“He should’ve kept his security guards,” Lucky said, drumming her fingers on the leather seat. “I told him to, but as usual, he wouldn’t listen.”
“Gino refused to live like that,” Lennie reminded her. “He was always talking about how much he enjoyed his freedom. No worries. No responsibilities. No shit. Just an old man living out his final days in Palm Springs.”
“A stubborn old man,” Lucky fumed, her anger mixing with the tears she was desperately trying to hold back. “I fucking hate him. He should’ve known better.”
“You don’t mean that,” Lennie said.
“Yes. I do.” After a long beat, she added a shaky, “No. I don’t. Of course I don’t. I loved him with all my heart.”
“C’mon, Lucky. You’ve got to keep it together,” Lennie said, taking her hand. “We’re almost there.”
“How am I supposed to know what to do?” she said sadly, once again feeling helpless because she knew there was nothing she could do.
Gino is dead.
My father is gone.
How can I carry on?
Because you’re a goddamn Santangelo, a voice in her head said. It was Gino’s voice. He was talking to her; she could hear him clearly.
She took a deep breath. Never fuck with a Santangelo.
Well, someone had. And they would pay for it. Oh yes, she would make sure of that.
* * *
The next few hours were a blur of activity. Homicide detectives were on the scene; police crime investigators were going door-to-door talking to the neighbors.
Paige was hysterical. Darlene, a friend of hers who lived nearby, had arrived at the house and was consoling her.
Lucky insisted on viewing Gino’s body—which was still lying on the sidewalk.
Detective Allan, the lead detective assigned to the case, escorted her outside. Seeing her beloved father’s lifeless body slumped on the sidewalk in his jogging outfit was simply too much. She felt a lump form in her throat and a gaping emptiness within. This couldn’t be happening. Yet it was.
Gino, the invincible.
Shot. In the back of the head.
Dead.
How was this possible?
She curbed the urge to throw herself on top of his body and hug him close.
Finally, Detective Allan led her gently away. “We’re very sorry, Ms. Santangelo,” he said. “Everyone knew your father. He was a generous man—we could always depend on him to support all our events. Gino Santangelo was quite a character. He’ll be missed.”
Don’t be sorry, she’d wanted to scream. Find out who the fuck did it. Do that, and I’ll take care of the rest. “I know,” she murmured.
It wasn’t long before random people started bringing flowers and laying them on the ground next to the police tapes that surrounded the area where Gino had been gunned down. Bad news travels like lightning. TV cameras and their crews were also arriving on the scene—talking to neighbors, trying to blow the story up. Everyone was hungry for more.
After viewing Gino’s body, Lucky took refuge in the house with Lennie by her side and Danny ready to do her bidding. Paige was now locked in the master bedroom with Darlene.
Lucky questioned Detective Allan. He informed her that so far Paige was their only witness. She’d made a statement that a man had jogged toward them, passing them as they walked along their usual path, then once he’d gone by, he’d apparently turned around and shot Gino in the back of the head. One bullet was all it took.
Paige’s description of the man was sketchy. According to Paige he was dressed all in black, with a baseball cap pulled so low that it partially obscured his face, and dark sunglasses. Paige had gotten the vague impression that he could be in his thirties, but that was all she could come up with.
“Now’s the time to call the kids,” Lennie said, after Lucky had finished talking to Detective Allan. “Want me to take care of it?”
“It can wait,” she said, shaking her head.
“No, it can’t,” Lennie insisted. “This is going to be all over the Internet. It’s probably already up on Twitter. Besides, in the car, you said you wanted to call them.”
“Not now, Lennie.”
“Does that mean that you think it’s a better idea for them to find out about it online?” he said.
“I can call,” Danny volunteered, sensing tension.
Again Lucky shook her head. “No, Danny. What you can do is fix me a drink. Jack on the rocks. Then I’ll call them.”
“Since when did you start drinking Jack—” Lennie began.
“It was Gino’s drink,” Lucky interrupted sharply. “I’m having it for him.”
Lennie understood his wife enough to know when to leave her alone. She had to process this tragedy in her own way, and it would take time.
“The celebration of Gino’s life will be in Vegas,” Lucky said to no one in particular. “Gino’s wishes. He told me over and over exactly what he wanted when the time came.” She turned to Danny. “Make sure the family knows this. Everyone will attend.”
Danny had a slew of questions, only now was not the right time to ask them.
“Lennie,” Lucky said, turning to her husband. “I’m going to stay here tonight. You should go back to L.A.”
“Sweetheart,” he said firmly, “there’s no way I’m leaving you.”
“You’ve got to do this for me,” she insisted. “I have to talk to Paige, and after that I need to be alone.”
“How about security?” Lennie asked, thinking that whoever had targeted Gino could come after Lucky.
“You think I can’t protect myself?” she said, throwing him a fierce look.
“I know you can.”
Her voice softened. “Then please do this for me.”
Lennie knew there was no arguing with Lucky Santangelo. She might be his wife, but she was also a woman who always did things her way.
Today was no exception.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Concepción Abascal was almost late for work, and this was bad, for Martha Crabstone, the surly housekeeper who was in charge of the hotel floor she worked on, had threatened to dismiss her if Concepción was late one more time.
Unfortunately, the early evening traffic was not good, nor was her old car—a 1970s Buick that probably should have been laid to rest years ago. However, it was all Concepción had to get around in, and with three young children to ferry back and forth to school, and an out-of-work disabled husband to care for, she depended on her car.
Fortunately, she made it just in time. Out of breath and flushed, she rushed into the room where all the hotel maids kept lockers and changed into her uniform.
Martha Crabstone stood guard. She was a formidable-looking woman with badly dyed black hair and hardly any forehead. This did not seem to faze her, for she wore scarlet lipstick and plenty of badly applied eye makeup. She was big and stout and usually in a vile mood.
“Nice of you to join us, Concepción,” Martha said with a sarcastic snarl. She tapped her watch—a cheap Gucci copy—and added, “Two more minutes and you would have found yourself out of a job.”
“Sorry, Miss Crabstone,” Concepción muttered. “The traffic, it was bad.”
“Then leave home earlier,” Martha said sternly. “Your excuses are becoming ridiculous.”
“So sorry,” Concepción said, lowering her eyes, for she could hardly stand to look at the horrible woman who always talked down to her as if she were dirt on the street.
“Anyway,” Martha continued, with a brisk clap of her hands, “there is work to get done. Suite 701 has had the Do Not Disturb sign on since last night. Use your passkey and go in there.”
“But if the Do Not Disturb sign is on the door—”
“Take fresh towels and get yourself in there,” Martha interrupted. “You know my policy: if a sign is on longer than fifteen hours, we should see what’s going on.”
Concepción gave a reluctant nod. The last time she’d entered a room with a Do Not D
isturb sign, she’d been confronted with two naked men having sex on the floor. She shuddered at the memory.
“Very well, then,” Martha said, clapping her large hands together again. “Get moving. I don’t have all night to stand here telling you what to do.”
Martha left the room. Concepción had already worked her daytime job, and now she had another eight hours ahead of her. She’d be lucky if she got home by two A.M., and then she had to be up at six to fix her children breakfast and get them off to school.
She was tired and depressed and often wondered how her life had turned out to be such sheer drudgery. Once she’d been voted the prettiest girl in her high school. Now, ten years later, she was probably the ugliest. Or at least, that’s the way she saw it.
After making sure everything she needed was on her cart, she slipped a bar of soap and a small container of bubble bath into a secret compartment in her purse, and set off to clean her quota of rooms.
Suite 701 still had the Do Not Disturb sign on. Concepción listened at the door and heard nothing. She hesitated before inserting her passkey, then opened the door a crack. Still no sounds.
Perhaps the occupant or occupants had gone out and forgotten to remove the sign. Or maybe they were asleep or—God forbid—having sex in the bedroom.
Concepción entered slowly. The living room was empty.
Warily, she checked out the guest toilet, then headed for the bedroom. The door was closed. She knocked—not too hard—and called out, “Maid service. Clean towels.”
Nothing.
Martha Crabstone would expect her to investigate further, but surely hotel guests were entitled to their privacy?
Not according to Martha. She had strict rules, and everyone was expected to obey them. To not do so would bring the wrath of Martha full upon them, and nobody wanted that.
Very carefully, Concepción pushed open the bedroom door and peered inside.
Again, nothing.
The large double bed was neatly made; everything was in place.
Concepción was pleased. One less chore to take care of.
Idly, she wondered what it would be like to have someone do everything for you—make your bed, clean your toilet, cook your food—or to order room service if you were lucky enough to stay in a luxury hotel.
It suddenly struck her that the room looked unused. There were no personal items on display, no messy newspapers and magazines lying around, no jars of face cream or half-full plastic bottles of water on the bedside table.
She moved over to the closet and gingerly pushed it open.
No clothes. Just a row of empty hangers and a courtesy tray offering dry-cleaner bags, slippers, and a hotel hair dryer.
It occurred to Concepción that the hotel guests of suite 701 were no longer in residence. They’d probably done a midnight flit and not paid their bill.
Concepción couldn’t help smiling to herself. Martha Crabstone would be one angry woman—she’d take it personally that it had happened on her floor.
Before leaving the suite, Concepción decided she should check the bathroom to see if perhaps they’d left a tip for maid service. It was highly unlikely, but just in case … She opened the bathroom door and froze.
Her scream of terror reverberated against the marble walls.
Then she fainted.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The day passed and Denver did not hear another word from Bobby. It was enough already; she was frustrated and angry. Reaching for her cell, she called Sam and told him she was on her way over. Why not? Bobby was obviously having his own kind of fun.
Arriving outside Sam’s apartment, she didn’t feel guilty at all. Why should she? Her boyfriend was in Chicago screwing around. She was upset, and rightfully so.
There were times she wished she’d never gotten involved with Bobby. She’d had a crush on him since high school—where she’d watched him from afar. He was the most popular and handsome senior and all the girls had lusted after him.
Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos.
Now here they were, years later, living together.
The question was—were they right for each other?
It was a question she kept asking herself.
She could smell the pasta sauce before Sam opened the door. The delicious aroma lingered in the air, tempting her inside.
Sam greeted her warmly with a kiss on both cheeks. “Here she is, my favorite muse,” he said, wearing a nonsensical I Ate the Sheriff apron over his clothes.
She remembered the first time she’d run into him in New York. He’d been leaving the apartment building where Annabelle and Frankie lived. As Annabelle’s father’s lawyer, she was in town with orders to bring them back to L.A. Sam was all wrapped up against the icy cold in a striped scarf, knit hat, and long khaki army coat, whereas she was freezing her ass off, having forgotten to bring warm clothes. As an L.A. native, she didn’t even own any. They’d exchanged a word or two before he’d headed down the block to a local coffee shop—where later she’d bumped into him again. This time he was hunched over his laptop, and after a while, they’d got to talking. Before long she’d told him who she was looking for and that they weren’t around. To help her out, Sam had googled Frankie and gotten her his cell number. She’d called Frankie and he’d informed her that he and Annabelle would not be available to fly back to L.A. with her until the next morning. Sam had once again helped out and suggested that she spend the night at his place.
So she had, and one thing had led to another.…
This had all taken place before Bobby. It didn’t matter; Sam would always have a special place in her heart. She still had the striped scarf and knit hat he’d given her on that fateful day in New York.
Sam’s apartment was like Sam himself: low-key, comfortable, and welcoming. There were books piled everywhere, along with DVDs and stacks of cooking magazines.
“Nice place,” she said, looking around.
“It’ll do,” Sam said, casual as ever. “It has that famous L.A. view and a cozy guest room, which means that if you and Bobby ever get into a fight, you know where to come.”
“We’re not fighting,” she said quickly.
“Never thought you were,” Sam replied. “Where is he, by the way?”
“On a business trip,” she said shortly, not about to fill him in.
“The club business, right?”
“That’s what he does.”
“Y’know, Denver, if you and I were together, I’d never leave you for a second,” Sam said, opening a bottle of wine.
“Hmm. That sounds really … suffocating,” she said, trying to make a joke of it.
“Ah, but think of all the meals you’d enjoy,” Sam said, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “You know I’m a master in the kitchen.”
I shouldn’t have come here, she thought. I should have gone over to Carolyn’s and bitched to her about Bobby.
Although that would not have been the best of plans either. Carolyn would probably have riled her up even further with one of her “all men are dogs” speeches.
“Sit down, relax,” Sam said, handing her a glass of red wine. “I’m sure you’ve had a busy day.”
“I can’t stay long,” she stated. “So if you have questions about your script, you’d better start asking now.”
“What’s your rush?” he asked, clinking glasses with her. “I thought you mentioned Bobby was away.”
“He is,” she said, becoming flustered. “But I have a killer workload to go over, so like I said—I can’t stay long.”
“All work and no fun.”
“Bobby and I have plenty of fun,” she stated defiantly.
“Drink up, lady. You’re about to taste the best sauce outside of Little Italy.”
Two hours later she was still there, delightfully satisfied after a dish of Sam’s delicious pasta smothered with his special Bolognese sauce, accompanied by three glasses of excellent red wine.
“You haven’t changed a bit,” he said, giving
her a long meaningful look as he settled on the couch next to her.
“Nor have you,” she replied, wishing she’d gone a little easier on the wine. He’d removed his offending apron, and he was looking pretty good in a long-sleeved shirt and casual pants. Not dazzling like Bobby, but extremely attractive in his own particular quirky way. She remembered their time in New York, and how good it had been. Comfortable and warm. Sam made her feel good and very secure. Nothing wrong with that.
“Maybe I should be going,” she murmured.
“Maybe you shouldn’t,” he responded.
“But—”
“But what, Denver?”
And before she knew it, he was leaning toward her and they were kissing—long blissful kisses.
For once all thoughts of Bobby and his apparent bad behavior drifted away.
There was something about Sam.…
* * *
Fifteen million dollars. How was he supposed to slide a cool fifteen million past Rafael?
Alejandro began plotting and planning. He knew that Rafael considered him to be nothing more than a joke—a playboy only out to have a good time. However, when Alejandro wanted something, he could be a sly fox, and Alejandro was determined to make a movie. Therefore, nobody was going to stop him—especially Rafael.
He decided that he had two choices to raise the money for his movie.
Choice one: call his father in Colombia and tell him that he’d found his calling in life and that he was on track to produce a movie, that all he needed was the financing.
Choice two: go behind his father’s back and make a deal with one of Pablo’s rivals to import their wares into Los Angeles. They’d jump at the opportunity to screw Pablo Fernandez Diego—especially if the screwing involved his son.
After thinking it through, he realized that it was not such a smart idea. Crossing Pablo could only lead to major trouble. Besides, he, Alejandro, was the heir to everything, which meant that choice one was his only option. Besides, fifteen mil would mean nothing to Pablo Fernandez Diego. His drug business brought in billions. Why would he refuse his son the chance to make his own millions?
The Santangelos Page 11
