The Santangelos

by Jackie Collins

Yes, Rafael thought. I will leave now. But one of these days, I will be back to collect my son. I make this promise to myself. It is a promise I swear I will keep.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Chris Warwick had two means of transport. One was a personalized van that he used for work. The other was a fully restored 1965 silver Ford Mustang that he took out only on special occasions. Tonight he drove his van, which he’d parked in a lot at LAX before flying to Chicago.

  Chris always made sure that he was prepared for anything that might happen. He carried a Glock semi-automatic pistol for which he had a license, and tucked away on different parts of his body were two five-inch folding knives always sharp and ready for action. He might look unthreatening, but with all his martial art skills, he was a lethal weapon.

  It was getting late when he drove up to Pedro Albarado’s door in Silver Lake, unannounced. Thanks to his many connections, he’d already found out quite a bit about Pedro. Pedro Albarado had a long history of crimes ranging from carjacking to home invasion, burglary, and receiving stolen goods. He’d done time twice, and was quite the career criminal.

  Had Pedro murdered the girl in Chicago? Probably. But that wasn’t Chris’s problem. His intent was to find out why Bobby had been set up. And even more important—who was responsible?

  A woman answered the door. A plump Mexican woman with rollers in her hair and a long-suffering expression on her sullen face. She stared at Chris with bleary eyes.

  Mother? Sister? Wife? Daughter? She could be any of them, although maybe she wasn’t old enough to be the mother.

  Chris refrained from flashing his phony detective badge. He didn’t relish the thought of Pedro leaping out a back window and making a run for it. Instead he spoke quietly in a friendly, nonthreatening manner. “I have lucrative business to discuss with Mr. Albarado,” he said. “Is he home?”

  The woman continued to stare at him as a dog barked in the background. She had no idea what lucrative meant, although he could tell that she understood the word business.

  As Chris returned her stare, his honest brown eyes luring her in, he hoped the dog wasn’t a pit bull. He’d had a run-in with a vicious pit bull several years ago while rescuing a kidnap victim, and he still had the scars to prove it.

  “You wait,” the woman said at last. She had a heavy accent.

  “Should I wait out here, or can I come in?”

  Her answer was nonverbal as she slammed the door shut in his face.

  Some people had no manners at all.

  After what seemed like a long while, although it was only a matter of five minutes, the door opened again, and there stood a Latin man in all his stay-at-home glory. Unshaven. Floppy hair. A wifebeater T-shirt with ugly pit stains. Ill-fitting dusty-gray jogging pants—although Chris would’ve bet his prized Mustang that this dude had never jogged a day in his life—and a pair of scuffed sneakers.

  This was hardly the dapper, sour-faced, bearded man from the security tapes. This was a slob of a man, with a brown wad of tobacco sticking to the side of his mouth and bad teeth.

  “Mr. Albarado?” Chris inquired politely. “Mr. Pedro Albarado?”

  The man squinted at him, a wary look on his face. “Who wants t’ know?”

  I do, you repugnant dumb-ass, Chris thought, inhaling a foul odor of sweat, stale cigarette smoke, and fierce garlic breath.

  “I have a very tempting offer for Mr. Albarado,” Chris said.

  “What kinda offer?” the man said suspiciously.

  “Work.”

  “My brother don’t do no work. He’s on disability.”

  His brother. That made sense. This one stayed at home, while Pedro took care of business.

  “I do believe that Pedro should listen to what I have to say,” Chris said smoothly. “It involves plenty of … money.”

  “How much?” the man asked, his eyes full of greed.

  “I should discuss it with your brother. Is he home?”

  “How d’you know about Pedro?”

  “I know that he has a reputation for getting things done.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes.”

  “You wanna tell me who sent you?”

  “I have contacts in Chicago.”

  “Chicago, huh?”

  A short standoff took place while Pedro’s brother thought things over.

  “Well?” Chris said, holding his impatience in check.

  “What kinda job?”

  “A job that’ll pay him plenty.”

  “How much?”

  “That’s for me to discuss with Pedro.”

  “I’m gonna try to reach him,” the man growled. “There’s a diner on the corner. Be there in the back parking lot in an hour.”

  “Will he be there?”

  “Mebbe he’ll come,” the man said noncommittally—adding a succinct, “An’ if he finds out you’re a fuckin’ fed, he’ll blow your fuckin’ head off.”

  “Do I look like a federal agent?” Chris said mildly, although he could feel the muscles in his stomach clench.

  The man gave him a mirthless laugh. “One hour. In back of the diner.”

  * * *

  Lucky couldn’t sleep. She was waiting to hear from Chris and he hadn’t called. It was infuriating. He was supposed to be working for her, so she expected to be kept up to date on every move he made. He’d told her he’d tracked down the man who’d set up Bobby and that he was on his way back to L.A. to see him. Since then, silence, and silence didn’t fly with her.

  She’d tried to act like nothing was going on. Tried to bond with her family over dinner. But Lennie knew something was up; he had an antenna for such things.

  “Anything you want to share with me?” he asked when everyone had headed down to the beach to swim and Steven had gone to bed claiming jet lag.

  “Nothing,” she answered vaguely.

  “Nothing my ass,” he responded. “You’ve checked your phone a dozen times.”

  “And I thought I was being so discreet,” she said drily.

  “Discreet, huh?” Lennie said with a skeptical smile. “You got a lover you’re not telling me about?”

  “Very funny.”

  “You’d better let me know what’s going on,” he said, turning serious. “You know you can’t be doing anything foolish. You have responsibilities. You’re not the same girl who took revenge for your mom’s murder.”

  “And Dario’s, and Marco’s,” she said with a flash of anger. “Do you honestly think I could’ve survived all these years without doing something about that?”

  “It was a long time ago, sweetheart.”

  “I understand,” she said coolly. “While Gino’s murder wasn’t.”

  “Promise me you won’t do anything you’ll regret,” Lennie said, giving her an intent look. “Can you promise me that?”

  “Don’t worry,” she said, her eyes dark and steady. “The one thing I’ll have is no regrets.”

  * * *

  Chris took his time checking out the diner on the corner. It was a small place serving the usual array of fattening dishes—everything from greasy burgers to pancakes and waffles. There was one short-order cook behind the counter, and two waitresses. All three of them looked as if they wished they were someplace else.

  After inspecting the inside, he went outside to his van and drove it into the parking lot at the back of the diner. The lot was dark and secluded, filled with overgrown shrubs and bushes. Hardly any cars. Hardly any customers in the diner.

  Chris parked his van and got out. He knew exactly what would happen when Pedro turned up. The man would stick a gun in his ribs and demand to know who he was and what he wanted. He, Chris, would act scared, and Pedro would be under the misguided impression that he had him exactly where he wanted him. Maybe Pedro would bring his brother for backup. Maybe not. It didn’t matter—whatever the situation, Chris was confident he’d have it under control.

  He strolled back into the diner, sat down at the counter, and asked the wait
ress for a coffee.

  “How about somethin’ to eat, honey?” the waitress said, suppressing a weary yawn.

  “Not hungry,” he replied.

  “I can have the cook fix you a tasty plate of bacon an’ eggs,” she suggested, thinking she wasn’t about to get much of a tip on a measly cup of coffee.

  Chris dug into his pocket and pulled out a twenty. “This is for the coffee,” he said. “Keep the change.”

  Startled, she grabbed the money. “Thanks, mister,” she said, her pinched face brightening. “One cuppa java comin’ right up.”

  * * *

  The boys were back from their swim. Gino Junior and Leo were revved up and excited to be spending time with their big brother. Bobby was enjoying their company too.

  Watching Bobby, Lucky felt a wave of relief that he was okay. He was like a little kid again as the three of them raided the kitchen, hungry for anything they could get their hands on. He didn’t seem at all traumatized, although she wished that Denver had not taken this moment in time to dump on him. Foolish girl. If Denver wasn’t careful, she’d lose him altogether.

  “We’re gonna play video games,” Leo announced. “C’mon, Bobby, you gotta play too.”

  “Okay, okay,” Bobby said, gesturing that he didn’t really want to, but he’d do it for them.

  “I’ll see you all in the morning,” Lucky said, happy that he was bonding with his brothers.

  Upstairs, she shut herself in her bathroom, pulled out her phone, and sent Chris a terse text.

  Where are you? Why aren’t you calling me back? You’d better be dead, ’cause that’s the only reason I can think of why you wouldn’t reply.

  After pressing Send, she felt better.

  The moment Chris had something to tell her, she knew she’d hear from him. Chris was like that, and as irritating as it was, at least he got things done. Right now that was all that mattered.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  After Carlo informed Gabriella Dolcezza that Max might have to leave for L.A., everything was put on an accelerated schedule. Instead of heading for Capri the next morning, Max found herself—with Lorenzo and Carlo by her side—arriving in Capri within hours.

  The Dolcezza yacht was moored in the dock. The opulent white yacht was to be their base.

  “Wow!” Max exclaimed, exploring the incredible hundred-foot boat with Lorenzo close behind her. “This is freaking awesome!”

  Lorenzo was equally impressed, especially when he met the crew, a group of fit young men all dressed in tight white T-shirts with Dolcezza blazoned across the front.

  Carlo was not so impressed. He’d been on the yacht many times before. Summer cruising with the Dolcezza family; sharing a cabin with Natalia; listening to her rant and rave about how useless Dante was, and how she should be in charge.

  The stylist, makeup artist, and hair guru were not staying on the yacht, although they descended as if they were. Max was relieved that this was a different group from the glam squad she’d first encountered back in Rome. These people danced around her, delighted to be there. The makeup artist, a handsome gay man, made her face look summery and glowing. Max loved it. Then she had to strip down for an allover spray tan—which was kind of embarrassing, but she gritted her teeth and tried not to act like a prude.

  The hair guru styled her hair with soft beachy waves framing her face, while the clothes stylist came up with a rack of assorted bikinis, tops, shorts, and cute skimpy dresses.

  Carlo gave his approval as she slipped on one of the dresses, adding gold sandals, her favorite gold hoop earrings, multiple bangles, rings, and toe rings.

  She’d never felt so pampered and carefree as she posed on the top deck of the luxurious yacht.

  “You look like a golden princess,” Lorenzo told her, full of admiration, while Carlo snapped away capturing image after image.

  The Dolcezza girl. She was proud to represent.

  Later, when work was done, they all gathered at a popular restaurant called the Lemon Tree, a very romantic spot, with tables set out in a beautiful garden surrounded by lemon trees.

  The scent of the lemons was intoxicating, and for one brief moment, Max imagined what it might be like to be sitting at a table for two under the trees with Billy.

  It was not a thought she allowed to linger.

  During dinner Carlo was all over her, pawing at her skirt, whispering in her ear, attempting to kiss her neck. He’d had too much wine, as usual.

  She managed to push him away, turning her attention to the entertainment steward from the yacht, Ross, a husky young Australian with whom she’d felt an immediate rapport. Why not? There was nothing and no one to hold her back from embarking on a new adventure.

  When dinner was finished, they all went to an open-air club, where Ross began to kiss her while they were on the dance floor moving together under the stars. He was into long exploratory kisses that made her toes tingle.

  Carlo was furious when he noticed what was going on. He complained loudly.

  “You’re engaged,” she reminded him. “Whyn’t you try keeping it in your pants?”

  This infuriated him even more. He scowled at her and began coming on to a braless blond American tourist who was twirling around the dance floor. The girl obviously enjoyed drunken fumes being breathed into her face, for after a while, they vanished, and Carlo did not return to the yacht until the following morning.

  Lucky Natalia, Max thought. She’s got herself a real winner.

  * * *

  Rather than going back to her parents’ house, Denver headed for Carolyn’s, hoping that Vanessa wasn’t around.

  She wasn’t, but Carolyn seemed distant and cool, and not that interested in listening to her carry on about Bobby and what his intentions might’ve been.

  Denver wondered if Vanessa had been making up stories about her. She hoped not; the last thing she needed was an awkward relationship with one of her best friends.

  “Let me get this straight,” Carolyn said over a glass of white wine. “You’re not concerned that it’s possible Bobby could’ve killed a girl. You’re not worried about that, because you’re more concerned that he might’ve been planning to screw her.”

  “No, no, you’re getting it all wrong,” Denver protested, becoming flustered.

  “Get over yourself,” Carolyn said sharply. “Your man needs you, and you’re acting like a jealous bimbo. Run your ass back home where it belongs. Bobby requires love and attention, and if you don’t give it to him, I’m sure there are plenty of girls who will.”

  Carolyn was correct. It was about time she made things right with Bobby.

  She left Carolyn’s and drove to the house, rehearsing in her mind what she would say when she got there.

  I’m sorry. I love you. I’m here for you. Please forgive me.

  Then they would make love. Slow, sensuous love.

  By the time she pulled into their driveway, she was sure that everything would be all right.

  And it would’ve been if Bobby had been home. But he wasn’t.

  She prowled around the house becoming more frustrated and angry at herself. Had she allowed things to go too far? Did Bobby hate her? Had he moved out?

  Panicking, she ran upstairs and checked his closet. Everything was in its place. His suits, his sports clothes, his collection of expensive watches. Yes, Bobby was still in residence.

  She felt like a fool. How could she have doubted him? He was probably with Lucky and the rest of his family.

  Was he missing her? If he was, he certainly wasn’t blowing up the phone lines to reach out.

  She wondered if she should call him. Then she decided that no, she had to make up with him in person. Bobby was a one-on-one kind of guy.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  “Weren’t things supposed to be happening this week?” Sam said over the phone.

  He sounded uptight. Willow didn’t blame him; she too had thought everything was about to fall into place. Eddie had promised that he’d fast-
track their movie as soon as she presented the cash to him, followed by the rest of the up-front money to get things moving.

  The problem was that she wasn’t responsible for getting the money, Alejandro was, and it appeared he was doing jack shit about coming up with it.

  “If nothing comes together today, then I’m out,” Sam threatened.

  She hung up on Sam and called Alejandro. Matias informed her that his boss had been out all night and was still sleeping.

  Out all night doing what? Fucking his brains out and snorting blow? It was late afternoon, for crissake. He’d better get it together or this deal was going away. She’d certainly done her part. She’d gotten them the services of a known screenwriter and solicited Eddie Falcon to represent them. It was disappointing, because if Alejandro didn’t come through, they were on a fast track to nowhere.

  She took a shower, vigorously scrubbing off all traces of Ralph Maestro’s sickeningly sweet aftershave. When she was finished, she called Eddie on his private line—the line his assistant/agent-in-training did not listen in on.

  “Bad move,” Eddie growled.

  “Bad move what?” she asked innocently.

  “You know what,” he snapped.

  “I didn’t fuck him,” she lied.

  “Yes you did,” Eddie said accusingly.

  “What if I did?” she said defiantly. After all, it wasn’t as if she had to answer to Eddie Falcon. He was a married man.

  “It’s not right, Willow,” he said, sounding uptight.

  “Could be if he helps out with our movie,” she said flippantly.

  “Don’t you get it?” Eddie blustered. “He’s my fucking father-in-law, for crissake. He’s family.”

  “So?”

  “So you should’ve taken that into account.”

  “Why?”

  “Jesus Christ, you’re a real pain in my ass.”

  “One of these days I could be your stepmother-in-law,” she announced, teasing him. “Wouldn’t that be a blast. Imagine what holidays would be like. Christmas Day—you and me in the bathroom, me sucking you off, while Annabelle and Ralph bond like a father and daughter should.”

  “You’re sick, you know that?”