The Santangelos (32 page)

“Screw you, Steven,” she responded. “I’m an excellent driver, a hell of a lot better than you.”

“I’ll choose to ignore that.”

“Wise.”

“So…” Steven said. “What’s going on with Lennie and the kids? Fill me in.”

“Lennie’s in post on his movie. Gino Junior is growing like a tree—he’s over six feet. Leo’s catching up fast. Max is doing a big modeling job in Europe. Oh yeah—and Bobby’s fresh out of jail.”

“Jail?” Steven exclaimed.

“I kid you not.”

“Maybe you should tell me everything.”

“If you’re ready for a long and crazy story.”

“I’m used to crazy stories. I’m a defense attorney, remember?”

“One of the best, I might say.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“Because everything happened at once,” she explained. “Bobby got arrested, Gino was shot…” She trailed off.

“Any news on who shot Gino?”

“We do have one lead,” she offered.

“What kind of lead?”

“We’ve got the shooter on a security camera.”

“What do the cops have to say about it?”

“Christ!” she exclaimed impatiently. “You’re beginning to sound exactly like Lennie. What the fuck is it with you guys and the cops?”

“You do remember the trouble you were in once before,” Steven said with a stern shake of his head. “You’ve got to keep it legal.”

“Fuck legal,” she snapped. “I do things my way.”

“C’mon, Lucky. You’re no longer an impetuous kid,” Steven said, his handsome face serious. “You’re a grown-up, and it’s time for you to play by grown-up rules.”

“Never have,” she said with a derisive laugh. “Never will.”

“And she refuses to change,” Steven sighed.

“Got no plans in that direction,” she said flippantly.

Steven shook his head again. Like Lennie, he knew there was no arguing with Lucky when she had her mind set on something.

“Hey,” he said, moving on. “Sitting on the plane, I was thinking about the first time we met.”

“Oh yeah, fun times,” Lucky drawled, remembering being trapped in an elevator with Steven during a big New York power outage, way before they’d discovered they were brother and sister. She would never forget the nine hours they’d spent together locked in a dark box of a prison. They’d bantered, argued, flirted, and finally been rescued.

“Neither of us knew we were related,” Steven said.

“Yeah,” Lucky said. “And if I recall correctly, you came on to me.”

“No, lady,” he objected. “
You
came on to
me
.”

“Thank God we didn’t fuck,” she said lightly.

“Because of me,” he insisted.

“You always were a bit of a prude,” she joked.

“And
you
always had a filthy mouth.”

“It’s comforting to know we’re both still following our paths in life,” she said drily.

They exchanged smiles as they reached the Ferrari.

“How about I drive?” Steven suggested, standing beside the car. “After my flight I’m not in the mood to sample your death-defying skills on the road.”

“Get in,” Lucky ordered with a wicked grin. “I promise I won’t go more than a hundred. Too much traffic.”

Steven grimaced and once more shook his head.

Within minutes they were on their way to the Malibu house.

*   *   *

A car met Bobby and Beverly Villiers at the airport in L.A. After dropping Beverly at the Peninsula, Bobby went straight to his house in the Hollywood Hills. In spite of the fact that he was still furious with Denver, he’d kind of been hoping that she would be there waiting for him—waiting to apologize.

Too bad. No. She wasn’t around.

He phoned Lucky and told her he’d come by the Malibu house the next day.

“Why not now?” she said, sounding disappointed. “I can’t wait to see you, Bobby.”

“Gotta detox, Mom,” he responded. “Gotta figure some things out.”

After speaking with Lucky, he took another shower, thought about calling Denver, decided against it, ordered a pizza, and finally fell asleep watching mindless TV.

In the morning he felt a whole lot better. Now that the jail experience was behind him, he was starting to get angry, really angry.

Someone was screwing with his life, and he didn’t like it one little bit.

Someone out there had a vendetta against the Santangelos, and along with Lucky, he was determined to find out who that person was.

CHAPTER FIFTY

Leon was in a bad mood; Denver sensed it as soon as she walked into the office. He threw her a curt “Good morning,” and that was it.

I deserve it,
she thought.
I ran out on my job, and he’s punishing me. Only please don’t do it today, Leon, ’cause I’m not feeling great. I’m at a really low point. I crave love and donuts, not a cold reception
.

She’d spent the night at her parents’ house trying to figure out how she could make it up to Bobby. The problem was that she couldn’t get it out of her mind that he’d gone to a hotel with a call girl, and if he hadn’t gotten himself drugged, what had been his plan?

To sleep with her, of course. To have sex with another woman
.

Denver knew this was not something she could get over in a hurry.

In the morning she’d realized that she’d made a mistake staying at her parents’. They were full of questions she was not prepared to answer. As soon as possible, she’d gotten out of there and driven straight to the office.

“I could use a coffee,” she said to Leon, hoping he might soften up.

“The machine’s over there,” he replied with an offhand gesture.

Great! Neither of them ever drank the office coffee; they’d made a deal that on the way into work, one of them would stop at Starbucks.

“Are you mad at me?” she ventured.

“Why’d I be mad at you?” Leon responded, raising an eyebrow. “Just ’cause you bailed on our very important case an’ ran off to hold your rich boyfriend’s hand—that’s no reason to be mad. Right?”

It infuriated her when Leon tagged “rich” onto Bobby’s name. However, she required peace, so ignoring his sarcasm, she began to apologize.

“Forget it. It doesn’t matter,” Leon said shortly.

“Fine,” she murmured.

“I met with scumbag Frankie Romano an’ his attorney without you,” Leon offered. “Frankie is definitely lookin’ for a deal. The attorney—not so much.”

“What kind of deal does Frankie think he can make?”

“He’s after a get-out-of-jail-free card. Probation. If we can get him that, he says he’ll give us plenty.”

“Do we have any idea of what he can offer?”

“He’s talkin’ about times, shipments. Accordin’ to him—everythin’.”

“You think he knows details?”

“He talks like he does.”

“Well, that’s Frankie Romano, isn’t it?” Denver said, remembering the first time she’d met Frankie, when he was Annabelle’s boyfriend. He’d always been a fast-talker.

“You should’ve been at the meet,” Leon said, unable to help himself from reprimanding her. “He wanted you there. We probably could’ve made a deal if you’d been in the room.”

“I know. I’m sorry I took off.”

“I guess you had your reasons,” Leon said, softening toward her. “How
was
Bobby, anyway? I’ve been catchin’ up about him on the Internet.”

“Please don’t,” she said sharply. “It’s all lies.”

“Glad to hear it. Is he back in L.A.?”

Yes, Leon, he’s probably back in L.A. I can’t tell you for sure because we’re not speaking
.

“Uh … yes,” she said vaguely. “Can we drop the subject now? I’m more interested in finding out what Frankie has for us. We should go over everything, see what we can work out.”

“You got it,” Leon said. “An’ Denver?”

“What?” she said, trying not to think about Bobby.

“I’m kinda psyched you’re back.”

“You are?” she said, her face brightening.

“Yup.”

“Does that mean there’s a decent coffee in my future?” she teased.

“Let’s not get carried away.”

“I’m buying.”

“In that case…”

*   *   *

As far as Frankie Romano was concerned, he had a shit lawyer. Horace P. Bendon was a barf-faced, Waspy asshole, with about as much street smarts as a ten-dollar hooker on a Saturday night. The
P
definitely stood for Pisser. Rafael had hired him, assuring Frankie that Pisser was the best. But Frankie knew that Rafael had a hard-on against him—and that Rafael would like nothing more than to see him rot in jail.

Screw Rafael. Didn’t he realize that he was dealing with Frankie Romano, a dude with friends in high places? Although none of them were coming through for him. Not Bobby fucking Santangelo. Or stuck-up Annabelle Maestro, his ex–partner in crime, now married to douche bag Eddie Falcon. (Did she have a clue what a whoremongering prick Eddie really was?) Not even Cookie—soul singer Gerald M.’s foxy daughter with whom he’d had a raging affair. Surely Cookie could’ve gotten Daddy to help out if she’d felt like it? Apparently she hadn’t.

Friends. Fuck ’em and feed ’em to the fish. Frankie didn’t need friends. He had himself, and he was one savvy son of a bitch.

If no one was prepared to help him, he would simply have to figure out a way to beat the system.

Yes, he’d been busted with an apartment full of drugs.

Yes, he’d been busted selling heroin and coke and an assortment of pills.

Yes, some dumb underage girl with a fake ID had overdosed on his bathroom floor.

She hadn’t died, had she? And that was because he’d called the goddamn paramedics after he’d deposited her passed-out body in the lobby of his building.

Shit! If anything, he deserved a medal. He’d saved her life. He was a good Samaritan, for crissake.

So why the hell was he locked up while Alejandro—the big fucking fish—was walking around free? Alejandro was the one who should be taking the fall, not him. Alejandro was the goddamn heir apparent to one of the biggest and most feared drug cartels in the world.

Screw the prick. Frankie had heard nothing from him. It was a disappointment, because he, Frankie, was the dude who’d gotten Alejandro all set up with Club Luna.
He
was the one who’d introduced him to all his best customers. They’d been tight, really tight, and where had that gotten him? Apparently nowhere, because Alejandro had not come through for him. Instead, his dumb-fuck sidekick, Rafael, had stuck him with a lawyer who kept on telling him that making a deal was a bad idea.

“Do your time and keep your mouth shut,” Pisser kept insisting.

“Who the
fuck
you working for?” Frankie had responded.

“Mr. Diego’s office is picking up the tab for your troubles,” Pisser had informed him. “It’s essential that you listen to me.”

Sure, they’re picking up the tab,
Frankie thought.
Which is exactly why they don’t want me making a deal
.

Damn it, if a deal was getting him out of jail, he was making it, and Pisser could go screw himself.

Earlier in the day he’d met with the black dude from the DA’s office—Leon something or other. He didn’t trust him. What he wanted was a face-to-face with Bobby’s girlfriend, Denver. She was a full-of-herself bitch, but at least he knew that if there was a deal to be made, she would keep her word.

Fuck ’em all. Frankie was ready, and if it meant giving up Alejandro, so be it.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Wearing a white Dolce & Gabbana dress, high-heeled sandals, and gold hoop earrings, her black hair wild and curly, her green eyes sparkling with excitement, Max was attending a press reception in her honor. She found it to be heady stuff as she sat behind a long table on a high platform in front of an audience of several dozen journalists. Lorenzo was hovering behind her, ready to translate. Alfredo Dolcezza was on her right, and a sour-faced Dante was on her left.

Why was she constantly stuck next to Dante?

It didn’t matter. Who cared? She had her thoughts to keep her warm. And what delicious thoughts they were. Last night when Billy had kidnapped her from dinner, she’d been caught completely off guard. The speed with which he’d acted had been a total surprise. He’d whisked her off and she’d gone with him just like that, although once they were outside the restaurant she’d realized that maybe she was making a mistake.

“Like, what the hell?” she’d demanded, staring him down. “That dinner was all about me, and who are you to drag me out of there?”

“No dragging involved,” Billy had said with a sly grin. “You couldn’t wait to cut loose. Besides, we’re in Rome. I’m gonna give you the tour.”

“What tour?” she’d huffed, trying to ignore the lure of his piercing blue eyes.

“You’ll see,” he’d said, taking her hand and pulling her over to a car parked curbside. A driver stood in attendance.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she’d said as the driver opened the rear door.

“Do not fight it, Green Eyes. You know you want to come with me,” Billy had said, hustling her into the backseat.

“You’re
so
bossy,” she’d complained.

“An’ you’re so sweet,” he’d teased, “even though you try to be a tough girl.”

“I
so
do not,” she’d objected.

“Yes you so do,” Billy had said, touching her arm, sending chills through her body.

And so it had begun … a magical mystery tour of Rome at night, with a fully attentive Billy pointing out places of interest as they’d talked and laughed, until eventually they’d ended up at the Trevi Fountain, where he’d pulled her out of the car and instructed her to throw a coin in the fountain and make a wish.

“It’s an old Roman tradition,” he’d assured her. “Works every time.”

“How do
you
know?” she’d asked suspiciously.

“’Cause I stopped here on my way to the restaurant tonight.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, an’ I made a wish that I’d see you. Hey—just like that, my wish came true.”

“Liar!” she’d said, trying not to smile, although she couldn’t help feeling happier than she had in a long time. “You somehow or other found out where I was, then you proceeded to stalk me.”

“No way.”