[Gia Santella 01.0] Gia in the City of the Dead

by Kristi Belcamino

  Get your FREE Book HERE.

  .

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  GIA IN THE CITY OF THE DEAD

  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 FIVETEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  Acknowledgments

  GIA IN THE CITY OF THE DEAD

  BY KRISTI BELCAMINO

  CHAPTER ONE

  NORTH BEACH, SAN FRANCISCO

  I eyed the brunette in the sparkly underwear as she whipped her long hair and draped her tanned legs around the silver pole, sliding one stiletto-heeled foot up and down, up and down.

  Her breasts, naked and swinging, were bigger than mine, but she was about the same size and weight. No stretch marks. Hips still slim. Childless. No thin white band on her ring finger. Single. Fake diamond studs. Not doing this for fun or to rebel against daddy. Fuchsia toenail polish. Definitely not from the Bay Area. Perfect white teeth and flawless skin. Not a crankster. No identifying tattoos.

  She would do.

  I slid three twenties under the strap of her G-string and told her to meet me in the private room at her break.

  Waiting in the tiny, mirrored room, I rummaged around in my bag for a roach, but came up empty. Must have smoked it last night. At the bottom of my purse, my fingers brushed some loose shake so I licked them and stuck them back into my bag. I poked around until tiny green flecks stuck to the pads of my fingers, which I licked again. I was plucking a few stray flakes off my lipstick when she walked in, wiping tiny beads of sweat away from her temple with a small white towel.

  She leaned back against the door and untied her short silky robe.

  “Hey, honey. What’s your name?” she asked, fluffing her hair. My back was to her, but I didn’t take my eyes off her face in the mirror.

  “Gia,” I said and smiled. Yes, she would do perfectly.

  “I’m Candy.” Sure you are. She sidled up to me, pressing her bare breast against my arm from behind, trailing her fingers down my arm as we watched ourselves in the floor-length mirror.

  “It’s not what you think,” I said, gently pushing her away.

  Ten minutes later we had a deal.

  I slipped back into the night, ignoring the groups of men huddled on the neon sidewalks outside, smoking and cat calling everyone who looked like they might have a vagina—whether they were born that way or not.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE PREVIOUS WEEK ...

  The throbbing head pain keeping time with my heartbeat told me last night had been a doozy. Even if I didn’t remember any of it.

  Without opening my eyes, I knew it was time to get up because I could hear the noisy gurgling of my Nespresso in the kitchen. The espresso machine was programmed to kick on at two every afternoon so that when I rolled out of bed hot coffee would be waiting. It was a rough life.

  If I got dressed quickly, I could still make it to a Budo session at my dojo before I had to go see my godfather in Monterey. I stretched and yawned and then froze at the sound of clanging in my kitchen.

  As I yanked the covers up over my naked breasts and reached under my huge stack of pillows for my gun, a vague memory surfaced — a cute face, tight ass, and deft hands. I’d brought some guy home from the bar last night. I groaned. He should’ve been long gone. I put the gun back. If he was banging pots and pans around in the kitchen, he probably wasn’t a serial killer.

  A curly-haired head peeked around the doorframe. “Hey, Gia. You hungry? It’ll be ready in a jiffy.”

  I stared until his head withdrew. He whistled as he walked back to the kitchen. Jiffy? Whistling? That did it. This guy was way too polite and chipper to be my type. I closed my eyes trying to piece together what had happened the night before. I vaguely remembered Scott, the bartender at Anarchy, refusing to fill my glass again despite me wadding up hundred dollar bills and throwing them at him. How much had I had to drink? It must have been a lot because Scott had never cut me off before. The last thing I remembered was stomping off to find someone else to order my booze for me.

  I must have found the guy who was now in my kitchen.

  He seemed harmless. I shrugged on my kimono and tried to avoid looking into the mirrored doors on my closet as I walked past, but still managed to get a glimpse of a green-silk-robe-wearing witch with wild hair.

  I stopped in the bathroom to splash some water on my face, again avoiding the mirror. I glanced into the small metal trash can near the toilet.

  Terror streaked through me when I didn’t see a neatly tied up condom inside. I dumped the contents, tissue paper, cotton balls, eyeliner pencil shavings onto the white tile floor, heart pounding, and knelt down. On my hands and knees, I combed through the debris. Nothing. I even stooped down and looked behind the toilet. He could have flushed it. But probably not.

  In my bedroom, I flopped down on my white sheepskin rug and looked under the bed with a flashlight. I searched every corner of the room. I stuck my gun in my nightstand and tore all the covers off the bed, tossing the duvet, sheets and pillows across the room.

  Still, nothing.

  The whistling from the kitchen made me wince.

  Time to face my houseguest.

  I leaned on the doorframe leading into my small kitchen. The guy was putting slices of sourdough bread in my toaster. Eggs and milk were on the counter. Butter was sizzling in a frying pan on the stove. The guy was cute. But none of that mattered. I cleared my throat. He looked up and smiled.

  “Listen ...” I closed my eyes for a second. Did we have full-on intercourse? Did we use a condom? I was too humiliated to ask. “I’m sure you’re really sweet. But you have to leave now.”

  When I opened my eyes, his smile had faded. I tried again. “I drank a lot last night. It’s better if you leave. Now.”

  “Hey, I’m a feminist,” he said, holding his palms out. “I don’t take advantage of drunk women. If anything, you talked me into coming back here. I kept saying it probably wasn’t a good idea, but you insisted otherwise. You practically dragged me home.”

  I cringed. He was probably right. But I still needed to get rid of this nameless, chivalrous stranger. “Like I said,” I began again. “You seem like a really nice
guy. But you need to go.” Did we have sex? I couldn’t make my lips form the words.

  “No problem.” He didn’t seem angry, only disappointed, maybe even a little hurt. For a brief second I felt a twinge of guilt, but quickly dismissed it. I needed to get this stranger out of my house immediately. Before I freaked the fuck out.

  He grabbed a leather jacket off my dining room table. I noticed an empty wine bottle and two glasses on the table along with what looked like the remains of a pumpkin pie. Guess I had brought the party back here.

  When the door finally clicked closed, I sunk onto the chair on my balcony with a cup of espresso and a pack of Dunhills. I felt another stab of guilt remembering the guy’s face when I told him to leave. For a split-second I wondered if I should have gotten his name, in case ... No, I wasn’t going to go there. For now, I was going to assume that we hadn’t had full-on sex. It would be odd for me, but not totally unheard of. He seemed like a good guy. I know I’d made him feel bad by kicking him out, but what else was I going to do?

  Besides I had a date with the godfather today. Something I was both looking forward to and dreading. Apparently, Vito had a favor to ask me. Something he could not tell me over the phone. My stomach knotted thinking about it and the trip to Monterey. Ever since my parents died, any visit home brought a flood of painful memories.

  As a result, I usually ended up drinking too much and having to stay over in the guesthouse of my godfather’s Carmel home.

  Of course, I could always stay at my parents’ house, which Vito had made sure had been kept like a pristine mausoleum since their deaths two years ago.

  But in my mind, the house loomed like an eerie specter. I wasn’t afraid of ghosts. However, I was terrified of walking into my childhood home, once filled with my mother and father’s laughter and conversation, and finding it hollow and empty. That would flatten me.

  The house needed to be sold. I know I could never live there. And my brother, Christopher, had vowed to never return to the Monterey Peninsula during his lifetime. An hour after my parent’s funeral, Christopher got in his car and before he pulled away told me I would never see him on the peninsula again. And that if he died unexpectedly, he didn’t want to be buried in the family plot.

  “Cremate me and then do whatever the hell you want with the ashes. Leave them at the funeral home for all I care. As long as it’s not in Monterey. Promise me.” He stared at me until I agreed. Then he pulled away.

  Watching the tail lights of his Bugatti pull away, I’d crossed my arms and thought, “Sure, I’ll cremate you and then flush you down the god damn toilet.”

  It was the last time I’d seen him. As far as I knew, he had kept his promise to never return to the peninsula.

  Ever since we were kids, he’d hated living on the peninsula. It was his own fault. He was cruel and antisocial and was ostracized by most of the other kids. I think that’s why my parents ultimately sent him away to boarding school. I couldn’t count on him to help me clean out my parent’s house or sell it. It was up to me.

  Until I could bring myself to sort through my parent’s belongings, it would remain frozen in time. Deep down inside I knew I needed to face it sooner or later.

  My crotch itched slightly and a streak of terror zipped through me again. I had always been exceedingly careful in my one-night stands, but I still couldn’t find a god damn condom from last night. All I could do was hope and pray that we hadn’t actually had sex. The curly-haired guy had even said, “I don’t take advantage of drunk women.” For some reason his decency made me feel even worse for kicking him out.

  I took a drag off my cigarette and gulped my coffee, consoling myself with the thought that he was too nice and therefore too good for me, anyway. I’d actually probably done him a favor by booting him out before he started to really like me.

  I spent at least an hour sitting on my balcony, feet up on the rail in my fuzzy slippers, watching the fog burn off the bay until the Golden Gate Bridge came into view and beyond that the Marin headlands. If I looked over my shoulder, I could see the new span of the Bay Bridge stretching across the Bay, gleaming in the sunlight.

  Even though a lump of dread had settled in my gut, the trip to the Monterey Peninsula would be good for me. It was one of those days where I needed to drive my Ferrari as fast as I could for as long as I could.

  CHAPTER THREE

  AS SOON AS MY RED FERRARI hit the open highway headed south of San Francisco, I let her loose. I firmly pressed my Giuseppe Zanotti stiletto-heeled sandal to the floor as I watched my speedometer soar. I cranked the Gorillaz and zipped around slower cars, only easing up when the speedometer hit 100 mph on the curves.

  My hair was whipping in the wind and would end up a tangled knot before I slowed down, but I could care less. Driving this way sent a rush of adrenaline through me. The freedom of the open road was one of the few things that soothed my soul. A little bit south of San Francisco I turned down the radio. “Dial Dante.”

  I heard him fumbling as he answered the phone. “Ciao bella, mi amore.”

  “I miss you.”

  “Me too,” he said. “You on your way?”

  Dante ran a little restaurant in Calistoga. We’d been best friends since high school — two misfits in the clique-y WASPish Carmel world where Italian-American kids were looked down on and even a little bit feared.

  “No. I’ve been summoned to the peninsula. By Vito. Had to miss my session at the dojo.”

  He was quiet for a second before he spoke. “What about?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I could tell he heard the worry in my voice I had tried to hide. “Do you think his health has taken a bad turn?”

  Dante always said what I was afraid to say out loud.

  My silence was his answer.

  He cleared his throat.

  “I should probably concentrate on the road,” I said. “I just needed to hear a friendly voice.”

  I knew I sounded pathetic.

  “Come up tomorrow, then.”

  “Okay.”

  I clicked off without saying goodbye.

  I rolled into the Monterey Peninsula fog at around one. For most of the drive, I’d thought about my parent’s house. I had to face my fear. It had been two years. It was time I looked inside.

  My “appointment” with my godfather wasn’t until two so I had time. At the last minute, I swerved and headed toward the gated community of Pebble Beach before I could change my mind.

  At the entry to Pebble Beach at 17-Mile-Drive, I stopped at the guard post and rummaged around in my glove box for a few minutes before I unearthed my pass. When I finally triumphantly held it up to the guard he said, “Good day, Miss Santella” without even looking at it. I was a little miffed. If he knew who I was, why didn’t he just wave me through?

  My stomach was in knots by the time I pulled up to the gate at my old house, I punched in the old code I had as a child. When the gate opened, I wasn’t sure if I was more disappointed than relieved it had worked.

  I parked behind the large detached four-car garage, next to the once well-trod path through the trees to Dante’s home. The trail was now overgrown with thick prickly bushes. As children, Dante and I’d spent many a summer day playing bandits in the wooded area between our two homes.

  Later, when we were teenagers, we’d sneak Bacardi 151 and cigarettes to a clearing in the middle of the woods. We’d drink and smoke and talk about our dreams as we lay on the mossy ground and looked at the stars. It was on one of those stargazing nights I’d leaned over to kiss Dante and he’d confessed his dark secret — he was in love with my brother Christopher. I ran out of the woods and wouldn’t talk to Dante for a week. I was crushed. Just like my mother had, Dante had chosen my sociopath brother over me.

  I couldn’t live without Dante, however, and quickly forgave him. I needn’t have worried, though. Over Christmas break, something happened between them — I’ll probably never know what —that ensured Dante would hate Christopher
for eternity and be mine — if only as a friend — forever.

  I cast one last glance at the overgrown path and felt a tug of nostalgia for my childhood. When I was little, it seemed like being surrounded by a family who loved me was my destiny. I had no idea it could all disappear and leave me alone in the world. Tough luck, kid, I said to myself, heading toward the house.

  My Budo karate training had trained me not to wallow in self-pity.

  We are but a small part of the whole and we must remember that our own fears and hurts and tragedies are crucial to make us who we are as we strive to become selfless. While our hurt is real, we must rise above them to reach warrior status. We take the pain and use it to grow stronger. We conquer our fears by facing them straight forward and render them powerless before us. We know that our ultimate purpose is not to serve selfishly, but to use our fears and struggles to become stronger so that we may help others less fortunate than us.

  Time to Budo on up.

  I held my key out before me at the front door. I was counting on it still working and it did. The large door swung open and I stepped inside, quickly closing it behind me before I changed my mind. I leaned back against the door, closed my eyes and inhaled. The house smelled like home. And then, suddenly, more than anything in the world, I wanted to bury my face in the smell of my mother. I dropped my keys and bag onto the floor and ran up the staircase. I didn’t stop until I was in my mother’s walk-in closet.

  I ripped her neatly hung clothes off the teak hangers in a frenzy, pressing them to my nose and then throwing them on the ground if they didn’t exude her Chanel perfume smell. It had been too long. They smelled like nothing. Finally, when nearly every item had been thrown on the floor, I collapsed, exhausted onto the heap of silk and wool clothing. I lay with my face buried in a pile of clothes sobbing until the stabbing pain in my gut turned into a dull feeling of emptiness. Finally, I rolled onto my back and looked around. That’s when I saw it.

  A notebook-sized panel in the wall. It was usually hidden by rows of hanging clothes. I ruined my manicure prying it open. Inside was a round vintage hat box papered in gold and silver foil. Nothing else.