Deadly Strike

Book 16: Gia Santella Crime Thriller Series

by Kristi Belcamino

Genres: Vigilante Thrillers; Suspense; Terrorism & Assassination Thrillers

Synopsis

Gia Santella is back—and this time, justice is personal.

She may be a globe-trotting heiress and the powerhouse behind one of the world's most luxurious hotels, but Gia Santella has never forgotten where she came from—or the people society left behind.

Her heart still belongs to San Francisco's gritty Tenderloin district, where she once walked among the forgotten. Now, through her nonprofit, Ethel's Place—named after a woman she once loved and lost—Gia has helped thousands of homeless people reclaim their lives.

But when whispers of abuse, extortion, and exploitation start to swirl around a corrupt landlord preying on the city's most vulnerable, Gia does what she does best: she dives in headfirst.

Going undercover in a world of squalor and secrets, Gia uncovers far more than crooked rent deals. Beneath the surface lies a monstrous operation—one with ties to the powerful, the untouchable, and the deadly.

The deeper Gia digs, the more dangerous it becomes. But she won't stop. Because for Gia Santella, this isn't just another mission.

It's a war for the soul of the city—and she's not backing down.

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Release date: October 23, 2025

Sample

Deadly Strike
By Kristi Belcamino
Prologue
 
Chapter 1
Saturday
Muay Thai was supposed to keep me grounded. It had become my anchor—the one thing that
made sense no matter what kind of chaos swirled around me. Until today.
The last thing I saw was Shawn’s narrowed eyes. Then his foot came fast and hard. I flew
through the air, weightless for a heartbeat, wondering if I’d ever land. When I did, everything
went black.
I came to with a towel dabbing at my mouth. Bright red.
Blood.
Mine.
Kato’s face hovered in front of mine, blurry at first. I blinked until his features sharpened. He
handed the towel to me.
“Put pressure on your lip for a few seconds, Gia.”

I ran my tongue along my front teeth. Still there. That was something. But my jaw throbbed. My
mouth stung. Blood seeped from the corner. I sat up groaning. My hearing snapped back. My
elbows burned. I looked down at them, both scraped and bleeding.
Shawn was in the corner of the mat, pacing and shooting me a guilty glance. But it was my fault.
I’d spaced out, lost in thought. Amateur hour. I’d left myself wide open for a full-on roundhouse
kick from a twenty-four-year-old Muay Thai champion. It landed clean, snapped my neck back,
and launched me clear off the mat. I’d skidded across the floor on my back.
Kato wasn’t done with me yet, he put his face right in front of mine.
“Gia. Where were you?” he yelled, which was so unlike him. “You weren’t here. Your head was
somewhere else. A million miles away. You’re lucky you didn’t crack your skull on that wall.”
“I’ve been saying for years we need to pad that wall,” I muttered.
Wrong thing to say.
“You dare blame me?” Kato scowled. “This is all on you.”
“You’re right. I screwed up. I’m sorry.”
Kato ran a hand through his hair. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”
“Quit being nice to me. I preferred the yelling.” I hated feeling guilty. I hated making Kato
worry.
He gave a bitter laugh. “Of course. God forbid anyone love you or care.”
“Don’t,” I snapped.

He turned away. “If the bleeding doesn’t stop, go to urgent care. You might need stitches.
Shawn, we’re done for the day.”
“Gia?” Shawn called.
I waved him off. “It’s fine.”
Kato disappeared into the other room, slamming the door behind him. Alone, I pressed the towel
to my mouth again and leaned back against the cold wall.
He was right.
Except I wasn’t a million miles away.
It was 5,989 to be exact.
The distance from San Francisco to the French Riviera.
Ryder had texted me out of the blue. Said he might come to town. Just like that. After six months
of silence. That was dirty pool.
I’d told him I couldn’t do the long-distance thing. It wasn’t enough to only see him every few
months at the most. He didn’t fight for me. That alone pissed me off. And hurt.
Still, the moment I saw his name pop up, all I felt was excitement. I hated that.
After a long, hot shower in my apartment—one of the penthouses in the hotel I co-owned with
my best friend Dante—I towel-dried my hair and wrapped myself in a pink silk kimono. My
mouth still hurt. The butterfly bandage I’d applied was holding, barely.
In the living room, I stared at my phone. Might as well get it over with. I hit his name and put the
call on speaker, walking toward the full-length mirror. As it rang, I let the kimono drop and
studied my bruised, battered body.

“What are you doing right now?” he answered in that deep French-accented voice that made my
stomach clench.
“I just showered.”
“And?”
I knew this game. We’d played it too many times.
“You know I can’t do this anymore,” I said and reached for the kimono, tugging it back over my
shoulders.
“You never said that,” he said.
“Well I’m saying it now: I can’t do this anymore. Not when you live across the world.” I walked
toward the balcony doors, tempted to step outside, let the ocean breeze calm my nerves. But the
wind would mess with the call. I paused.
In the distance, two puffy clouds drifted above the Golden Gate Bridge toward the Oakland hills.
Beyond that, the horizon melted into endless blue. It would be a beautiful night.
Perfect for the gala we were hosting downstairs—complete with champagne, rooftop views, and
paparazzi eager to snap shots of Giada Santella: Killer and Heiress Extraordinaire.
The windows of the skyscrapers would be lit up, small cheery dots of light against the dark
monoliths, the moon, nearly a full moon tonight, would be massive, hanging in the velvet
midnight sky. After the festivities down below, I would come up here to this balcony and step
outside, a drink in my hand. Maybe a cigarette for a treat. And a man who had fought for me,
standing behind me, his mouth on my neck, his hands on me, peeling off my silky gown.

But that man’s image was blurry. It morphed between two men. Two men who both equally
drove me wild. One was on the phone right now. The other was coming over within hours.
“I don’t like it, either,” Ryder said. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
I froze. What the hell did that mean? Was he dumping me?
There was a long pause, then: “What’s your schedule like this weekend?”
I saw my eyes widen in the mirror as a scowl appeared, tugging at the goddamn butterfly
bandage on my mouth.“What?”
“Do you have plans for Monday?”
It was Saturday. 
“You mean this Monday?”
I looked in the mirror. My reflection grinned back. Damn it.
“Yes. As in two days away. As in I’m going to be in San Francisco then and would like to see
you.”
I inhaled sharply, taken off guard.
“So do you have plans or are you not answering because you’re worried it’s going to piss off the
senator if you see me?”
“He doesn’t own me.” I snapped back, startling myself by the quick response.
“Good to hear, that’s one of the things I want to talk about.”
He was being so cryptic.

“Explain?” I asked.
“We’ll talk in person.”
Anthony didn’t own me but he sure as hell put in more effort than Ryder had. At least he had
done so for the past six months. 
The naturally charming senator had doubled down when he found out I’d stopped talking to
Ryder. For the past two months, we’d actually felt like a couple. But we weren’t. There was no
commitment. 
Anthony also lived far away, but not in France, only across the country. And unlike Ryder, he
made sure we saw each other at least once a month, usually for a long weekend.
As I walked through the penthouse into my bedroom , I glanced down. Anthony’s shirt was still
puddled on the floor near my bed. He’d left it here after changing into gym clothes. I leaned over
and scooped it up, holding it to my face. It smelled like him.
He was in town longer this time, a week. He’d be here until Monday morning when he had to fly
back to D.C. Ryder had said Monday. It was unlikely Anthony would still be here. Unless Ryder
was taking a red eye? Having both the men in my life in town at the same time would …
complicate things.
“What time were you thinking on Monday?”
“Afternoon.”
I didn’t answer. Just pictured his hands on me. His lips. His voice in my ear. Apparently, I hadn’t
gotten him out of my system after all.
“Santella? Are you there?”

“See you Monday,” I said softly and hung up before he could answer.
I turned toward the bathroom, but a sudden wave of dizziness made me grip the back of the
couch. I paused, eyes shut, until it passed. When I opened them, my reflection looked pale. And
tired. And bruised.
The butterfly bandage on my mouth was crooked. Great. I glanced at the clock.
Now I was heading into a black-tie gala with a bandage on my face and a freshly reactivated
emotional minefield underfoot.
The doorbell chimed.
Showtime.
I opened the door and was immediately swarmed by Sergio and Martina.
“Oh dear,” Sergio said dramatically. “Flesh-colored bandages are so not in style this year,
honey.”
“They’ll have to be,” I said, laughing. “If you take it off, I’ll bleed like a stuck pig.”
“We’ll work around it,” he sniffed. 
Martina’s fingers were already in my hair. “I’m thinking half-up, half-down,” she murmured.
“Those emerald earrings need to shine.”
They followed me into my bathroom. I sat in the makeup chair, and my phone dinged.
Anthony.
“Can’t wait to see you, my love.”

I blinked at the screen. My love? That was new.
What the hell was going on?
Was it the full moon?
Why were the two men in my life suddenly all in? Anthony had always avoided talking about
emotions, but his constant presence in my life told me how he really felt. His actions spoke
volumes. He had made it clear that if it was up to him he’d see me every second of every day. In
fact, he’d even invited me to move and live with him in his D.C. apartment. And when he looked
at me? I saw something—love?—shining in his eyes. But he had never said anything about our
future, about commitment, about feelings.
Then I had Ryder. He showered me with compliments and told me I was the love of his life but
his actions didn’t show me that. Even if I was the love of his life, as he claimed, he refused to put
me at the center of that life. His work was his life. His shadowy, dangerous work.
Then there was that thing we had in common, Ryder and I. That unspeakable, dark connection
that nobody else could understand. Something that Anthony knew about me on a surface level
(Hell the paparazzi even knew about it on a surface level), but I knew he would never quite
accept all the dark parts of me. Not if he really knew them. 
Ryder did. Ryder even loved that side of me—the vengeful, ruthless, side. It was  a bond that
Ryder and I had. A horrible one.
See, me and Ryder? We were both killers.
He was ex-special forces. His current job was a mixture of security guard and assassin. I had
never asked but I just assumed his job was getting rid of evil people. It was unimaginable to
think otherwise.

But I didn’t kill for money like he did. I killed because I had to.
Not for hire. Not for revenge. Only to protect those who can’t protect themselves.
Beneath my glamorous, philanthropic, jet-setter life, I’m still a killer. Something I never wanted
to be. It was born from necessity, not desire. It has taken years, but my conscience is clear: the
ones I’ve taken out were monsters. I live by my own code—and it’s the reason I’m still alive.
“Gia! Where are you, child? You are miles away?” Martinz said as she smoothed my hair while
Sergio dusted blush on my cheeks with surgical precision.
I felt trapped. Pinned. Like prey.
I closed my eyes. Clenched my fists. I wanted to bolt barefoot through the hotel lobby, hop on
my Ducati, and tear down Highway 1—away from men, away from feelings, away from this
absurd, glittering life.
But I didn’t.
I sat. I smiled. I let them make me beautiful.
I had a job to do tonight. I was the face for a nonprofit organization I had started that was very
dear to my heart. Ethel’s Place was unique: We gave people without homes housing for six
months to a year while they went through on-the-job training. They also received medical help
and mental health therapy. We had mostly success stories with people getting their lives together
after the program. Not always. But mostly.
Tonight was our annual fundraiser with all the Bay Area movers and shakers. Thanks to my best
friend and partner, Dante, who had a magic touch when it came to hospitality, the tickets to the
event—and donated raffle items—were coveted.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I’d come a long way from when I was an orphan girl
hiding from mobsters in the Tenderloin district of the city. But I never forgot the homeless people
I met during that time. I never forgot Ethel. Even if I no longer sent weekly flowers to her
gravesite, I made sure to honor her memory with this work I did for others. Tonight, we would be
announcing a new project. Ethel’s Flowers. I was proud of it.
It was a nonprofit branch of the organization that would take flowers donated by brides and from
funerals and make smaller bouquets that were given to people in assisted living homes. 
It was such a good thing. I might be a killer but I really tried to be a good person. I hoped my
mother somehow saw me now. A wave of sadness overcame me. I was now the age she was
when she was murdered.
Martina appeared over my shoulder.
“You look fabulous,” she said. “We’re heading out now.”
“Thank you so much,” I said, blinking back tears.
I heard the door close as she and Sergio left me alone.
I stayed in front of the mirror for a long while, searching the image before me.
I was alone. Single. Childless.
It had always worked for me.
But a small part of me wondered, had I made a mistake? ...