wouldn’t be able to keep them at bay while I was three sheets to the wind. When sober, I could distract myself from the flood of painful memories. But shitfaced? Forget about it.
When it became clear the suit wouldn’t leave without me, I slipped off my stool. “I’ll go as soon as you do.”
I knew I was being rude, but I stared him down until he left, giving me one last nasty look as he stepped through a door into the back. Sal, the sweetheart and adorable enabler, slipped me a half-full bottle of bourbon and winked at me. I shoved the bottle in my bag and headed for the Sun Deck.
I plopped on a cushy lounge chair and pulled a blanket up to my neck, lying back and taking in the stars. They were mesmerizing at sea. My eyelids grew heavy.
When I woke, the stars were gone, and the sky seemed a tiny bit lighter. A huge full moon hung low on the horizon. I still wanted to avoid the specter of my empty bed and suite, so I took the short flight of stairs to the Riviera Deck. I stood at the rail searching the da
rk sea in front of me. For what I didn’t know.
For a second, I wondered how it would feel to just let myself tip over the rail, freefall into the swirling blue water below. But then I pulled back. I was a survivor. I was just having a bad night. It was normal. Bobby had been murdered not so far from here in the small Italian city of Positano. No wonder I was feeling shitty. It was difficult to be on the Mediterranean when not that long ago, I’d looked out on this same sea with the man I loved.
Checking out wasn’t an option. Because if I had nothing else going for me, I had this: I wasn’t a quitter.
I took a slug from my bourbon bottle, brushed my hair back behind my ears and squared my shoulders. The silvery moon was so fucking brilliant hanging low in the black velvet sky that I couldn’t help but feel a sliver of hope. Any world that had something that goddamn beautiful was worth living in.
That’s when I heard the scream—a long, piercing cry that split the pre-dawn silence like a sharp dagger.
Chapter One
Two-Bit Junkie Crack Whore
Before
San Francisco
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“That bitch!”
My voice startled Django, who jumped, making the tags on his collar jangle. He’d been snoozing on his massive suede cushion near my bed.
“Sorry,” I said to my dog and clicked off the show with my remote. “But she’s a total pain. Who does she think she is?”
The previous few weeks, I’d become obsessed with rich, real housewives and their atrocious behavior.
It kept my mind off my own life.
Django stood and did his elaborate series of stretches. Paws and legs extended out front and then bent head to touch them.
Dust swirled in a beam of sunlight stretching across the length of the loft. I tried to remember the last time I’d swept. Then shrugged. No idea. Weeks. Maybe months.
The kitchen was the only part of my loft that was halfway clean and only because I hadn’t cooked for weeks. Once a day I ate a delivered meal, usually Phở or chicken coconut soup and then bundled up my trash in a bag and sent it down the trash chute.
All my assorted belongings were scattered across my open loft space. Good thing I didn’t own much. Mostly clothes and books and a few plants, with leaves that were now tipped brown. A pile of wilted, dirty clothes took up a decent chunk of real estate on the floor under my stainless-steel rolling clothes rack.
I hadn’t run out of stuff to wear yet, but now the empty hangers on the rack outnumbered the full ones. I’d taken to wearing my leather pants any time I had to venture outside my home, which was once a week to my father’s company. If I scraped my hair back in a tight ponytail, threw on red lipstick, high-heeled boots, and a blazer, I could almost pass for human.
That didn’t mean the board members were fooled. I caught them giving me the side-eye and whispering under their breaths when they thought I wasn’t paying attention.
“Shit!” I sat up, startling Django again. Poor thing wasn’t used to me moving or talking.
Today was the day I was supposed to listen to the board’s proposal from a Silicon Valley venture capitalist who had been wooing them for months. It was odd since most courting was usually done by the business owner, but after a national magazine had run an article on my combined live-work space developments for the homeless, we’d had investors knocking on our doors. It wasn’t a bad spot to be in. We didn’t need the investors—not really—but I sure as hell wasn’t going to turn down someone shoving money my way.
I grabbed my watch.
“Fuck me!”
I’d completely missed the meeting. I unearthed my phone from my rumpled bed covers. Six missed calls. Four from the office. Two from Dante.
Damn it.
I missed my one chance to see him this week. I needed a dose of Dante. Seeing my best friend was the one thing that got me out of bed lately.
Ever since I’d talked Dante out of his funk and brought him back home from Mexico, I’d fallen into my own dark hole. I couldn’t seem to shake it. Although it should have helped me feel less lonely, having my best friend back in California seemed only to emphasize just how alone I was in this world. Dante was back, but he’d brought his new boyfriend, Silas.
He lived in Calistoga, north of San Francisco. He owned a trendy, five-star restaurant there and was opening a second location nearby. He was the main reason I got out of bed to attend the board meetings at my father’s business. I had asked him to be my personal and professional adviser when I inherited the business.
I knew it was a pain in the ass for him to come down to San Francisco for our weekly meetings with the board, which made me feel even guiltier for missing the meeting today. I sucked.
I punched my pillow. Django side-eyed me and used his paw to hit the lever that opened the door to the roof. Even the dog knew better than to stick around when I was in a bad mood. His nails clicked on the stairs as he headed up to the rooftop garden to do his business. I was afraid to see how many turds were baking in the sun up there. I hadn’t done poop patrol for at least two weeks.
I crawled back under the covers and closed my eyes. I’d sleep more and then see what the real housewives were up to. Something infuriating for sure.
I woke to the sound of Django yipping with happiness. Must be Thanh-Thanh. My neighbor downstairs walked Django for me twice a day. When she refused to take money for it, I lopped it off her rent. When she argued, I told her to deal with it or I wouldn’t let her see Django anymore.
I was full of shit, but she bought it. Enough to pay less rent.
It used to be that my dog was all she cared about, but the other day a man had stood in the doorway behind her when she came to get Django. A beau! Damn skippy if she didn’t deserve a man who made her smile and blush like he did.
I sat up in bed. “Thanh-Thanh?”
She poked her head in the door. She was holding the leash, and Django was twisting and twirling with excitement around her legs.
“How’s your new man?”
Her cheeks grew red, and a smile I’d never seen before appeared on her face.
“That good, huh?”
“He’s moving in.” She blushed as she said it.
“Holy shit. Really?” But then I frowned. “Should I run a check on him. You know, have Darling check him out. Make sure he’s good enough for you?”
“Oh, Gia. He’s fine. I met his mom.”
“Okay.” That was always a good sign. “And he’s good to her?”
“Very.”
“Okay. Then. But I’m right up here if he doesn’t treat you like a fucking princess, got it?”
“Oh, Gia.” She blew out a big puff of air on her way out the door.
I flipped through the different TV channels looking for something to keep me busy until the next housewives show but could only find a Steve McQueen movie. It’d have to do.
I’d fallen asleep again when Django lost his mind barking again. Someone else was here.
Boy, was it busy around here today. I made a note to get all my keys back from my friends.
“Gia, Gia, Gia.” Uh-oh. Darling. Her booming voice was near my head. I was afraid to peek out from my covers.
Darling was a bad ass. She had to be. She owned the largest hair salon in the San Francisco Tenderloin neighborhood, but she paid for her three massive homes with income from her side-gig providing anyone anywhere with a new identity and the paperwork to go with it. Darling had standards, though. She only provided false documents for people who were trying to escape impossible and dangerous situations.
I pulled the covers down from my face.
Her big Cleopatra eyes were wide, and she shook her head and made a “tsking” sound.
“You look like a two-bit junkie crack whore.”
“Thanks, Darling. Love you too.”
“Somebody gotta say it.”
“I’m fine. Leave me alone.” I covered my head again. But I was poised, listening for her reaction.
Darling gave an exaggerated sigh.
I held my breath as her footsteps moved toward the door. Oh my God, was she giving up so easily?
The door closed. I threw back my covers to see if she had tricked me and was still there. My loft was empty.
Fine. I didn’t need her. Besides, why did she care all of a sudden? The past year she’d been so busy acting like a lovesick newlywed with her husband, George, she hadn’t had any time for me.
I had to face it. Everybody was busy. Everybody had somebody special to love except me.
Dante had Silas. Darling had George. Thanh-Thanh had whatever-his-name-was-again.
Me? I had jack shit.
Everybody I ever loved had died.
My mother. My father. Bobby.
It was better that I stay alone. Safer for everybody that way. I couldn’t deal with losing anyone else ever again.
My phone rang. I squinted to see who was calling.
Darling.
“Who are your female friends?” she said before I could even say hello.
“What?” Who cares?
“Who are your homegirls?”
I sat up. “You.”
“I don’t count. I’m old enough to be your mama. I mean your homegirls—the ones you go out with and talk on the phone with all the time.”
Was she trying to make me feel like shit? If so, she was doing a damn good job.
Black Widow Page 1
