The Santangelos

by Jackie Collins

  “Out!” Tim repeated, a frantic tick taking over his left eye.

  “Who is he?” Carlo asked, favoring Tim with an unfriendly scowl. “Your pet dog?”

  “My boyfriend,” Max said firmly. “And he wants you out even more than I do, so you’d better move it before he totally loses it.”

  “You have a boyfriend?” Carlo said, obviously not thrilled with the information.

  “Don’t sound so surprised,” Max answered sharply. “And oh yes—I should tell you that he has a black belt in judo.”

  Tim took a step back and shot Max a glare—as if to say, What the hell—I told you no fisticuffs for me, young lady.

  Carlo sat up. Tim took another cautionary step back.

  “Too much tequila,” Carlo announced. “My weakness. Scusi.” He jumped off the bed. “Now I must take a piss.”

  Before Max could object, Carlo was heading for the bathroom.

  She and Tim exchanged looks.

  “Judo?” Tim said, quite horrified. “Black belt?”

  “It sounds threatening,” Max said, defending her words. “I think it made him nervous.”

  “It certainly made me nervous,” Tim snorted, a red flush creeping up his neck. “Him—not so much.”

  “When he stops peeing,” Max said, all business, “you’ll throw him out.”

  “I’ll do no such thing,” Tim objected. “I’m going home. He’s all yours.”

  “You wouldn’t leave me,” she said, attempting to appeal to Tim’s better nature. “You wouldn’t do that to me.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m doing,” Tim stated. And with those words, he made a hurried dash for the front door.

  “Thanks a lot,” Max yelled after him. “You suck.”

  Carlo emerged from the bathroom. “Your boyfriend take off?” he asked, scratching his balls.

  At least he’s fully dressed and sober, Max thought. And if Tim can’t shift him, I certainly can.

  “Yes,” she said stiffly. “He took off, and that’s exactly what I’d like you to do.”

  “Ah, but not before I tell you our news, bella,” Carlo said, turning on a great deal of Italian charm.

  “Our news?” she demanded, confronting him, hands on hips.

  “We have bene bene news.”

  “We do?”

  “Sì, my piccola bambina.”

  “Can you please speak English,” she said, quite exasperated. “And while you’re at it—stop with the terms of endearment, ’cause for your information, I am not anyone’s little baby.”

  Carlo gave a casual shrug while reaching into his pocket for a cigarette, which he proceeded to light up.

  “Last night,” he said. “I had grande dinner with friends, importante people in the industry.”

  “What industry?” she questioned, trying to avoid the stream of smoke he was busily exhaling in her direction.

  “The fashion industry, cara.”

  “Exactly how does that have anything to do with you crawling into my bed in the middle of the night?”

  “I am sure you have heard of the American company Guess?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I tell you their equivalent in Italy is Dolcezza.”

  More smoke drifted into her face.

  “Last night I show them our photos,” Carol continued. “They were mad for them. They want you to be their face, and me to helm their next big advertising campaign.”

  “Huh?” Max said, quite startled.

  “This is huge, mia carina.”

  “Stop calling me names,” she said, attempting to digest this exciting information. Could it mean that she might be the new face of Dolcezza? She needed to get to her iPad immediately and check out Dolcezza, find out if they were indeed the Italian version of Guess.

  “Tell your agent, pronto,” Carlo instructed. “They make immediate deal. We start shooting next week.”

  “Is this for real?” she asked, wide-eyed.

  “Sí, bella. Only now I must leave you. I have work to do. Scusi for last night. We meet again very soon in beautiful Italia. Ciao, cara.”

  And just like Tim, Carlo was heading out the door, leaving Max in a total state of confusion.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Jesus Christ, you don’t know how glad I am to be out of there. I got a deep aversion to hospitals,” Bobby said as they headed down the street toward M.J.’s car. He was still feeling shaky, although a lot better than he was before.

  “Like the man said,” M.J. offered, cheerful as ever, “you’re one fortunate son of a bitch.”

  “You got that right,” Bobby agreed, trying not to think about what could’ve happened.

  “An’ here’s the kicker,” M.J. pointed out. “You didn’t even get laid for your trouble.”

  “Don’t even go there,” Bobby groaned. “I told you—getting laid was never my intention.”

  “Sure,” M.J. drawled.

  “Will you quit with that shit, M.J. It’s not funny. You heard what the doc said. I could’ve died.”

  “Yeah, but you gotta admit she was hot.”

  “Oh, she was hot, all right,” Bobby said with a cynical laugh. “One hot criminal psycho bitch. Just my type.”

  M.J. laughed too.

  “Jesus,” Bobby said as they reached M.J.’s car. “I should call Denver. She must be goin’ nuts.”

  “Denver’s too cool for that.”

  “You don’t know her like I do.”

  “So call her. Nobody’s stopping you.”

  “I guess it’s better if I see her in person. That way I can explain the whole fucked-up story.”

  “Oh yeah,” M.J. remarked with a dry chuckle. “She’s gonna love that bit about her slipping you a roofie. That’ll really thrill her.”

  “Maybe I’ll skip the part where I told the doc that.”

  “If you wanna keep your balls intact, that sounds like the way to go,” M.J. said, sliding behind the steering wheel.

  “My balls are fine, thank you.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Fuck you, M.J.,” Bobby said, shaking his head. “You’re treating this like the joke it’s not.”

  “Okay, okay, so what’s the plan?” M.J. asked. “Am I drivin’ you to the club or the hotel?”

  “How about the airport?” Bobby said. “I hate to dump on you, but I kinda think I need a couple of days in L.A. to get my head around what happened. Can you take care of the club without me? Forty-eight hours and I’ll be back.”

  “You got it. In another few days we’ll both be able to leave the place in the new manager’s hands. He did great last night.”

  “At least we’ve got that going for us.”

  “Wanna stop by the hotel an’ pick up your stuff?” M.J. asked.

  “Don’t need to, since I’m coming back. Only, do me a big favor—see if you can find out anything about psycho bitch. Could be someone in the club knew her or the so-called cousin. And maybe you can get the number of a reputable PI ’cause I’m getting way into it when I’m back. She’s not walking away, I can promise you that.”

  M.J. revved his engine. “The airport it is.”

  * * *

  With Carlo finally gone, Max couldn’t wait to get on the phone and call Athena in Saint-Tropez.

  “This place is sublime,” Athena crowed. “Nothing but amazing yachts, super-interesting rich people, and nonstop parties. I’m in heaven. Get your pretty butt over here, Sweet Eyes. I’m in dire need of my coconspirator.”

  Max could hear loud techno music blaring in the background, and the sound of several male voices. “It sounds fun,” she said tentatively.

  “It is fun,” Athena said, brimming with enthusiasm. “A ton of action, and you know me—I’m the star of everything.”

  “I’m sure you are.”

  “I hope you’re keeping up with my selfies. They’re amazeballs,” Athena boasted.

  “I’ll be sure to check ’em out.”

  “You do that. My arse lo
oks divine!”

  Max hesitated for a moment. “Uh … have you heard of Dolcezza?” she asked.

  “Of course,” Athena said airily. “Dolcezza means sweetheart. I took Italian in school, you know. That was before I was thrown out for bashing a girl over the head with a lacrosse stick. The cow deserved it.”

  “I don’t mean the word,” Max said patiently. “I’m talking about the Italian fashion line.”

  “Sure. I was supposed to do a huge campaign for them last year, but shockingly they passed. They even had the nerve to tell my agent I was too heroin chic. Can you imagine? I’ve never touched heroin ever. Their bloody loss.”

  Oh great, Max thought. Now Athena’s going to be pissed that I’m about to land a job she possibly wanted.

  “Why are you asking?” Athena inquired.

  Don’t tell her now, before it’s all signed, Max thought. Better to wait.

  “Just curious,” she answered vaguely. “Carlo kind of mentioned them.”

  “Ah, yes—Carlo,” Athena said with a knowing chuckle. “I forgot that you were working with that sexy Italian stud. Did you screw him?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “I did,” Athena admitted with a wild giggle.

  This was news to Max. How come Athena hadn’t mentioned it before?

  “Wow! I didn’t know that,” she mumbled. “You could’ve told me.”

  “It was a one-night thing,” Athena said matter-of-factly. “Carlo has the reputation of bedding all his models, especially the young ones. I was sixteen at the time and naive as fuck. I suppose I should have warned you.”

  Kind of sketchy that you didn’t, Max thought. What’s up with that?

  “Anyway,” Athena continued. “When will you be here? I have a superhot friend with a helicopter. He’ll pick you up from Nice Airport.”

  “I was thinking of flying in tomorrow,” Max said, although she wasn’t sure if that would happen now.

  “Fab,” Athena exclaimed. “Text me the deets. Must go now. Some random rich dude is taking me power-sailing.”

  Max clicked off and phoned her agent, Melissa Brown, a brisk ex-model in her fifties who called everyone “luvvie.” Melissa repped only the best, and Max knew that it was only because of Athena that Melissa had signed her.

  Melissa had gotten her the jeans campaign and warned her not to screw it up. Since she hung with Athena—who often arrived at shoots late and was known to be difficult—she had to prove herself. If the whole Dolcezza thing was true, then Melissa would begin to realize that she was indeed a contender.

  “Well, well, well,” Melissa drawled over the phone. “Somebody’s made a big impression. I’m proud of you, luvvie. Dolcezza are hot to trot—they’re e-mailing me contracts as we speak.”

  “They are?” Max gulped, thinking that things were moving really fast.

  “Apparently they’re mad for Carlo’s photos, and they’ve fallen in love with you,” Melissa continued. “This is quite a coup. They’ve been searching for the face of Dolcezza for months. Apparently you’re it.”

  “Wow! I’m excited.”

  “As so you should be, luvvie. This could be the start of something really big.”

  “When would I have to go to Italy?”

  “Sooner rather than later. They’re planning two days of test shots for makeup, hair, and clothes. A press conference, followed by a ten-day shoot in Rome, Venice, and Capri. You’re one very lucky girl, so do not screw it up.”

  Why was Melissa always telling her that?

  Oh yes, it was because of her connection to party-hard Athena.

  She hoped Athena would be as thrilled as she was. Somehow she had a hunch Athena might not be. After all, Athena was always the star, and she, Max, was always the sidekick. However, if the Dolcezza campaign was a success, things could radically change.

  And if they did, Max was more than ready. This was her shot, and she was all over it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “What the fuck is it?” Lennie demanded, his eyes focused on Lucky as she dropped her phone to the ground and fell back into a chair. Her face was ashen, her black-as-night eyes filled with shock and disbelief. “For God’s sake, tell me,” Lennie urged, knowing that whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.

  Lucky could barely summon the strength to speak. The room was spinning. She felt as if she were trapped in the middle of a deadly nightmare. A feeling of helplessness overcame her. Wake up! her inner voice screamed in her head. Wake the fuck up and get it together.

  “Is it Max?” Lennie continued, thinking that if anyone had harmed his daughter, he would kill them. “Has something happened to Max?”

  Slowly Lucky shook her head. “It’s … Gino,” she managed.

  “What, exactly?” Lennie asked, expecting her to tell him that Gino had experienced a heart attack or a stroke. He’d never seen his strong, beautiful wife in such a state.

  “Gino’s been shot,” she muttered, hardly believing her own words. “He was shot in the back of the head, execution-style.”

  “What?”

  “I know,” she gasped. “It seems impossible.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “Who would do this, Lennie?” she implored, shaking her head in disbelief. “Who would do such a thing? The days of Gino having enemies are long past. He was an old man living out his final days in peace. WHO WOULD DO THIS?”

  Lennie gave a helpless shrug. He was as shocked as his wife, and he had no idea what to say.

  For a moment Lucky was lost, adrift, until she realized that she’d better summon her strength and do something. “Call Danny and tell him to arrange a helicopter,” she said, her throat dry and raw. “We have to get to Palm Springs immediately.”

  “I’m doing it now,” Lennie said, hurrying from the room.

  Lucky buried her head in her hands, her mind overflowing with deadly memories. She pictured her mother’s body covered in blood floating on a raft in the family swimming pool. Then she thought of her brother, Dario, tossed from a car like a piece of garbage. And finally Marco—the love of her life before Lennie—gunned down in the parking lot of the Magiriano.

  Violence had always been part of her life. Now this.

  Oh God. Not Gino.

  Yes. Gino.

  She began thinking … thinking … going through a list of Gino’s enemies from his nefarious past. Her head began filling with names—most of the men were deceased. She’d personally taken care of Gino’s biggest enemy of all: her godfather, Enzio Bonnatti, the man responsible for the brutal murders of her beloved family. She’d shot the son of a bitch, claiming it was self-defense, that he’d been attempting to rape her. She’d gotten away with it, and she’d never regretted what she’d done, not for one single moment.

  It was karma.

  Never fuck with a Santangelo.

  Unfortunately, there were many other members of the Bonnatti clan. There was also a slew of business associates who could be harboring grudges against Gino from way back.

  Oh my God, she thought. So many vengeful people who might have felt they’d been wronged. So many faceless enemies.

  Over the years, the Santangelos had seen more than their share of murder and mayhem.

  Desperately, she attempted to gather her thoughts. Gino had not been involved in any business ventures for years. His life with Paige in Palm Springs consisted of an occasional dinner out with friends, poker night with old cronies, and watching classic movies on TV. Every so often he made the trip to Vegas, which as far as Lucky was concerned was not often enough.

  Gino Santangelo.

  Gino the Ram.

  Stern father who’d married her off at sixteen.

  Loving father who’d finally come to terms with the fact that she, his daughter, could do anything she set her mind to.

  Gino was proud of all her achievements; he’d often told her she was the ballsiest woman he’d ever known. When he was feeling nostalgic, he called her his little Italian Princess—the nickname he�
��d used when she was a child, before Maria’s murder, before he’d locked her and Dario away in an enormous Bel Air mansion to protect them.

  Childhood memories overwhelmed her, mostly memories of family time with her gentle mother, and her younger brother, Dario. Gino was so happy then—not the stern father he’d turned into after Maria’s murder.

  Goddamn it! How could this happen to an old man who loved his grandkids, and possessed such a zest for life? I’m gonna live t’ be one hundred an’ three, he’d often boasted. Then they can finally bury my fine ass in the city I love.

  Las Vegas. Gino had always had a thing for Vegas. His favorite hotel was the Magiriano—a combination of his name and Maria’s. A special place with special memories.

  Her uncle Costa had often regaled her with tales of Gino’s misspent youth—racketeering, loan-sharking, owning a fancy speakeasy during prohibition, a lengthy stint in jail, countless women, then finally Vegas, where he’d turned things around and become a legitimate businessman building hotels and creating an empire.

  It’s impossible, Lucky thought. Gino cannot be gone. Not like this.

  “You’d better get dressed,” Lennie said, coming back into the room, interrupting her thoughts. “Danny’s organizing everything.”

  She shook her head, clearing the cobwebs, wondering if this was indeed a devastating nightmare, and if she would wake up soon and everything would be fine.

  * * *

  Palm Springs was hot and balmy. Too damn hot, Lucky thought. Why did Gino choose to live in the fucking desert?

  Oh yes, she knew why. Because Paige wanted to. Because Paige hated Vegas. She said it was too flashy and not a place to grow old. Gino had gone along with whatever Paige wanted, although he’d have been so much safer if he’d stayed in Vegas.

  “I have to call Bobby, Steven, Max, and—” Lucky began.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Lennie interrupted as a black sedan sped them from the helicopter pad toward Gino’s house. “The deal is we should find out exactly what happened, then you call the kids.”

  Lucky threw him a furious look. “We know what happened,” she said bitterly. “My father got shot in the fucking head. Isn’t that enough?”

  Danny sat silently next to the driver. He didn’t know what to do or say, he only knew he had to be there for Lucky at all times.