Dark Night of the Soul

by Kristi Belcamino

  I sat up, rubbing my arms and legs and trying to pull the scraps of my dress over my bare chest. The entrance to the cave only showed the sea before me.

  The bodies of three men lay around me, sprawled in unnatural positions. All stabbed apparently, with knife wounds to their heads and chests. One man’s neck was sliced from side to side.

  A dark bundle lay near the entrance to the cave. I scooped up the gun that had fallen from the dead man’s hands, pulled myself up on trembling legs and went to investigate the bundle. It was a black leather backpack. A pair of knee-high boots sat beside it.

  Reaching my hand in, I felt clothing. I fished out a pair of thick black leggings, a long sleeve black shirt and some socks. There was more inside the backpack, but first things first. I was freezing, so I ripped off my shredded shirt and pulled on the T-shirt and then pulled the leggings and tugged on the socks and boots. As I pulled the shirt over my head, I froze. I caught a whiff of something familiar but before I could identify it, it was gone. Even when I held the shirt up to my nose, I could no longer smell it.

  I rummaged in the backpack and felt more inside, so I started taking it out in handfuls: A bottle of water, a map, a bag of dried fruit and nuts, a cell phone.

  I held the pack upside down to make sure nothing else was inside. A stack of euros bound by a ribbon fell out with a thud. A car key clattered onto the rocks. And the prayer card from my grandmother’s funeral. The one the Italian woman’s mother had given me. I drew back from it as if it were going to bite me. The last time I’d seen the card it had been in my phone case. Which was gone, with my phone in it. But then I lifted the prayer card. It wasn’t the exact same card. The card I had was worn on one corner. This one was pristine on all four corners. I dropped it as if it were on fire.

  I stared at the objects on the cave floor. At the clues left for me.

  Clothing. Food. Water. Money. A map. A throw away phone. A key. My grandmother’s prayer card.

  I’d been afraid to admit it, but the truth was right there. The Queen of Spades had saved me.

  Maybe even given me her own clothing to wear.

  I studied the map, eating the nuts and dried fruit and gulping the water down. It was an old hand drawn map of Sicily. With an X marking one location. How quaint.

  The Queen of Spades was telling me where to go.

  The map contained small colored pencil drawings that marked roads, some trees and only a few houses. There were two main spots on the map. One had an X on it. Not far, down another road, was a tiny drawing of a villa overlooking the sea. It was a pale green color. The villa Turricci had given my mother. I’d never been inside. I didn’t know if my mother had, either. I know she hated her rapist guardian so maybe she’d ignored his extravagant gift. But he was long dead at my hand. Instead of an “X” there was a time by it. 7 p.m.

  Fortified by my snack and warmed by the clothes, I stood. Time to get out of here. I peeked outside the cave entrance. The rocky shore was below and right in front of me was a steep winding path leading around a blind corner. It was my only way out. I shoved everything back in the pack and headed out.

  The trail led to a road. At the top of the road was a small car. And of course, the key fit.

  The inside of the car had that same disturbingly familiar smell when I first closed the door. But, like with the shirt, the scent disappeared before I could identify it.

  I checked out my new wheels. A gun in the glove box. It was beside a piece of paper with flowery written words:

  “La vendetta è mia —Deuteronomy 32:35.”

  I didn’t need to be fluent in Italian to know what it said: “Vengeance is mine.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  La Vendetta è Mia

  Twenty minutes later, I pulled up in front of a small stone church with an adjacent cemetery.

  The X marked a small gated cemetery. From the car, I could see that all the headstones said Bonadonna.

  A plaque on the fence said, “Our duty is to protect the innocent.”

  It was the same principle I embraced from my Budo karate practice.

  My passion, the one belief I held most dear, was that it was up to me to fight for those who could not fight for themselves. It was the main philosophy that ruled my life. I’d thought I came into that belief on my own, but now I realized it was in my blood, in my D.N.A.

  I dialed the inspector’s personal cell phone with the throw away phone.

  “It’s Gia.” I knew he wouldn’t recognize the number.

  “Where are you?” he said. I glanced at my watch. I’d keep the call under thirty seconds in case he was trying to trace my call.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow. I need your help.”

  I read him the saying.

  “Want to elaborate? Any reason you read this to me?” he asked.

  “It’s something I found related to my family. You told me there were some things I didn’t know about my family here in Italy.”

  A pause. “Where is this?” Where are you?

  “That saying is on my family’s crest, it’s their motto, or whatever.”

  “Aha,” He paused. I glanced down at my watch.

  “I think you know the answer to your question already.”

  I thought about the woman who said my mother’s family had saved them.

  “They’re mafia?” I closed my eyes as I said the word.

  “Yes. Or I should say they were an organized crime family. But they disappeared about twenty years ago.”

  The hand on my watch hit the twelve. I hung up.

  I couldn’t have him trace me here. Not if I found Turricci and killed him. I wanted Inspector Brossard to think I was far, far away from Turricci when they found his body.

  It took me less than twenty minutes to find the villa. It stood alone on a bluff overlooking the ocean. The driveway led to a giant iron gate flanked by a huge stone wall that hugged the curves of the hills as far as the eye could see, all the way to what must have been the cliff overlooking the sea.

  I stopped on the road in front of the gate, examining my options. The iron gate was connected to a twelve-foot-high iron fence. The fence led to the sea on each side of the mansion that was set far back from the road.

  There was no buzzer at the gate. There was only one way in—through that gate—and I wasn’t getting in unless I scaled it myself. For a half second I considered it. After all, it was my property now, right?

  I dug around in the backpack and found the slick, laminated prayer card. I ran my fingers over the surface. I had no family left. Nobody in the world. This prayer card was the closest thing I had to my family. It was nothing. A tiny piece of laminated paper with an angel on it and my grandmother’s name and date of birth and death. But it was somehow comforting. And the Queen of Spades had wanted me to have it.

  It didn’t make sense and probably seemed stupid to anyone else. But I drew strength from that card. It was something I could cling to when I had nothing else. I wanted it with me. I had no pockets with the leggings I had on. So, I folded the card up into my sleeve, making a pocket and then doubling the fold one more time to keep it secure. I don’t know why. But it felt right.

  I’d climb the god damn fence. That’s when I noticed something on the visor. A small box like a garage door opener. What the hell? I pressed the button.

  The gate swung open. I glanced in my rearview mirror. There were no other cars in sight. I gunned my car through the gate in case it closed, in case the gate opening had nothing to do with me and was just a coincidence. I stopped on the other side and hit the button again. Sure as shit, it closed, clanking behind me. What do you know?

  The gravel road leading to the house was slightly winding and lined with Italian cypress trees. When I rounded a corner, I saw the villa, which was more like a modern mansion perched on the cliff overlooking the sea.

  It had sleek lines, definitely more Frank Lloyd Wright than Italian villa.

  As I drew closer I saw that Turricci’s white vinta
ge car sat in the driveway. Of course.

  I could feel the weight of the gun tucked into my waistband.

  My car skidded to a stop in the gravel driveway. There was no need to be stealthy. He had probably had seen and heard me coming for the past five minutes. I glanced at the backpack. There was nothing I would need. I had a gun. The cell phone wasn’t going to save me. I got out, slamming the door behind me.

  The front door was propped open. I pushed it open slightly.

  “Come in. I’ve been expecting you.”

  His voice was matter-of-fact.

  “Here I am.” I made sure my own voice matched his nonchalance, even though my heart was pounding.

  Stepping inside the foyer, I saw him right away. He was off in a room to my right. He sat in a white modern chair without arms. A plastic modernistic chair, more of an art piece than furniture. A massive black and white swirl of a painting was on the wall behind him. He had one leg thrown over the other. As if he didn’t have a care in the world.

  His green gaze took me in as if I walked in that door every day at this time.

  A big gun rested on a clear glass table beside him. Inches from his fingers, also resting on the table. The weight of the gun at the small of my back, at my waistband, felt reassuring. I snaked my hand to my back, withdrawing the gun, keeping it behind me. His green eyes didn’t’ miss a thing. In an instant, his own was gun in his hand. Not pointing at me, but not far from doing so, either. As if to show me there was no contest. A useless gesture. He must think I’m stupid. Good.

  I inched into the room, keeping my hand behind me until I got to a red plastic chair across from him. I pressed my back against the wall beside the chair, letting my arm and hand with the gun fall to my side. Not pointing at him. But not far from doing so if I needed.

  “Are you wondering how I knew you would be here?”

  I sort of was, but I wasn’t going to admit that to him.

  “She thinks she is so clever, but we have her phone tapped. We heard the call she made to you, telling you to hide here today and that she would meet you here tomorrow.”

  I kept my face expressionless. There had been no call. I was, once again, a pawn in someone else’s game. I tried to distract him from this line of thought. “Why the cave, anyway? You had lots of chances to kill me. I saw you at the florist. I saw you at the restaurant. I saw you at the entrance to the hotel. Why didn’t you kill me then?”

  He shrugged. “Too public. Of course.”

  “Oh, and the Hotel Rizzoli was not public?” Even saying the name of the hotel where Bobby died sent a wave of anger and grief through me, making me raise my voice to near hysterical level. “Why did you send your gunmen to kill me at the reception? Where there were innocent people? Is that how the mafia operates nowadays? Without any honor. Killing innocents. And missing the mark?”

  I was hoping to provoke him to anger, but he appeared unruffled. His face expressionless. His posture relaxed.

  “It is too silly to go into.” He said it with a smile.

  My blood began to boil. The murder of the man I loved was far, far from silly. My knuckles clenched the gun. My jaw tightened. My face grew hot as if I were standing in the direct sun. It took all my willpower not to squeeze the trigger. But I wanted him to talk more. I needed some explanation for the senseless bloodshed that he had caused, that had ripped my entire world apart.

  He didn’t say anything. “The other people were collateral damage. I couldn’t take the chance of killing you where someone would see me. I’m not stupid.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him.

  He waved his hand. “Put the gun down. Look behind you.”

  I glanced to the side. Three men stood in the shadows with guns.

  “By the time you pull the trigger, my men will have fired and you will be dead. They are professional assassins. My life depends on whether they could outdraw you. Like in the old west. But I have faith in my men. So, put your gun down. Let’s do this civilly. I will give you a chance to write some final words.”

  He nodded toward an open archway that led to a kitchen counter. Beyond the counter were massive French doors. I could see the blue of the sea beyond them. I saw a pen and paper on the counter. It was a trick. He wanted me to put down my gun and then the men would fire.

  And he was wrong. Dead wrong. He had underestimated me. His last and fatal mistake. Of course, I knew that pulling the trigger would mean my own death. I wasn’t stupid. But it was a trade I was willing to make. He made the mistake in thinking that I valued my life more than I valued vengeance. I thought about the slip of paper in the glovebox. Vendetta. Vengeance was mine. At any cost.

  He was still talking.

  “You took my father’s life. It was not worth that much. Not after he raped my sister. But his life was mine to take. If my men are to have any respect for me, I must avenge his death. It has gone on much too long. It is pure business. The Queen of Spades has declared war on us. She is killing our men. She must be stopped. You are precious to her. So, by sending her your head, I not only show her who is superior, but I regain the respect of my men.”

  “You’re insane.” It didn’t make any sense to me. None of this.

  He burst into laughter. He waved his gun at me. “Come. Let’s go to the beach. I don’t want to get blood on the carpets. I like to bring my lovers here sometimes, so I want to keep it pristine. It makes me happy to fuck women in the villa my father gave your mother.”

  I stood stock still, glaring at him.

  He waved his gun again. “Come. Let’s go. Remember it’s business. It’s not personal.”

  My blood boiled. I saw red at the edges of my vision. My legs began to shake. But my fingers on the gun were steady. The murder of my boyfriend not personal? Matt’s death: not personal? Not goddamn personal?

  “The fuck it isn’t.” I raised the gun. “It’s one hundred and ten percent personal, mother fucker.”

  I squeezed the trigger. It took more pressure than I’d expected. In slow motion, I’d watched Turricci drop to his knees, his green eyes wide, his mouth moving soundless, his arms reaching out before he collapsed in a heap.

  And the silence after stunned me. I’d expected to hear gunshots. I’d figured by the time the sound of my own gunshot reached me, I’d be breathing my last. It took me a few seconds to realize that I was still standing.

  I looked around, blinking, confused as to why I was still alive.

  The gunmen were dead. All three. On the floor. Each with a sliced neck.

  Four women, all small and dressed in black stood nearby, held bloody knives. Before I could fully focus on their faces, they were gone, a blur of black.

  An acrid smell filled the air. I was surrounded by death. I’d murdered a man. This time intentionally. And I didn’t feel a bit of guilt. Instead, I felt nothing. Which scared the shit out of me. He had killed Bobby. He had killed Matt. And three other innocents. I’d had no choice. I didn’t relish the fact that I was a murderer, but I didn’t regret it, either. It was what it was.

  The smallest sound behind me, made me freeze. My hand relaxed on the gun. I realized I’d smelled her before I’d heard her. The same scent that was on the shirt I wore. My mother’s perfume.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Famiglia

  “You needed to do it yourself.”

  Her voice was silky smooth and surprisingly familiar to me.

  “If you hadn’t, if I had killed him, your thirst for revenge, for vendetta, would have consumed you. Eaten you up inside. I know this firsthand. I’m sorry for the games, but I needed to lead you both here so you could confront him in your own way, on your own time.”

  I wanted desperately to turn around, but I resisted.

  “I had thought you would look like her.” Now her voice grew soft, wondering. “Fair. Like Lucia. But you are dark. Like me.”

  Her voice held no hint of an Italian accent.

  The air rippled and I felt a slight breeze as she walked past me to
ward the French doors leading to the balcony overlooking the sea.

  I studied her from behind. I still hadn’t see her face. Her long dark hair fell down the middle of her back in thick waves. Her black shirt, tunic length, hugging her body down to her thighs seemed a twin to the one I wore, along with the thick leggings and boots. But she had a scabbard slung across her back to hold her sword. The sword was in her left hand, pointed at the ground. Droplets of blood beaded at the tip and then slowly dropped to the floor. I wondered which one had died at her hands. Then I saw a man by the front door missing his head. There was my answer.

  From behind, she looked like a goddamn pirate.

  Turn around.

  She kept talking, her back ramrod straight.

  “They’d already taken everything from me,” she said in a low voice. “I didn’t think there was anything left for them to take. But then they found out about you. I had tried to distance myself. Keep you a secret. Your birth, your childhood, everything. But then Turricci found your mother.

  “Still, I thought you were safe. I’m sorry. I knew they were after you when the girl came to San Francisco. But I was too late. And later, at the hotel, I was too late again. I’m sorry. Your boyfriend’s murder is on me. They slipped past me. I was late to arrive. Your friend’s husband, as well.” Her head dipped down. “All that blood is on my hands.”

  I started to protest, but the words froze as she turned around.

  It was like looking in a mirror and adding a few laugh lines and more defined cheekbones. She looked like me.

  “Who are you?” The answer was unfathomable. I cringed, waiting.

  “I think you know who I am,” she said lightly.

  I didn’t have time for games. I needed answers now. “I know what they call you. I want to know who you really are.”

  “I’m your mother’s sister.”