The Santangelos

by Jackie Collins

  Quickly she backed away from the sink. “All yours,” she said, striving to sound as if she didn’t give a damn. “I gotta get back inside.”

  “Who’re you with?”

  “Friends,” she answered vaguely.

  “I flew in this morning with my publicist and a couple of execs on the movie I’m about to start shooting. I was thinkin’ that if I got rid of them, you and I could go for a drink.”

  “No. Thanks anyway,” she said crisply.

  “How come?” he asked, looking surprised.

  “Hmm…” she said, tapping her chin with her index finger. “What if we were caught together by the paparazzi?”

  “Huh?” Billy said, not getting it.

  “I mean, I would hate to tarnish your image,” she continued. “Think of all the damage it could do to your reputation.” She thought about saying “precious” reputation, then she figured that might be taking it too far.

  “C’mon, Max,” he said, his expression perplexed. “You gotta know I had no choice about what happened. Then when Lennie came to see me—”

  “What?” she gulped, totally horrified. “Are you telling me that my dad visited you?”

  “Yeah, the dude was all over me. Read me the freakin’ riot act.” A long pause. “I thought you knew.”

  Before she could get her head around that stunning piece of information, Lorenzo came into the restroom.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, glancing suspiciously at Billy. “I was worried. You have been in here so long.”

  “Not to worry,” Max said, forcing herself to sound casual. “Bumped into an old friend.”

  “I see,” Lorenzo said.

  “These unisex bathrooms are something else,” Max continued. “You never know who you’ll meet.” She summoned a big wide grin to show Billy that she couldn’t care less about him. “Anyway, Billy,” she added. “Totally great running into you. Guess I’ll see you around.”

  “Hey—wait a minute,” he said, reaching for her arm.

  She jerked away from him, quickly grabbing on to Lorenzo. “Gotta go,” she said. “I have people waiting.”

  “‘People’?” Billy questioned, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

  Yes, people, she wanted to yell. You’re not the only one with an entourage. I’m about to be famous too.

  “Let’s go, Lorenzo,” she said, because all of a sudden Lorenzo wasn’t moving. He’d recognized Billy and was gazing at him with lust in his eyes.

  Not gay indeed, Max thought. Why hide it?

  She gave Lorenzo a sharp nudge. Reluctantly he dragged his gaze away from Billy and escorted her outside.

  “Was that—” he began to say.

  “Yes,” she said, interrupting him. “And for someone who’s not gay, you certainly seemed impressed.”

  Lorenzo blushed.

  “What?” Max demanded. “You think I didn’t figure it out?”

  “I … I … didn’t imagine my sexual orientation was anyone’s business except my own,” Lorenzo stammered.

  “Oh puh-leeze,” Max responded. “As if anyone gives a crap in this century. The closet is wide open. In fact,” she added, thinking of her friend Harry, “I have the perfect person for you.”

  “I think I just encountered the perfect person,” Lorenzo sighed, going all dreamy-eyed.

  “Billy Melina is so not gay,” Max said firmly. Then it was her turn to blush, for Billy had emerged from the restroom and was standing right behind them.

  “No,” Billy said, all tousled hair and blazing blue eyes. “Billy Melina is so not gay.”

  As he spoke, Max felt her reserve crumble and her stomach began performing cartwheels. He might’ve broken her heart into a thousand fragmented pieces, but there was no denying that she still loved him. She couldn’t help herself.

  Billy grinned. He knew he had her.

  Shooting him a filthy look, she dragged Lorenzo back to the private room, ignoring the fact that he was desperate to be introduced to Billy.

  Another time. Another place. She couldn’t wait to get away.

  Alfredo stood as she made her way to her seat at the table. Dante didn’t, until Alfredo muttered something to him in Italian, then Dante reluctantly rose and held back her chair so she could squeeze in.

  Across the table, Carlo appeared to be glassy-eyed, while Natalia was still draping herself all over him, claiming ownership.

  Talk about desperate, Max thought, and for a moment she almost felt sorry for the Italian girl, because if she knew Carlo at all, she knew that there was no way he was the marrying kind.

  Lorenzo was hovering at the other end of the table, not sure whether to sit or not.

  “Signor Dolcezza,” Max said sweetly, beckoning Lorenzo to join her, “is it okay if Lorenzo comes and sits next to me so he can translate? It’s so difficult for me not speaking Italian.”

  Alfredo got the gist of what she was saying. He summoned one of the waiters to bring another chair. Max made sure that the waiter squeezed the chair between her and Dante. Ha! That would show him.

  Dante gave her a mean-spirited look and turned back to speak to his rich older woman.

  Why does he hate me? she thought. What have I done to him except exactly nothing?

  After the main course of medallions of veal, there was an array of delicious desserts—everything from soft, creamy panna cotta to whipped chocolate mousse and strawberry cheesecake.

  Max found herself mindlessly eating everything in sight. Anything to take her mind off Billy.

  Then Alfredo decided to make a speech. He stood up, tapped the side of his glass, gestured toward Max, and spoke glowingly in Italian.

  Max knew it was a flattering speech, for Lorenzo translated everything Alfredo said into her ear. Everyone was laughing and clapping and toasting her with champagne, which forced her to forget about Billy for a moment as she reveled in the attention. Only for a moment, because who should walk into the private room but Billy himself. He entered the room and stood in the doorway, all six foot one of him, famous smile flashing, blue eyes seeking hers.

  “Sorry to interrupt, folks,” he drawled, reverting to his Mid-western roots. “The thing is, I couldn’t resist congratulating my very special friend here.”

  As he spoke, he moved toward Max, and everyone went quiet.

  Billy Melina. Famous American movie star. Every woman at the table was dumbstruck, including Max, who couldn’t believe he was doing this.

  She felt the color rising in her cheeks and her heartbeat quickening.

  Stay cool, a voice screamed in her head. Do not fall into his trap again. He’s a user. He dumped you once, and he can do it again.

  Across the table she noted Natalia’s expression of pure desire. Carlo was a distant memory as Natalia tried to decide how she could gain Billy’s attention. Gabriella was beaming, and even Marcella—the stern sister—seemed to be impressed.

  Billy reached her seat, bent down, and kissed her on the cheek. “Congrats, Green Eyes,” he said. “Always knew you had it in you.”

  Had what in me? she thought, totally stunned.

  “Now, if nobody minds,” Billy said. “I’m whisking my girl away. Gotta hunch she needs a break.”

  And with that, he pulled out her chair, gripped her firmly by the arm, and before she had time to realize what was going on, he had her up and out of there.

  So much for making a stand. He’d swept her up in the moment and there was no going back.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Most mornings Willow slept late, luxuriating under the covers, reluctant to face the day. What was the point of getting up early when she had no film set to go to? Ever since she was a little kid she’d always been on call—movie role after movie role. No fun-filled childhood for Willow. She was a pint-sized worker bee—the girl with so much potential, until somehow she’d grown up and become known as the party girl. And because of her partying ways, all the worthwhile parts had dried up. She was no longer regarded as reliable—she was Will
ow Price, the girl with the wild lifestyle that got in the way of her once happening career.

  Now with Alejandro by her side and Eddie Falcon helping, things were definitely heading in the right direction.

  Today she got up early and immediately called Eddie. His uptight assistant informed her that Mr. Falcon was not available and would call back.

  Not available. Really? If she were Jennifer Lawrence or Brad Pitt he’d be totally available.

  Next she called Alejandro, who didn’t answer.

  Damn it. She was up and primed for action, so not being able to reach either of her future partners drove her a little bit nuts.

  After popping a Xanax to calm down, she smoked two cigarettes in a row, took a quick shower, then started to watch her favorite DVD, Magic Mike, a movie that always put a smile on her face. What was not to like? Smokin’ hot actors with smokin’ hot bodies—could it get any better? If Billy Melina wasn’t available to do her movie, how about Channing Tatum or Alex Pettyfer? Excellent choices.

  She grinned to herself, thinking that she should’ve been a casting agent. She would’ve kicked ass!

  Idly, she watched as Matthew McConaughey strutted his stuff on the screen, practically naked except for an extremely flimsy G-string. What a body! What a sexy dude! It was encouraging that he could do that kind of role and still move on and win an Oscar.

  Willow craved winning an Oscar. It was her ultimate dream. And maybe with this movie … just maybe. Stranger things had happened, and everyone knew that she was a fine actress. Nobody could take away her talent.

  Magic Mike finished and she tried calling Eddie again. This time the same uptight assistant informed her that Mr. Falcon had left for lunch with his wife.

  Damn it! Why hadn’t he called her back? She’d told him they had to get this deal together immediately or it would all fall apart. He was supposed to come up with a memo for Sam to sign, and instead he was having lunch with his wife, Annabelle Falcon—who used to be Annabelle Maestro—a privileged Hollywood princess whom Willow had never met but hated anyway. It must’ve been supercool growing up in Hollywood with two movie-star parents. Now Annabelle was married to Eddie Falcon—another cushy situation.

  Still … Annabelle wasn’t the one blowing her husband, Willow was. And maybe she could blow Eddie all the way to divorcing his Hollywood princess and marrying her.

  What a power couple they’d make. Willow Price, Oscar-winning actress, married to studio head Eddie Falcon.

  Of course she wasn’t an Oscar-winning actress yet—that was in her future. And Eddie did not run a studio, although everyone said he was next in line.

  Mr. and Mrs. Eddie Falcon.

  Only one problem. He wasn’t her type. Too short. Too stocky. Too full of himself. She preferred handsome—like Billy Melina. He’d be the perfect partner.

  On impulse, she called Eddie’s assistant back and pretended to be Steven Spielberg’s right-hand woman. “Steven needs to see Eddie urgently,” she said, affecting a fake British accent. “Can you please tell me where he is lunching?”

  It worked. Spago. Of course. Eddie liked going places where they knew who he was and treated him like royalty.

  Willow popped an Oxy and started to get dressed.

  * * *

  Pablo Fernandez Diego didn’t walk, he strutted, full of his own self-importance. He was a king, surrounded by serfs. He ruled his world with a steely authority and a benevolent smile. Only there was nothing benevolent about Pablo. He was a ruthless man with many enemies. He ran an empire, a drug empire.

  Rafael was nervous about seeing him. He would never forget that as a young boy he’d been terrified of the man. So many brutal goings-on had taken place at the compound, many of which he’d witnessed. At the age of twelve, he’d seen Pablo order his guards to have a man who’d betrayed him tied to a tree, and he’d watched in horror as Pablo had shot the man to death with a bullet to the head.

  “You see,” Pablo had crowed to Rafael and Alejandro, both of who had been forced to witness the event. “This is how you deal with traitors.” Then he’d proceeded to an outside table, where he’d gorged himself on a hearty lunch of suckling pig roasted on a spit, accompanied by mounds of fresh vegetables prepared by Eugenia. “Vegetables keep you strong,” he’d announced. “Above all else, a man must preserve his strength.” He’d beckoned Eugenia, who was serving the food, and crudely reached under her skirt, feeling her up, humiliating her. “Man strong, woman juicy,” he’d chuckled.

  It was a day Rafael would never forget.

  * * *

  Just before eight A.M., Rafael set off to meet Pablo at the stables. He made sure he was early, for Pablo was a stickler for punctuality.

  Pablo Fernandez Diego was leaning against a stable door, petting the head of a magnificent black stallion he’d named Killer. A stablehand stood nearby holding Pablo’s morning mug of coffee. Two men armed with AK-47 rifles hovered in the background.

  Rafael approached tentatively. He hated that he turned into a subservient piece of shit whenever he was in Pablo’s presence. He hated that there was nothing he could do about the way he felt, that it was ingrained in him.

  Pablo wore pale beige jodhpurs made especially for him in India, shiny snakeskin boots, a soft cream silk shirt, and a massive leather belt. Around his neck was a huge gold medallion hanging from a thick gold chain. He was a big man, not fat, although he had a gut that overlapped his leather belt, and heavy jowls, which he attempted to disguise with a trimmed beard and full mustache. Quite vain, on formal occasions he sometimes wore a corset. Every six weeks a doctor arrived at his compound to give him Botox injections. His eyes were small—some said beady—and under his eyes were heavy black circles, which he covered with concealer.

  He was not a handsome man, although like most not-so-handsome men, he thought he was.

  “Ah, Rafael,” Pablo said, flashing a row of pristine, extremely white false teeth. The story was that his father—a poor farmer—had knocked all of Pablo’s teeth out when he was twelve years old for stealing a loaf of bread. Four years later, Pablo’s father had been found in an abandoned building with his throat slit. No one had ever been accused of or indeed arrested for this brutal slaying. At that time, Pablo was working for a notorious drug lord, learning the business, until at the age of twenty-four, when his boss was mysteriously gunned down, he moved in and took over, slaughtering anyone who dared to get in his way.

  The tale of Pablo Fernandez Diego’s rise to power was legendary.

  “It is good to see you, Señor Diego,” Rafael said, bowing his head.

  Yes, even though everyone suspected he was Pablo’s son, he still had to call the man Señor Diego, as if he were nothing but a paid employee.

  “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” Pablo asked, getting right to the point.

  “Alejandro wishes that I speak with you about an extremely promising investment opportunity,” Rafael said, experiencing an unsettling dryness in his throat.

  “Investment,” Pablo said with a brittle laugh. “Why would I want or indeed need another investment? We have the pharmacies, the food company, Alejandro’s club.”

  “It is always prudent to have more opportunities to make our money legitimate,” Rafael pointed out.

  Pablo raised a thick black eyebrow, dyed to match his thinning hair. “Our money?” he spat. “Since when is it our money?”

  “I am so sorry, Señor Diego,” Rafael said apologetically. “Sometimes I use the wrong words. It is stupid of me.”

  “Is this an investment that Alejandro has come up with?” Pablo inquired, signaling for the stablehand to fetch him his mug of coffee. The boy did so, and Pablo took a sip before handing it back. “What is this investment?” he said, fingering his mustache.

  Rafael noticed that a dribble of dark-brown coffee had landed on Pablo’s silk shirt. Should Pablo be aware of this, it would send him into a fury. Studiously, Rafael avoided looking at the dreaded stain.

  “Al
ejandro has the opportunity to produce a movie,” he said. “An important movie.”

  “A movie!” Pablo roared. “What does Alejandro know about making movies?”

  Nothing, Rafael was tempted to say. Instead he said, “It is something he has wanted to do for some time. Now he has surrounded himself with top professionals who can make his dream come true. All he needs from you is the money to allow this to happen.”

  “Money!” Pablo snorted. “My son has plenty of money.”

  “He requires twenty million dollars,” Rafael continued, keeping his voice low and even. “He also suggests that you come to L.A. for a visit. He says to tell you the women are very beautiful and very available. He would like you to see for yourself.”

  “That’s a lot of money,” Pablo grumbled. “A big investment.”

  Rafael knew for a fact that it was not a lot of money to Pablo. His drug empire brought in billions of dollars a year. Twenty million was meaningless to him.

  “Alejandro wants you to know he would welcome your presence. He will make sure your visit is memorable.”

  “Ha!” Pablo exclaimed. “A memorable visit with my son in California. It is tempting. But Alejandro knows that I do not care to travel.”

  Rafael’s shoulders slumped. He was doing his best, and yet Pablo was not jumping at the idea of coming to L.A. And if Rafael couldn’t persuade him to put up the money for Alejandro’s “investment”—did that mean that Elizabetta would be receiving a package in the mail?

  Rafael shuddered at the thought.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Lucky drove herself to the airport, even though Lennie had insisted that she take one of the guards with her. She’d agreed, then she’d jumped into her red Ferrari and taken off by herself.

  Sorry, Lennie. That’s the way it is.

  She drove the freeway as if it were a racetrack, dodging in and out of lanes with an expert flick of her wrist, Marvin Gaye and Al Green blasting away on her iPod. Nothing like old soul to temper her mood.

  She couldn’t get the images from the DVD Chris had shown her out of her head. The man who’d shot Gino was clear in her mind. Even though she’d barely seen his face, she remembered every other detail. His Nike running shoes. His silver watch. The way he’d calmly walked away after shooting Gino in the back of the head.