The Santangelos

by Jackie Collins

  “Well, you should,” Carolyn shouted. “She can be a real pain in the ass.”

  Ignoring her, Denver started the engine and drove off.

  Annabelle Falcon, née Maestro, and Carolyn Henderson were her two former college roommates. Over the years, the three of them had remained friends in spite of several full-on dramas, and although they both drove her a little bit crazy, they still shared a close bond.

  Annabelle was less of a problem since she’d married agent Eddie Falcon and settled into the spoiled daily routine of a Hollywood wife. Pilates, spinning, yoga, daily sessions with a life coach and a shrink, weekly visits to a dermatologist. And of course the Hollywood Wife basics—shopping, lunches, putting together exclusive dinner parties. Denver was in awe of how busy Annabelle was at achieving absolutely nothing.

  Carolyn, on the other hand, had suffered big problems. An illicit affair with the very much married Senator Gregory Stoneman in Washington had ended in a horrific kidnapping, after which Carolyn had fled back to L.A., without revealing to her married lover that she was still pregnant. The senator was under the impression she’d lost the baby.

  She hadn’t.

  Back in L.A., well away from Washington, she’d given birth to a son, Andy, then announced to her friends that she was now a lesbian and wanted nothing more to do with men. It was all very complicated, and even though Denver had tried to convince her that she should tell the senator about Andy and at least receive child support, Carolyn had stubbornly refused to entertain the thought.

  As Denver drove toward her office, she attempted to concentrate on the big picture. Getting Frankie Romano to talk was number one on her agenda. She was sure he knew plenty about Alejandro’s activities, and if it meant a lighter sentence, then surely he’d be prepared to spill? Frankie—who happened to be an ex-boyfriend of Annabelle’s—was a weasel. Why wouldn’t he give Alejandro up? After all, he was Frankie Romano—wouldn’t he do anything to save his skinny ass from languishing in jail?

  Arriving at the office, she was greeted by Leon, a fellow member of the task force. Leon was carrying a bag of donuts and two cups of coffee. “You look kinda tired,” he said, placing one of the cups on her desk.

  “Thanks,” she said caustically. “That’s exactly what a girl wants to hear.”

  In his mid-thirties and black, Leon had a kind of chill Will Smith vibe going for him. He changed girlfriends as often as he changed his pants, always leaving them with a smile on their face. A likable guy, he was one of Denver’s best friends, even though he was always teasing her, saying that if she weren’t living with Mr. Rich Pants—his nickname for Bobby—they would make a happening couple.

  “Happening in what way?” she always asked with an amused smile.

  Leon came up with the same answer every time. “Sex, baby,” he assured her. “Bed-breakin’ sex.”

  It was a running joke between them.

  She dove into the bag of donuts and selected one. “Is this raspberry cream?” she asked.

  “What do you think?” Leon said with a big grin. “I know your taste buds like I know my own.”

  “That sounds vaguely rude.”

  “It’s meant to,” he said with a jaunty wink. “Hard night?”

  “Bobby’s away, so I was home,” she said, biting into the donut.

  “You should’ve called me. I would’ve come right over.”

  “Somehow I’m not sure staying home is quite your style.”

  “Hey—I’m always stylin’.”

  “Anyway, I had company. Reruns of Scandal. Nothing better.”

  “How’s your foxy friend Carolyn?”

  “How many times do I have to tell you?” Denver said, exasperated. “Carolyn does not play on your side of the fence, and she has a girlfriend, so isn’t it about time you stopped lusting after her?”

  “Y’know,” Leon said, perching on the edge of her desk, “I could turn that girl around anytime you gimme the word. I got a magic wand that works every time.”

  “Such confidence!” Denver said, smiling, as she wiped a dab of raspberry cream off her chin.

  “If you got it, use it,” Leon boasted. “An’ I happen t’ have all the right moves.”

  “Then I suggest you take some of those moves and arrange another get-together with Frankie Romano and his douche-bag lawyer. I’m sure Frankie’s not loving spending time in prison. I sense a deal in our future, don’t you?”

  “I’m right on it,” Leon said, taking off.

  Denver took another bite of her donut and thought about what Carolyn had said, that all men—if given the opportunity—cheated.

  Bobby’s different, she assured herself.

  Or is he?

  Suddenly she was full of doubt.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ALEJANDRO

  “That fuckin’ DA is a fuckin’ bitch cunt,” Alejandro Diego fumed, pacing up and down the polished white marble floor of his luxury penthouse located on the Wilshire Corridor in L.A. “I got people telling me she’s putting on the pressure trying to get Frankie Romano to talk shit on me. You know what my father would say? That they both got to be dealt with, an’ my papi, he’s always right.”

  “Pablo’s not here,” Rafael, Alejandro’s right-hand man, pointed out. “Pablo’s in Colombia.”

  Alejandro’s nostrils flared, indicating his sour anger. “You think I don’t know that?” he steamed. “You think I’m a fool?”

  “You never should have become involved with Frankie,” Rafael said in his best I-told-you-so voice. “I tried to warn you he was a loser. The problem is that you never listen to me.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Alejandro spat. “Frankie’s the one who got me to buy the club. And how come you’re always the voice of doom? What is it with you?”

  “Your lawyer says you’re safe for now,” Rafael said, remaining calm, even though he had an urge to smash Alejandro in his dumbass face.

  “Horace Bendon doesn’t know shit,” Alejandro muttered. “It’s my opinion that matters, and I say that Frankie needs to get warned about what will happen to him if he opens his big mouth. As for that DA puta—you know she’s trying to get me indicted, so why aren’t you doing something?”

  “I am,” Rafael said quietly. “I’m taking her mind off you. I have put a plan in motion.”

  Alejandro turned on Rafael with a vicious expression. “It better be good,” he threatened.

  “It will be.”

  Alejandro was the privileged son of Pablo Fernandez Diego, a feared Colombian drug lord who ruled an empire. Rafael was the lowly son of Eugenia, Pablo’s housekeeper. The two men had grown up together.

  Eugenia, a comely woman, had cared for both boys as if they were brothers, and many people suspected that they were, for Eugenia had no husband or significant other. The only man in her life was Pablo, whom she doted on.

  Pablo Fernandez Diego was not only a major drug lord, he was also a notorious womanizer. Married three times to a trio of beauty queens, he entertained an endless parade of mistresses. After business, sex was his favorite pastime.

  Alejandro’s mother had died in a tragic car accident when he was a baby, so the only mother figure he’d known was Eugenia. He had no siblings—maybe Rafael, although neither Eugenia nor Pablo would admit that Rafael was his actual brother, which suited him fine. Alejandro took pride in the fact that he was the chosen one who would eventually inherit Pablo’s huge drug empire. Rafael had no inheritance rights.

  At twenty-nine, the two of them were a month apart in age—Rafael being older. They’d attended school together, hung out together, screwed the same girls, and finally completed their education at UCLA in California, where Rafael had spent most of his time cleaning up Alejandro’s messes. Over time there were many—from several girls Alejandro had gotten pregnant to a major cheating scandal.

  Alejandro had fallen in love with the American way of life, and after returning to Pablo’s ranch in Bogotá for a couple of years, working in the family business,
he’d persuaded his father that there was more money to be made if Pablo put him in charge of trafficking cocaine and other illegal shipments to California.

  “I already have people in place who are taking care of that,” Pablo had informed him. “Everything’s running smoothly.”

  “I know,” Alejandro had replied, working on Pablo as only he could. “But do not forget, Papi, that I am family, so who better to trust?”

  After a while, Pablo had agreed that it wasn’t such a terrible idea. If his son wanted power, perhaps it would be prudent to give him a small taste. Eventually he’d arranged for Alejandro to make the move to the United States—as long as Rafael accompanied him and the two of them worked with the people Pablo already had there.

  Rafael had balked at the thought of leaving. He had a young girlfriend, Elizabetta, who’d recently given birth to a baby boy, and he had no wish to leave them. However, Pablo insisted—and when Pablo insisted, nobody dared to argue, not if they valued their life.

  Before they headed back to L.A., Pablo had summoned Rafael into his private sanctum, his face a stern mask. “You will always have Alejandro’s back,” he’d decreed. “If anything happens to my son, it will be on your head. You will be to blame, nobody else. You must protect him at all times. Do you understand me, Rafael?”

  Rafael understood him, all right. Rafael understood everything. He was locked in a steel trap, under the control of Pablo Fernandez Diego—a ruthless man who would never claim him as his rightful son, a man who always expected him to be around.

  This had come to pass because he was way smarter than Alejandro, and Pablo was well aware of this. Therefore, Pablo had decided that Rafael’s fate in life was to be Alejandro’s watchdog.

  In California, the Diego cartel had several legitimate businesses where they could hide their drug money and make it legitimate. Among them was a discount pharmacy chain and a low-end canned-goods company. Neither of these businesses suited Alejandro. He’d wanted more. He’d wanted Hollywood glamour.

  Soon he’d begun hanging out at River, a dubious low-level club, where he became asshole buddies with Hollywood player Frankie Romano. Frankie, who had a stake in River—and his own small-time drug business on the side—eventually persuaded Alejandro that it might not be a bad idea for him to buy River and make it his own. Alejandro thought this was an excellent plan, and he’d gone ahead and purchased River, changed the name to Club Luna, and, against Rafael’s advice, made Frankie a minority partner.

  Club Luna had turned out to be the perfect front. It was a legitimate business that suited Alejandro’s lifestyle, for he was a major playboy, into fast cars and boats, beautiful women, and recreational drugs. A smooth operator, he was swarthy, his long hair greased and gelled, his suits handmade, and his attitude arrogant. He strode around as if he owned the world, sleeping with as many women as he could.

  Rafael, on the other hand, was more low-key. He drove a Prius, was comfortable wearing nondescript sports jackets and pants. His dark brown hair was cropped short, he kept his beard well trimmed, and his eyes were always watchful and alert.

  The two men were opposites, joined together because Pablo insisted it be that way. Rafael had never wanted to be part of the drug cartel, but his fate in life was that he’d been given no choice. The alternative to not being part of Pablo’s world was unthinkable for him and his family. Pablo Diego was a vengeful man, and his word was law. Pablo controlled everything, and that was that.

  Rafael understood that there was no reasonable out, so he’d applied himself. He’d moved to L.A. with Alejandro, and now he ran the financial side of their operation. Their big problem was Frankie, an American asshole who’d eventually gotten caught with an apartment full of everything from heroin to coke. Recently he’d been arrested for dealing and possession, and Rafael’s fear was that Frankie would start running his mouth, implicating Alejandro, making him a further target of the deputy DA—and she was one determined hard-ass.

  Did Alejandro expect him to do something drastic about Frankie and the deputy DA? Probably, and he’d be wise to do it before Alejandro ran crying to Pablo.

  Frankie was an easy target. He had no balls, and if he was threatened in prison, surely that would persuade him to keep his mouth shut? As for the deputy DA, Rafael had set a plan in motion that would take her mind off the Diego family for a while, giving Alejandro time to think about making it back to the safety of his homeland before he found himself arraigned and thrown into jail. For if Alejandro was smart (which he wasn’t), that’s what he had to do—get his dumb ass out of America before he was indicted.

  Rafael would happily accompany him. Safely back in Colombia, he would put together another plan—this time an escape plan for himself, Elizabetta, and his son. His mother too if she wanted to come with them.

  Rafael had had enough of playing watchdog to the shallow and stupid Alejandro.

  Hopefully the time was not too far off when he could get out.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “What the hell happened to you?” Lucky exclaimed, staring in shock at the once exquisite, sexy, talented platinum-blond superstar who now resembled a shadow of her former self.

  “Excuse me?” Venus said, removing her glasses and placing them carefully on the table. “In case you’re interested, I’m playing a highly dramatic role in Hugo’s latest film, a role that Hugo says could very well bring me an Oscar nomination.”

  “Well, Oscar nomination or not, you look like shit,” Lucky said.

  “Thanks a lot. For your information, that’s exactly how I’m supposed to look.”

  “When you’re working,” Lucky pointed out.

  “I am working,” Venus said, throwing her friend a haughty glare. “We’re on location here. I’ve been shooting all day.”

  “Okay—sorry,” Lucky said, then, pausing for a moment, she added, “It’s just that—”

  “I know, I know,” Venus sighed. “You’re used to seeing me all sparkly and glam. But you have to realize that ever since I’ve been with Hugo, he’s taught me that none of that exterior crap matters.”

  “Has he now?”

  “People need to see the real me,” Venus added with a dramatic wave of her arm. “The woman, not the shallow sexual image the press puts out.”

  Brainwashing alert, Lucky thought. This Hugo guy has her under his spell.

  “Okay,” Lucky said, deciding to go with it. “How about I order us tea or a drink, whatever you’d like.”

  “Vodka rocks.”

  “Vodka it is,” Lucky said, signaling for a server.

  Venus tapped her fingers impatiently on the table. Lucky noticed that her nails were unkempt and short, the murky green polish peeling off.

  Venus caught her looking and muttered, “Don’t you get it? It’s for my role.”

  “So,” Lucky said. “Does this mean no more singing? No more over-the-top shows? No more Venus the public knows and loves?”

  “I’m doing whatever Hugo advises me to do—and I doubt that singing and prancing around a stage in revealing costumes are on his agenda.”

  “He has an agenda, does he?” Lucky said drily.

  “Doesn’t everyone?” Venus snapped back.

  “If you say so.”

  “You’re just not used to seeing me so happy and fulfilled,” Venus said, hunching her shoulders.

  Lucky took a long deep breath. “Are you?” she asked.

  “Am I what?”

  “Happy and fulfilled.”

  “Yes, I am,” Venus said with a defiant toss of her head.

  “You don’t look it.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Venus said cuttingly. “Are looks all you care about?”

  Lucky held her temper in check. Who the hell did Venus think she was talking to? She’d never seen her like this.

  “Let me tell you something,” she said at last. “I don’t think you know me at all, ’cause if you did, you’d understand that the last thing I’m into is looks. Here’s what bothers me—
it’s the expression in your eyes.”

  “Really?” Venus sniped. “And what expression would that be?”

  “Are you high?”

  “If I was,” Venus answered grandly, “it would be because my role calls for me to be in that state. You seem to forget that I’m playing a drug addict. If there’s one thing Hugo demands, it’s realism.”

  “I bet he does.”

  “Hugo warned me that it would be a mistake to see you,” Venus said, picking up her glasses. “He told me not to come, and he was right.”

  Lucky realized that there was no reasoning with Venus while she was under the great Hugo’s spell; there was nothing to be gained from carrying on this conversation.

  Venus obviously felt the same way, because she rose to her feet and said abruptly, “I have to go.”

  Lucky nodded and also got up. “So do I,” she said crisply.

  They parted awkwardly, Venus all set to run back to her Svengali, Lucky more than ready to catch her flight back to L.A. and Lennie, who was waiting for her.

  She was somewhat saddened by the state Venus was in. They’d been friends for a very long time, and she hated to see the way Hugo was taking advantage of her. Venus was not an actress, she was an amazing singer, dancer, and performer. Nobody put on a show like Venus. She outpaced them all—including Beyoncé and Rihanna.

  Now Hugo was trying to turn her into a serious actress. Really? Because in Lucky’s opinion, Venus was heading for career suicide, and she hated having to bear witness to the disaster that was bound to take place.

  Still … Venus was a grown woman, and like Lucky, she’d always done things her way, so there was no stopping her. Venus had to figure it out for herself, and when she did, Lucky would be right there to pick up the pieces.

  She checked her watch, realizing that it was time to get to the airport and home to Lennie, the love of her life.

  Before leaving Vegas, she put in a call to her father, Gino—or Gino the Ram as he was once known. Or Gino the Enemy, because they sure as hell had experienced enough crazy knockdown fights over the years. Memorable ones. However, time and age had turned Gino into an almost mellow man, and she loved him dearly in spite of their rocky past.