Dark Shadows (Gia Santella Crime Thrillers Book 11) Kristi Belcamino (room on the broom read aloud .TXT) 📖

“I’d be happy to do that, Mr. Morales.”

I used his real name to see if he reacted. He didn’t.

After I tucked him into bed and pulled the curtains in his room, I gave him a kiss on the cheek as I said goodbye. He acted surprised by the kiss, his forehead wrinkling up and his eyes squinting.

Of course he did.

But then he immediately seemed to forget it.

“Sleep well, Mr. Morales.”

He didn’t answer.

As I walked outside to the waiting car, I wondered if it was the last time I was going to see the man I’d considered my husband for so many years.

3

When I stepped off the plane onto the tarmac, I paused and inhaled deeply. Even though Cannes was only a bit south of Barcelona, there was still something different about the air there. I don’t know if it was knowing there were miles between me and my other life, but it felt like a weight had suddenly been lifted from my shoulders.

When we landed, it was as if the dark shadows fluttering and hovering around my peripheral vision had been banished.

“Ms. Santella?” A man with a goatee and longish bangs greeted me. Despite the Mediterranean heat shimmering on the tarmac, he wore tight black jeans and a black long sleeve shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing dark, deeply tanned and muscled forearms. One arm had a tattoo that I recognized: it was a skull wearing a beret against a dagger. I also couldn’t help but notice he wore expensive Italian leather shoes.

Dante had taught me to notice shit like that—the shoes, not the tattoo.

Dating James the cop had taught me to identify the tattoo. Green beret or Special Forces for sure.

“Ryder,” he said, sticking out his hand and flashing a grin that took me aback. That smile elevated him from average looking to dangerously attractive.

“Let me guess,” I said, shaking my head with mock exasperation. “Dante sent you.”

He laughed. “Only to get you safely to your villa.”

“He acts like I’m still twelve sometimes.”

I was pissed. And I wasn’t sure why.

The man frowned. “Why, for hiring someone to drive you?”

“Oh, please,” I said. “You’re charming as fuck, but the ‘driver’ shit doesn’t fool me for a second. I bet you have an ankle holster with a gun and another one in your glove box. I would bet my last dollar you are highly trained in some form of martial arts and could break someone’s neck in thirty seconds.”

He began to laugh, but I continued. “If you want to pretend you’re simply a driver, I’d hide that tattoo,” I said, squinting as I looked at him.

Now he laughed loudly. “Touché.”

“Let’s go,” I said and walked past him.

He held the door to the back seat open for me, but I ignored him and went around to the passenger door. Once I settled into the passenger seat of the big black car, I stared out the window while he got in. I didn’t want to talk to him. I’d planned on spending at least my first week here not talking to another soul, but curiosity got the best of me.

“How do you know Dante?” I said. I know I sounded crabby.

“Matt.”

My mouth grew dry. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t speak, so I simply nodded.

Matt had been Dante’s husband for all of a few hours when a gunman shot him and Bobby dead in Positano by the Tyrrhenian Sea.

“I was Secret Service when Matt was a senator,” he continued. “Dante and I have stayed in touch.”

“You have an accent,” I said, keeping my eyes trained on the road in front of us. I wasn’t sure how he could be Special Forces and Secret Service without being American.

“I was born in America, but my family moved to France when I was three,” he said. “Before 9/11, it was considered desirable to have dual citizenship. Now? Not so much.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Despite my resolve not to talk the entire drive, I kept asking questions.

“I must say, I like it here a lot better than in DC,” he said, avoiding my question. “I do private security here. Not as many rules.”

He leaned over the steering wheel and pointed. “See over there? That’s where your villa is. The area is called La Californie. Best part of town if you ask me. It’s like your Beverly Hills. Very nice.”

He was pointing to a hillside slightly above the village.

“I hope so for what they’re charging.”

“You must’ve reserved it, what? Two years ago? I heard reservations sometimes are three to five years in advance of the festival.”

I shook my head.

The truth was I’d made the reservation last week. It had nothing to do with me and everything to do with my aunt, Eva Santella’s, connections. As a former Italian mob boss and now leader of an all-woman army of assassins, she had connections in all the right places. But I didn’t think Ryder needed to know any of that.

When I’d seen the pictures her contact had sent me, I replied, “Yes. Making deposit now.”

I’d basically asked for a villa outside of town with breathtaking views of the Mediterranean, a massive swimming pool, and a full bar. Not a hell of a lot to ask, right?

Basically, what I wanted was a mini resort all to myself.

And as luck would have it, she found one.

“Believe it or not, I know your villa well. I have had many clients stay there. I know the owners personally. They live in Hong Kong most of the year. I didn’t think it would be vacant right now with the festival in town.”

I shrugged. “Beats me.”

“Besides the festival, what else is there to do around here?” I asked as the car wound its way up the hill. I figured I might as well use him for information.

“Cannes is basically a bunch of celebrities showing off and fucking each other. Even during non-festival times.”

I sat up. “Really? Tell me more?”

He laughed.

“I bet the really rich people bring their yachts here, right?” I