Forgotten Island Read online

  Forgotten Island

  Gia Santella Crime Thrillers, Book 2

  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

  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

  Sneak Peek

  Keep In Touch

  Kristi’s Bookshelf

  Did You Like This Book?

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Gia and the Forgotten Island

  Copyright © 2017, Kristi Belcamino

  Cover Art and Design:

  * * *

  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.

  * * *

  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

  The graveyard was my sanctuary.

  With nearly everyone I loved dead, it was the one place I felt at home. The only place I truly felt comfortable in my skin.

  Today, I was visiting my friend Ethel Swanson’s grave. I made the trip across the Bay to the Berkeley cemetery every few weeks so I wouldn’t forget that she had died because of me. I had vowed—well, made a promise at her grave—that I would make sure she was never forgotten.

  My favorite time to visit Ethel was at sunset, when the dipping sun made the Golden Gate bridge glow and turned the waves of the bay into sparkling silvery shimmers of light.

  Yesterday, I’d driven to Monterey to put flowers on my family’s graves. Pink roses for my mother. Sunflowers for my father. Nothing for my brother. I often found others had left flowers on my parents’ plots. My brother’s grave remained barren. His was closer to the fence and set apart from the other family plots. The grass around it was less green, more overgrown with weeds, as if even the caretakers were wont to neglect his final resting place.

  His murder was still unsolved. And I didn’t care.

  The man who killed my parents had died at my hands. That was all that mattered.

  After a cursory glance at Christopher’s grave, I’d crossed my legs and sat on the grass to talk to my mother and father about my life. It was pretty much the same script every month: I told them that I was a failure, that I had moments of clarity when I stopped drinking and doing drugs, and sleeping around, but that I was still a hot mess. I told them about Bobby and our long-distance relationship. About how he seemed wonderful and how that scared the hell out of me.

  Of course, I never shared like that with Ethel.

  Today, I stood at her gravestone and rearranged the red roses I had delivered there every week. Once upon a time, Ethel had confessed to me how she ended up on the streets. Her jerk husband used to beat her nearly to death and then in typical abuser-fashion would beg her forgiveness by offering red roses and empty promises.

  The only thing that stopped his abuse was a knife to the heart one night when he was sleeping. Years later, when Ethel was released from prison, she couldn’t find work and turned to drinking. Soon, she ended up on the streets begging.

  We’d become pals when I moved into the Tenderloin neighborhood and she camped outside my building.

  And then, a few months ago, she’d ended up dead. Strangled with a playing card, the one-eyed jack, stuffed down her throat.

  The Tenderloin newspaper ran a brief obituary.

  ETHEL SWANSON had dreamed of being an actress ever since she was a little girl. She certainly had the personality and name for it. However, when she fell in love with the wrong man, her dreams were shattered, said friend Gia Santella. She never quite recovered from her abusive marriage and ended up on the streets of the Tenderloin where she was beloved by all. She died violently, but she will never be forgotten. She is buried underneath a flowering tree in the Oakland hills and has red roses delivered to her grave every week. “Because she mattered,” Santella said. Ethel Swanson was 70.

  As the sun set and the stars rose above, I traced my fingers over Ethel’s gravestone.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Ethel. I’m so goddamn sorry you’re there and I’m here. It’s all my fault. I wish I could make it up to you.”

  Chapter One

  Italian Stallion

  The next morning, Dante side-eyed me as I stepped out of the elevator into the penthouse lobby of my father’s company. Instead of his usual brilliant white smile, Dante frowned.

  “What?” I asked, scowling. I was in a bad mood. Getting up at the freaking crack of dawn—okay before noon—did not suit me. The fog hadn’t even lifted from my San Francisco neighborhood yet.

  And meeting with stuffy board members was high on my list of things I never wanted to do in my lifetime.

  But now that my father, brother, and godfather were dead, I’d been left in charge. For whatever reason, I was now the CEO. Something I had never wanted and still didn’t.

  The penthouse lobby looked nothing like it had when my dad was alive. It now had plush red carpet and was scattered with black onyx pedestals holding oddly familiar-shaped obelisks nearly as big as me. Two walls were covered in mirrors. I drew my gaze back to my agitated friend. While his silky black hair swept back from his face like the Italian Stallion he was, his olive skin was slightly ashen.

  “What’s wrong? Are you feeling okay? You look a little pale.” I reached over and felt his forehead. “Yeah, you’re a little clammy.”

  Dante let out an exasperated sigh and as always, perfectly enunciated his words. “That is what you are wearing?”

  Spoken like a ridiculously stylish gay man. I gaped at him. Then realized he was serious.

  “Sure.” I knew I sounded defensive. “Why not?”

  I tried not to notice the contrast between my outfit and his exquisite, custom-fit Italian suit.

  Dante waited to speak until a woman in an old-fashioned black-and-white maid uniform finished dusting the obnoxious white marble sculpture near us.<
br />
  “You’re going to introduce yourself to the board wearing black leather pants?”

  “At least I wore my nicest pair.” I was starting to get angry.

  He closed his eyes, clearly frustrated beyond words.

  I took another look at Dante, a little worried. He had felt clammy. And now his face was contorted. His mouth opened and closed and his nostrils flared. Was he doing deep breathing? Counting to ten?

  “And that … that shirt,” he finally said, opening his eyes. “You know they can fire you.”

  Good, I thought, but bit my tongue.

  “Fine. I’ll put on my jacket.” I shrugged on my black blazer. It partially concealed my white T-shirt that said “Fuck Authority” below a picture of a skull and crossbones.

  The woman was now dusting an enormous white phallic symbol right beside me.

  Dante looked pained. “What about the three Armani suits I bought for you last week?”

  Is that what all this was about? I’d pay him back. But I knew it wasn’t that. His feelings were hurt. His unerring sense of style was offended.

  I shrugged. “They’re cute.” If you want to look like you have a stick up your ass.

  He made a jerking motion to pop his wrist out of his sleeve. He looked at his TAG Heuer and then glanced over at the door leading to the boardroom.

  “What now? Are we late, too?” I rolled my eyes and leaned back against the mirrored wall.

  He met my eyes. “We might have time for you to change. I can run you back to your place. We can be a few minutes late.”

  I smiled, pushed away from the wall and headed toward the boardroom door.

  He winced. He knew he’d lost.

  “What you don’t seem to get,” I said over my shoulder, “is that I don’t care what they think. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want anything to do with running this company or the stuffy old men on the board.” I knew I sounded like a pouty five-year-old and I didn’t care. It seemed like the woman in the maid outfit was looking for something to do closer to us. Eavesdropping. Fine by me. I didn’t care who knew what I thought.

  Dante caught up to me. “Gia! You’ve never met any of them.”

  “They all stood by and let my godfather drive my father’s business into the ground. They never said a word. They never reached out to me even once. And now that I’m in charge, I’m only sticking around long enough to replace every goddamn one of them.”

  The woman audibly gasped. We both swiveled our heads toward her and she clamped her hand over her mouth.

  “Excuse me,” I said, gesturing with one finger. “Come over here for a second.”

  Her cheeks grew red.

  I stuck out my hand. “I’m Gia. What’s your name?”

  “Carmen.”

  “Nice to meet you, Carmen. I got to ask you something,” I said. “Do you like wearing that outfit? Tell me the truth? I promise your job won’t be affected.”

  “No.” Her voice was quiet.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t hear you.”

  “No, I don’t like it.”

  “I didn’t think you did. It’s like Gone with the Wind or something.”

  She smiled, but still looked nervous.

  “Do you like your job here?”

  “Si. I mean yes.” She nodded fervently.

  “I mean, would you rather work here or say at some apartment building in Russian Hill?” Like my building. “I could find you a job where you have less work and more money and don’t have to wear a stupid get up like that.”

  “I like it here, really. The uniform, no? But I like working here.” She shrugged. “I do what I want. Nobody bothers me. Make my own hours.”

  I bit my lip thinking about. “You’re being honest, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. But the uniform has to go.” I squinted at her. “What are the stuffed shirts paying you?”

  She named some absurdly pithy amount. “I’ll double that right now. And you can wear whatever the hell you want to work every day. If anyone says anything, tell them Gia Santella told you herself.”

  “Okay.” She gave a small smile and slipped out a nearby door.

  Dante touched my elbow. “Back to what we were talking about. You can’t fire them. They are elected by the stockholders. What if there are some good men on the board?”

  “If I have to be the CEO—which apparently is what my father wanted—then I’ll damn well do whatever it takes to root out the rotten ones and make sure they get kicked off the board. Plus, your job is to help me do that.”

  “What?” his eyes grew wide. I’d asked him to be my advisor, but had never elaborated on his job duties.

  “You’re nice. You’re nonjudgmental. If anyone can determine who is worth keeping around and who isn’t, it’s you. Together, we can weed out the toxic ones.”

  “Gia! I don’t want that responsibility. Good grief.”

  He was so cute when he swore.

  “I need your help.” This time my voice was quiet. It was true. I needed Dante. I didn’t want to face these men on my own.

  Dante ran a hand through his hair and sighed, nodding. He was in.

  But then he touched my elbow again and made a face. “Leather pants?”

  “Yup.” I gave him another smile. “With these pants and a senator’s husband at my side, they wouldn’t dare fuck with me.”

  “We are not married yet.”

  “Speaking of that, are you sure you want to get married this young? I mean, I adore Matt, but, dude, you’re just a baby.”

  “I’m nearly twenty-five.”

  I put my finger on my chin. “Which means you’re twenty-four.”

  But his twenty-four was probably like my forty. I didn’t want to admit it, but Dante had acted like a mature, responsible, adult since we were twelve-years-old. The opposite of me.

  “Back to your outfit,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

  “I’d rather talk about you.” I gave him my sweetest smile. Which he ignored.

  “What about the Armani? You realize they cost me a small fortune, Gia.”

  Now, he was just griping. He thought nothing of dropping several grand on an outfit. In that way, we were alike.

  “Like I said, they’re cute. I’ll wear the black one to the next board meeting.”

  “You will?”

  He sounded so damn happy.

  “Sure.”

  I sighed. After all these years, he still believed my lies.

  Chapter Two

  Blood Money

  Inhaling sharply, I tugged on the heavy oak door to the board room. Before I stepped inside, I breathed out slowly. My stomach was a bundle of live wires. I’d put on a good show of bravado for Dante, but the truth was I was scared as hell. Words I’d learned studying karate came back to me.

  The ability to quiet one’s mind is essential to center a warrior’s greatest power and strength. Dominance is not overpowering or showy, but lies in those who carry it inside. The true warrior will send ripples of influence into every space they enter.

  I needed some of those ripples right now. I stepped inside the room. At first, the light from the floor-to-ceiling windows was blinding. As my eyes adjusted, the sweeping views of the Golden Gate Bridge and Pacific Ocean far below made me dizzy.

  The board room was more austere than its pimped-out lobby. The space was as sterile and sanitized as an operating room and made me want to whisper.

  When we walked in we were greeted by ten frowns from ten uptight assholes in—what else? —Armani suits. They all blended into one. Gray hair, red ties, pinched expressions. Snobbery and disdain dripped from their signet rings.

  Dante tensed beside me. These old-school dudes were not friendly to gay men, I could tell. I felt like telling them, “Be nice to my best friend because your future is in his hands. One word from him and it’s sayonara, baby.”

  The big cushy leather chair at the head of the table was vacant, waiting for me. I thought that was a good sign. I�
�d fully expected some Thurston Howell the Third type to be manspreading in the seat. Unfortunately, the empty spot was at the far side of the room, in front of the massive bank of windows. A long walk from where I stood.

  Pulling my shoulders back, I struck out for the chair, which suddenly seemed miles away. It was as if the air was sucked out of the room as I walked. I swallowed and the noise of my gulp seemed to echo. When I neared the chair, I grabbed one of the chairs lining the wall and pulled it up beside my big plush leather one.

  I gestured for Dante to sit by me. He was literally my right-hand man, now.

  The goddamn leather chair was on its lowest level. I could practically rest my forehead on the gleaming wood table before me. It made me feel small and insignificant. I caught one blue-haired old dude smirking. I reached down and fiddled with the chair adjustment for a few seconds but nothing happened. I still had table up to my armpits. Everyone stared. I cast a frantic glance at Dante, but he was busying shuffling papers. Finally, when one guy cleared his throat and the meeting began, I gave up. I sat as erect as I could so I didn’t feel like a little kid at the adult table.

  After I was introduced and gave a closed mouth smile, I sat back and listened to one old codger drone on about profit and loss yada yada blah blah. I was starting to fade. Dante nudged me. They’d asked me something.