Queen of Spades

by Kristi Belcamino

  That’s why when Eva turned seventeen, and her father was still in prison, he handed over the reins to her, ordering her to maintain his one unbreakable rule: no matter what the other mob families did, their family would never, ever, participate in the sex trade.

  Eva solemnly agreed.

  Her half-brothers, consumed by jealousy and greed, immediately made plans to get rid of Eva, believing that without her around, they would take over the family business.

  But Eva quickly rose to power in the Mafia world, gaining respect and protection from the other mob bosses. It began at the first mob boss gathering she attended in her father’s stead.

  While the dons sat around drinking and eating and plotting how to kill a dangerous enemy, they ignored Eva completely. After all, she was only a woman.

  They dismissed her and refused to take her seriously. Eva watched as the men grew drunker and meaner and then slipped out when nobody was paying attention.

  She returned to the gathering holding the bloody head of the enemy the dons had been plotting to kill. At that moment, she rose above just a “fill-in” for her father and was soon made a woman of honor—a donna d’ onore.

  As far as Eva knew it was the first time a woman had been initiated into the Sicilian Mafia—Cosa Nostra. Her cominato—initiation—involved her swearing an oath that she would remain a Mafiosa until her death. During the rite, her father’s elderly uncle drew blood from her finger and smeared it on a wooden icon of St. Agatha—the patron saint of rape victims, wet nurses, and those afflicted with breast cancer. The icon was then lit on fire and passed around while Eva chanted that she would burn like the icon if she ever betrayed Cosa Nostra.

  Other women had taken over the family business for their husbands and been both feared and respected by the other mob bosses, but her father told her she was the first woman ever initiated into the Cosa Nostra. As a result, she became a legend to the children of Sicily. Little girls dressed all in black like Eva and played with sticks pretending they were swords.

  For two years, Eva owned the world. At least her small world on the island of Sicily.

  She stole from the rich and gave to the poor.

  The people loved her. They called her “Eva the Saint” or “The Godmother.”

  She grew into a ruthless assassin but only killed those who deserved to rot in hell. Her calling card—left on all her victims—was the queen of spades. A card that signaled death in Sicily.

  Soon, all her other nicknames were shed, and she was known throughout Italy as the Queen of Spades.

  But she was betrayed. Her brothers cut a deal with the other mobsters to participate in the sex trade. When Eva protested, they made her pay. And dearly.

  They arranged for their own father to be assassinated in prison so he wouldn’t stand in their way any longer. Then they ambushed her men. And killed her lover.

  Eva had no choice, she had to kill them both.

  Luca was in prison, so she went after Stefano first, killing him without an ounce of regret. Before she could go after Luca, the other mob bosses convened to discuss Stefano’s murder and decided that she’d gone too far. Killing her own brother, even a half-brother, was punishable by death. Even if he’d been responsible for killing his own father. It was twisted logic and Eva knew it. The mob bosses said she had no proof that her half-brothers had arranged for their father’s death. But a woman had witnessed Eva killing Stefano and that could not be disputed.

  Not for the first time, Eva regretted being soft in not killing another woman.

  The dons put the contract out on her life; it would never be rescinded.

  Eva had no choice but to flee to America and go into hiding. After all, her brother Luca was still alive. He’d worshipped Stefano. He would never let the price on her head be forgotten. Never.

  She was nineteen when she first stepped foot on American soil.

  Over the years, she’d watched from afar in Los Angeles, reading newspaper accounts as his rule grew larger and more powerful. He’d taken over several other families in Italy. He was more powerful than she’d ever been. And yet, for some reason, he seemed to have forgotten about her.

  Until now.

  For the past ten years, her youth had seemed a distant memory.

  But it had finally caught up to her. She would now have to draw on that life, on that training, on that mentality, on those forgotten skills—if she was going to save her family.

  Three

  1990s

  Los Angeles

  It was a lot easier than he thought it would be.

  At first, he’d worried he wouldn’t have enough time. He was cutting it close. But for a man like him—who spent hours each day visualizing exactly how something would go down, it would happen like clockwork. He was like the Michael Phelps of the crime world.

  He’d read about Phelps. How every day for years, Phelps woke up and visualized the perfect race, then did the same thing when he fell asleep at night. The theory was that when you imagined something in your mind enough, your brain couldn’t distinguish between what was real and what you were imagining. As a result, when you visualized it, your brain thought your body was actually doing it.

  He loved that.

  But just in case, along with his two hours of daily visualization, he’d also put in the work. He’d researched the hell out of every aspect of his plan. Every tiny, minute detail was planned to the second. He would not fail. He’d waited much too long to exact his revenge.

  So, of course, when the time had come, all the pieces fell perfectly into place.

  It could not have gone better.

  Now that the plan was underway, there were a few more wheels to set in motion before he could return home. And when he did, he would be a hero.

  He could not fucking wait.

  Four

  1990s

  Los Angeles

  Eva was on autopilot. Her focus was on navigating the clogged highway in front of her as quickly and efficiently as she could. Each time Matthew’s phone went to voicemail, she hit redial. Over. And over. And over.

  The sunset seemed surreal. How could the sky be so full of brilliant sherbet-colored hues—tangerine, pink grapefruit, blood orange—when her life was shattering into a million pieces?

  Her eyes were trained on the road ahead of her as she laid on her horn and blew past slower cars on the two-lane highway. Again and again she dialed her husband’s cell phone. Each time it went straight to voicemail.

  In her mind’s eye, she plotted her next steps. Over the years, she’d always had an escape plan in place for the family. Now, it was just a matter of pulling the trigger.

  Once she got home, she’d gather her family and her bug out bag and drive to San Francisco. They’d catch the next flight to Montreal with the fake passports identifying them as the Smith family from San Jose.

  From there, she’d switch passports to the ones showing they were Canadians with the surname Michaud who were going to visit Costa Rica.

  Once they arrived in Costa Rica, Eva would arrange for them to start a new life. The kids could grow up learning to surf. Matthew could pursue his love of writing and finish that novel he always spoke about…. It would work. It wouldn’t be easy explaining everything to her husband and kids, but that was how it would have to be.

  She just needed to get to them in time…

  She dialed Matthew’s cell phone again. It went to voicemail.

  Five

  1990s

  Los Angeles

  The Mercedes skidded to a halt outside her home. She didn’t bother taking the key out of the ignition or closing her door. She leaped out of the car and raced toward the house, her Ruger LC9 leading the way in her outstretched arms. Her heart thudded at the sight of the open front door.

  As she slipped inside, she kept her arms extended with both hands wrapped around the gun, holding it steady. She stepped out of her heels and padded silently into the foyer. A strange dripping echoed in a whirling vortex of distorted
sound. Her entire body shook uncontrollably; the gun wobbled before her.

  She found Matthew just beyond the foyer. He lay on the polished marble floor, his head twisted unnaturally at an odd angle. His keys were in his hand, his chest torn open from a deadly spray of bullets. His dead eyes stared upward.

  The only outward indication that Eva had just seen her husband’s dead body was a sharp intake of breath and a long, slow blink and swallow. There was nothing she could do for him. She stepped over his corpse, her eyes darting from doorway to doorway as she made her way to the great room, where she could already see Alessandra’s body.

  The back of her daughter’s golden head—her hair now dark and matted and thick with clotted blood—rose above the back of the couch. At nearly the same time, she registered Lorenzo’s crumpled body in the corner near the TV. His chest was blown wide open; his insides spilled out. At his side, one hand still gripped a massive candlestick.

  He’d tried to save his sister.

  Eva dropped the gun. It clattered on the stone floor.

  Instead, she sank onto the couch and curled herself around Alessandra’s body, cradling her daughter’s still form. But her eyes were glued on Lorenzo. She reached an arm out to him. “Come here, baby. Come to mama.”

  When he didn’t move, she reluctantly let go of Alessandra and crawled over to him on her hands and knees. She lifted his limp body, dragged him to the couch, and propped him up next to Alessandra. Then she crawled onto the couch and wrapped her arms around both of her children. Her eyes were wide, staring at nothing, but her body rocked as she sang their favorite Italian lullaby.

  Six

  1990s

  Los Angeles

  The warmth of the morning sunlight flooding the east-facing bank of windows woke her.

  At first, she thought someone was tugging on her hair. When she pulled away, her hair made a crackling sound, and she realized with horror that it had been adhered by blood to her dead daughter’s face.

  That’s when she gave in to the weeping. The howling. The keening. The wailing. The unearthly moaning. She slipped into a semi-catatonic state, caught up in memories.

  * * *

  1989

  Los Angeles

  She was sitting on the Santa Monica beach at sunset, tears streaming down her face.

  She’d been mourning the death of her only friend in L.A.—a Russian girl named Katrina.

  The two women had met at the strip club where they worked. Neither were strippers, though. They were waitresses and required to wear skimpy outfits, but nobody was permitted to touch them. The club was for high rollers, and they both made enough money to drink fine bottles of champagne in Katrina’s Santa Monica apartment at night.

  Once, when Katrina was drunk, she confessed that she was a world-class hacker and that she was in hiding from the government. Eva confessed that she was also in hiding—from the Sicilian Mafia. From that moment on, the two women shared a unique bond.

  Katrina spent the next few months teaching Eva everything she knew about hacking. Then one night she didn’t show up for work. Eva let herself into the Malibu apartment and found Katrina’s body. Police said she’d overdosed on heroin. But Eva knew better. The Russians had found her friend.

  Blinded by her tears, Eva had stumbled to the beach. She sat there as the sun set, wondering if everyone she loved would be taken away from her. She’d lost Giacomo. Tomas. Her father. Now her only friend. It was too much.

  A group of young men playing volleyball nearby packed up and were on their way to the parking lot when one of them stopped.

  He asked if he could sit with her. She didn’t answer. He sat beside her, and they both stared straight ahead at the sunset.

  “It’s stunning, isn’t it?” he asked without looking at her.

  She sniffled. She didn’t want to talk to some guy who’d just plopped down on the sand beside her like he owned the fucking beach or something. The setting sun caught the blonde hairs on his muscular legs, making them appear to be strands of fine, spun gold.

  “When I see something like this,” he continued, “it makes me so goddamn grateful to be alive. I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to be sitting right here right now. If you would’ve told me about this moment five years ago, I would’ve told you that you were certifiable. I was an addict. By all accounts, I should be dead or in jail right now. But for some reason, something out there—call it God, call it what you will—thought I should live to see another sunset like this one.”

  She looked over at him, her curiosity getting the best of her. He was so damn sincere. Before he turned his head toward her, she quickly looked away. She could feel him staring.

  The wind was whipping her long dark hair around her head so, at first, he hadn’t noticed her tear-streaked face. When he did, he reached for her hand. He held it silently until the sun dipped below the horizon and the moon and stars came out. She told him she’d lost her entire family to violence in Sicily and was in hiding, but that it was too painful to talk about. He never questioned her or pushed her to reveal more.

  That night they made love. A month later they were married.

  Eva loved him. But she kept her heart guarded, afraid to love too much. And then they had children. The love she felt for them was indescribable—something she’d never dreamed possible. The floodgates of her emotions spilled open, and she found herself crying at odd moments of the day, overcome with love for her children and her husband and her life in America. Like Matthew that first day on the beach, she often found herself in awe of the life so rich in love she now led.

  Now, sitting on the couch hugging the bodies of her dead children, Eva opened her eyes. Weak from grief and lack of food, she rose unsteadily from the couch.

  Eyes dry, she walked over to the other sprawling white leather couch and removed the furry blankets her family used to cuddle up during Friday Family Movie Night. She took the first one and put it over Matthew’s body in the hall.

  She knelt down and kissed his mouth. His lips were icy cold. She put her head down, her hair falling over his face, and whispered in his ear: “You are my angel. You saved me. I will remain yours forever.”

  Then she returned to the great room, grabbed the other two blankets, and scooped up her gun.

  She gently rearranged her children’s bodies so they were lying on separate ends of the couch, their heads propped up on the armrests. She paused, staring at them one last time before she bowed and tenderly kissed each one’s cheek. As she did, she whispered in their ears, a message of a mother’s unending love. She draped the blankets over her children, covering their faces, and left the room, heading to the second story.

  Seven

  1990s

  Los Angeles

  Designing a master bedroom and bath had been a dream come true for her. Matthew had given her carte blanche to work with the architect to design it.

  At the time, she’d told Matthew she wanted to surprise him with the finished product so it was all very hush-hush.

  In reality, it was because she needed a safe room. A bug-out room. She would never sleep soundly without knowing it existed. But telling Matthew about it meant telling him why she needed it. That could never happen.

  To pay off the architect to keep her secret, she’d sold a diamond pendant that Matthew had bought her. She’d also been socking away money and investing it, building a small, secret fortune behind Matthew’s back. She siphoned off a little each month out of their bottomless bank account and invested it. Within a year, the first twenty-five grand she’d “borrowed” had quadrupled.

  Learning investment strategy at the hands of a master back in Sicily had paid off.

  Before she invested her profits, she returned the borrowed twenty-five thousand dollars into their joint account even though Matthew had told her dozens of times she should spend as much of it as she wanted. He’d joked that if she wanted to, she could light a bonfire with cash—as long as it made her happy.

  She invested seventy-
five thousand in high-risk stocks. Once she hit ten million in profits, she put it in an offshore account under a corporate name. Everything was done under a corporate name. There was no trace of Eva Lucia Santella from Sicily. She’d made sure of that. And there was barely any paper trail for Evangeline White—the name she’d taken upon marrying Matthew. When she told him she’d lost all her official documents when fleeing Italy, he helped her obtain a social security number and citizenship.

  But even with a new identity, she still kept under the radar. It was why, for example, she’d never volunteered to chaperone a field trip. They ran full background checks on parents who did. She couldn’t afford to risk it. She probably should’ve changed her first name entirely, but she never thought they’d search for an Evangeline. Only an Eva. And if they had already narrowed their search down to Evangeline White, it was all over anyway.

  Deceiving him felt awful, but if she was going to continue her life as Mrs. Matthew White, she needed that safe room and all it represented. She’d had the construction done when Matthew and the kids were in Portland for two weeks visiting his parents.

  They were both gone now—his mother succumbed to a stroke and his father had a heart attack just twenty-four hours later. The local newspaper had even written about their deaths, saying her father-in-law had died of a broken heart.

  Eva wondered if she could have that same blessing. If her heart stopped beating, at least the unbearable pain would go away.

  Although she’d discarded her previous life, she’d known she had to be prepared in case the past caught up to her. But she hadn’t prepared enough. While their home had a state-of-the-art security system, Matthew never understood how vital it was. If she’d only had the courage to confess everything to him, instead of trying to live a normal life and blend in… She’d let her defenses slip and had paid the ultimate price: the lives of everyone she loved.