The Santangelos

by Jackie Collins

  King Emir was satisfied that vengeance would finally be his. And when it was done, he would return to Akramshar and throw a public celebration for all of his loyal citizens to know that Armand’s death had been avenged a thousandfold.

  The guilty would be punished and fall as they so deserved. King Emir had organized himself a front-row seat for the chaos that was to come.

  The spectacle would soon begin. He was in no rush.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Willow Price met Sam for breakfast dressed to impress. She wore extra-short denim cutoffs, a clinging white tank top, and gold sandals to match her gold earrings. Her pale red hair was pulled back into a girlish ponytail, and she had carefully applied natural-looking makeup. After her night with Rafael, she was feeling kind of wrecked. What a surprise he’d turned out to be, a first-class lover with moves she was not about to forget—even if he had imagined she was his damn girlfriend back in Colombia. However, this meeting with Sam was extremely important, and she was well aware that she had plenty of convincing to do.

  When they’d been making the movie Sam had written, she’d gone out of her way to ignore him. At the time, he was nothing more than a lowly screenwriter with no important credits; plus she was screwing her costar. Now Sam was a big deal, and she desperately needed him to make Alejandro’s movie happen.

  She greeted him with an all-enveloping hug, making sure she pressed her breasts firmly against him, nipples slightly erect as always. Men got off on her nipples; in full bloom, they were quite spectacular.

  “Hello, handsome,” she crooned. “Fantastic to see you again.”

  Sam took a step back. Hello, handsome! Fantastic to see him! Was this the girl who’d studiously pretended he’d barely existed when they’d worked together? Now she was calling him handsome and saying it was fantastic to see him. Talk about transparent. He was unimpressed.

  “What’s up, Willow?” he asked, as the two of them followed the hostess to a window table.

  “Like I told you on the phone, plenty,” she said excitedly, wriggling into a fake leather booth. “Can’t wait to fill you in.”

  Sam sat down and observed her across the table, studying her lips. She’d obviously had work done. What did they call it in Hollywood? Ah yes, a trout pout. It didn’t suit her, like it didn’t suit most women. What was up with this obsession with plastic surgery? Even men were at it, getting eye jobs that looked so wrong on their craggy aging faces.

  Damn it, his mind was wandering. Willow was waffling on and he hadn’t taken in a word. Why would he be interested in anything she had to say? Breakfast with Willow was a mistake.

  A tall thin waitress with a weary expression stood by their table, pad in hand. “What can I get for you folks?” she asked, summoning a tired smile.

  “Green tea,” Willow said grandly. “Decaffeinated. And a wheat muffin with organic blueberry jam. Oh, and a glass of chilled coconut milk.”

  Their waitress seemed perplexed. “Don’t have none of that, dear. How about a nice stack of pancakes with butter and syrup?”

  Willow threw her a disgusted glare. “Water, thank you. Bottled, not tap.”

  “I’ll have coffee and the pancakes,” Sam said, once again wondering why he’d agreed to meet with this spoiled Hollywood starlet when his mind was all about Denver and whether there was a way he could win her over. Last night was a start; he definitely had plans for their future.

  “This place sucks,” Willow said in a loud voice, causing a couple of customers to stare at her. “Can you imagine not having green tea?”

  “We’re in a diner,” Sam said drily. “What did you expect?”

  “Well, you chose it,” Willow said, then, realizing that she might be sounding petulant, she hurriedly changed her attitude. “Actually, maybe I will have the pancakes.”

  Sam nodded. “Excellent choice.”

  Willow couldn’t help herself. “Unhealthy choice,” she pointed out, making a face. “All that sugar.”

  “You smoke, don’t you?” he said.

  “Only socially,” she answered vaguely.

  “You do know there’s nothing cool about smoking,” Sam said, fixing her with a stern look. “It makes your clothes stink, not to mention your hair, until it eventually kills you.”

  “That’s cheerful.”

  “Just giving you the truth,” he said, deciding that although Willow was very pretty, she was still as obnoxious as ever, and he couldn’t wait to leave.

  “Anyway,” Willow said, hurriedly moving on while she had his attention. “What do you think?”

  “About what?” he countered.

  “About what I was telling you,” she said, hiding her aggravation behind a forced smile. Sam might be in the money and a happening screenwriter, but he was still a dick.

  “Tell me again,” Sam said, wondering how soon he could make a fast exit.

  And so she began her pitch once more. This time she hoped he was listening.

  * * *

  “Hey,” Leon said, leaning over Denver’s desk, iPad in hand. “Isn’t this dude Bobby’s granddad?”

  “What?” Denver said impatiently. She was mad at herself for letting things go too far with Sam the night before. Not that they had gone any further than kissing—although she knew that he would certainly have liked to take it all the way. Kissing was bad enough. She was suffused with guilt in spite of Bobby’s continued silence.

  “Take a look,” Leon said, thrusting the iPad in her face.

  She glanced at the story quickly—and with a sudden jolt she realized that the news was all about Bobby’s grandfather, the once infamous Gino Santangelo.

  “Oh my God!” she gasped, reading about his execution in Palm Springs. “This is terrible. When did it happen?”

  “Yesterday,” Leon said. “Read on,” he encouraged. “They’re hinting it could be a mob hit.”

  “Now, that’s crazy,” Denver said, a frown creasing her forehead. “Gino is in his nineties. Who’s going to go after an old man? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Gotta say that most things don’t,” Leon said with a wise nod. “Didya know him?”

  Of course she knew him. Bobby and Gino had always been close, and she was well aware of how much Bobby loved and admired his grandfather. He must be going out of his mind.

  Was this the reason she hadn’t heard from him?

  No. The timing was off.

  It was all too confusing. The only thing she knew for sure was that she had to reach Bobby immediately, even though she had no idea where he was. The shooting had taken place the previous day. Had he left Chicago and gone straight to Palm Springs? Why hadn’t he called her? What the hell was going on?

  Feeling totally in the dark, she grabbed her purse, stood up, and headed for the door.

  “Where’re you goin’?” Leon asked, startled. “We got work to do. You know we’re meetin’ with Romano and his lawyer today.”

  “You’ll have to take the meeting without me,” she said. “Right now I’ve got to find Bobby. He shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.”

  “Thought he was in Chicago.”

  “He’s hardly likely to stay there now this has happened.”

  “Hey, how about nailin’ Alejandro?” Leon persisted. “We’re gettin’ real close, an’ you’re runnin’ off? What’s the deal with that?”

  “You can handle it.”

  “Jeez, Denver … Sonia’s comin’ in today, and there’s a shitload of stuff goin’ on. You’re really gonna bail on me?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said abruptly. “Keep working on everything. I promise I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  And even though she knew Leon was pissed, she felt she had no choice but to take off.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Rolling over in bed, Max opened her eyes and gazed blankly at the ceiling. For a moment she couldn’t remember where she was. L.A.? New York? London?

  Ah yes … beautiful Roma.

  She couldn’t help smiling as s
he pushed away the covers and sat up in bed, taking in her hotel bedroom with its glorious view of the city. She was still psyched that this was happening to her.

  Last night Lorenzo had escorted her to this luxurious hotel suite, where he had produced what he referred to as her itinerary. It encompassed a long list of things she had to do the following day. First off she was to meet with a makeup artist, hair person, and stylist. When she was ready, she was to be introduced to the Dolcezza team of executives, followed by more makeup tests and a photo session for PR purposes. Later there would be dinner with the executives, then bed so she’d be ready for the following day’s press conference and announcement that she was to be the new face of Dolcezza. After that the real work would begin. It was a daunting schedule.

  Lorenzo had thrown her a concerned look. “This is fine?” he’d questioned, hovering. “Not too much?”

  “I guess I’m going to be busy,” she’d replied.

  “I will pick you up at eight-thirty in the morning,” he’d said. “Is there anything else you might need tonight?”

  She’d shaken her head. “No thanks. I’m kind of tired. I see nothing but sleep in my future.”

  “Then I will leave now.”

  As soon as Lorenzo was gone, she’d made a quick tour of her surroundings before falling into bed, exhausted.

  Now it was morning and she was about to get ready to rock and roll. All systems go. Seize the opportunity she’d been presented with and kick some ass.

  I sound like my mom, she thought, giggling to herself as she headed for the shower. Girls can do anything.

  Right on!

  After showering, she pulled on her favorite ripped jeans and an oversized cashmere sweater, dug out her cell phone from her purse, and finally checked her messages. There were quite a few, several of them from Lucky, which was unusual, for her mom never called her more than once a week, claiming she was giving her daughter plenty of space to do her own thing.

  And now I am, Max thought. And how!

  Because of the time difference it was too early to call Lucky back. Max promised herself that she would definitely do so later, get both of her parents on a conference call and tell them her amazing news. Hopefully they’d be thrilled for her.

  She was tempted to call Athena, then decided not to—even though Athena had sent her several texts demanding to know when she was coming to the South of France. Not to mention dozens of selfies showing off her bronzed and buff ass.

  Too bad, girl, Max thought. You’re on your own with your fine ass, your yachts, and your rich guys. I’m busy making a name for myself.

  Lorenzo appeared on time, immaculate in a gray pin-striped jacket and pale pink shirt paired with narrow-legged black jeans and pointy-toed black and white shoes.

  She wondered if he was gay.

  Yes, no doubt about it. What straight man would be such a snappy dresser? Nobody she could think of.

  “You slept well?” Lorenzo inquired.

  “I certainly did.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  “There will be food at the studio.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  “Then we shall be on our way.”

  * * *

  A night in jail was an experience Bobby never wished to repeat. Detective Cole was a sadistic son of a bitch who’d taken great pleasure in the fact that Bobby’s one phone call had gotten him nothing except Lucky’s voice mail. He’d left a terse message and hoped that she’d pick it up soon.

  Apparently not soon enough, for he’d spent the night locked in a cell, trying to sleep on a hard wooden bench, getting up to pee in a bucket, while keeping a wary eye on his cellmate, the drunk with the burping problem who never stopped pacing around, muttering obscenities between burps.

  By the time morning came, he was royally pissed. Surely Lucky should’ve gotten his message by now? It was imperative that he hire a lawyer. And fast.

  He moved to the front of the cell. “I need to make a phone call,” he called out to the cop on desk duty.

  The cop got up and strolled over, stood by the bars, and threw him a dirty look. “Not up to me,” he said gruffly.

  “Then who the fuck is it up to?” Bobby demanded.

  “Maybe you should ask the woman you murdered,” the cop sneered, walking back to his desk.

  Bobby attempted to clear his head. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.

  “Nobody’s gonna help you,” the burping drunk offered, leaning unsteadily against the wall of the cell. Verging on sober, the man was morose and red-eyed. “You wanna make a phone call. I wanna get a drink. Guess that means we’re both shit outta luck. Tough times, buddy.”

  Bobby ignored him. He was in no mood to make new friends.

  “You really murder someone?” the drunk inquired, lurching off the wall and moving in close. “’Cause if that’s the business you’re in, I got a cunt of a wife you can take care of. An’ I’ll pay you plenty of big bucks t’ do the job. I’m not as broke as I look.”

  Bobby backed away from the man’s rancid breath.

  Was this what his life had come to?

  * * *

  So many people. So many smartly clad men, along with several chic women all perfectly coiffed and made up. Everyone was pulling and prodding at Max while wildly gesticulating and speaking in Italian—a language she wished she knew, because ciao and prego simply didn’t cut it.

  A razor-thin man zeroed in on her hair, clucking his tongue, while a woman in a tightly belted zebra-print coat studied her face, makeup brushes ready for action.

  Thank goodness for Lorenzo. “Don’t leave me,” she whispered, clutching desperately on to his arm as a hard-faced blonde attacked her with a tape measure, touching every inch of her body as if they were lovers.

  The blonde indicated that she wanted Max to do something and stood back, waiting.

  Max threw Lorenzo a questioning look.

  “She would like you to remove your top,” Lorenzo said, slightly embarrassed.

  “My top? You mean my sweater?” Max gulped.

  “Yes, and your jeans. If you wish, I can leave the room.”

  “No way. You’re the only sane person here. Besides, you’re gay, aren’t you?”

  Lorenzo recoiled in horror. “Me? Gay?” he said. “Why would you think that?”

  Flustered, Max didn’t know what to say. “Well…” she managed. “I just thought…” She trailed off, while the hard-faced blonde tapped her foot impatiently.

  “Sorry if I disappoint you,” Lorenzo sniffed. “I will wait outside while Lucia finishes taking your measurements.”

  “Please don’t,” Max pleaded. “I can’t understand a word anyone says.”

  Lorenzo shrugged. It was obvious she’d offended him, but hopefully he’d get over it. “As you wish,” he said, still uptight.

  Stripping down to my underwear is no big deal, Max assured herself. I’m a model. They’re all professionals. Everyone in this room has seen it all before.

  However, that didn’t stop her from feeling like a piece of meat. She hated them all. And she especially hated the result when they’d all finished their jobs.

  “We go now,” Lorenzo informed her.

  “Where?” she asked.

  “To meet the executives.”

  As soon as they left the little room of horrors, as Max had christened it, she informed Lorenzo that she needed to use the restroom.

  “Very well,” he said. “I will wait outside.”

  Gazing at her image in the mirror, she was horrified. She didn’t look like herself at all. Is this how they wanted her to look? Teased hair and an abundance of makeup? Plus the stylist had chosen a shiny pink jumpsuit that was a size too big, and flashy gold jewelry that was more suited to a forty-something socialite. I look like a freaking clown, she thought, totally mortified.

  What to do? That was the question.

  Hurriedly digging into her purse, she grabbed a brush and att
acked her hair, brushing out the teasing until it was almost back to normal. Then she took a Kleenex and quickly wiped off most of the heavy makeup. Unfortunately, there was nothing she could do about the horrible pink outfit.

  Gritting her teeth, she joined Lorenzo, who was patiently waiting for her. He gave her a startled look but said nothing.

  Then they were off to meet the Dolcezza executives.

  Max tried to convince herself that she’d gained a little bit of control. She was a Santangelo, after all, and that had to count for something.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  There was no sign of Bobby at the house. Denver had imagined that he might miraculously appear, but no such luck.

  She’d raced home, and now she was suffused with guilt about her job. She shouldn’t have left, but honestly, what else could she do? Her heart had won over her head. Bobby came first.

  Should she call Lucky or not? The problem was that she had no wish to intrude, yet at the same time she was desperate to connect with her elusive boyfriend and find out what was going on.

  Damn him! Bobby could be such an asshole, but she loved him anyway.

  She tried to imagine what Lucky must be going through.

  She should call her.

  No. She shouldn’t.

  There were times Lucky could be quite intimidating. Besides, she was never quite sure whether Bobby’s mom thought she was good enough for her number one son.

  Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos.

  Heir to a massive shipping fortune.

  Handsome beyond.

  Charming.

  A sensational lover.

  Was she good enough for him? Sometimes her insecurities took over and drove her crazy. Wouldn’t she be better off with a man like Sam? A down-to-earth, talented, regular guy.

  “Damn it,” she muttered under her breath. This wasn’t the time to be thinking such thoughts. She should be concentrating on Bobby and what he was going through. Gino had always been his hero, and no way could Bobby ever have expected his grandfather’s life to end in such a violent and brutal fashion. He must be inconsolable.