He turned to her, his eyes like two pieces of cold steel. “I’m in trouble? You think I’m responsible for this shit?”
“If you’re not, who is?”
“She acted like a fuckin’ lunatic,” he said, starting to yell. “An’ she ended up gettin’ what she deserved.”
“Sure,” Renee muttered, “and you’re just an innocent party.”
“What’s your fuckin’ problem?” he shouted, his face darkening.
“You were too rough with her, any fool can see that.”
“You gotta be fuckin’ shittin’ me!” he exploded. “The broad was a sex freak.”
“You’re a big boy, you could’ve handled yourself without killing her.”
“Let me tell you somethin’, Renee,” Anthony said, outraged that he was being forced to explain himself. “She wanted me to lick her fuckin’ pussy. Ya think there’s any way in hell I’d lower myself an’ do that shit?”
“Going down on a woman is a normal sex act,” Renee said, hating the very sight of him.
“Maybe to you,” he spat. “But there’s nothin’ fuckin’ normal ’bout you.”
“Is that why you broke her neck—because of some macho Italian code of ethics?”
“How many times I gotta tell ya?—she fuckin’ attacked me for no reason,” he said harshly, wondering why he was bothering to continue this conversation. “I hadda defend myself, she’s six feet tall an’ strong as a fuckin’ horse. You take care of it, Renee, like I took care of you when you had to get outta Colombia in a hurry. Remember?”
Yes, she remembered all right. He’d helped her leave, and he’d also helped himself to half the cash Oscar had stashed. Then when she and Susie had put together the money to build the Cavendish, he’d declared himself a silent partner. No paperwork involved, simply a monthly payout in cash.
“I take care of this and we’re even,” Renee said flatly. “Score settled.”
“What the fuck you so uptight about?” he demanded.
“Tasmin was a smart, beautiful woman. Look what you’ve done to her. Don’t you have any remorse?”
“For chrissakes!” he roared. “She was nothin’ but a crazy freak.”
“Your idea of a freak and mine differ,” Renee snapped.
“I bet,” he sneered. “You’d feast on pussy all day long if you had your way.”
“Nice,” Renee said coldly. “Real nice.”
“Don’t you forget who helped you when you needed it,” he warned. “Take care of this mess, use your most trusted people. I’m gettin’ outta here—deal with it.”
Anthony left the problem of Tasmin’s lifeless body with Renee and took off. He had no feelings of guilt. Renee owed him and now it was payback time.
The Grill drove him to the airport in one of the hotel’s cars. Even though he still had things to take care of in Vegas, he knew this wasn’t the time to linger. Best to distance himself and get out quickly.
Once he was safely on his plane and it had taken off for New York, he called his wife.
“What’s goin’ on?” he said gruffly.
“Where are you, Anthony?” Irma asked. “When will you be home?”
“I’ll let you know.” A long beat. “You miss me?”
Irma was shocked; it was so unlike her husband to ask her such a question. “Yes,” she said stiffly, hesitating for only a second or two.
He decided she didn’t sound like she meant it, and after he hung up, he got to wondering what Irma did all day. The kids were in Miami with their nanny and Francesca; the house in Mexico City was taken care of by his coterie of servants; so how did Irma keep herself occupied?
She probably went shopping, spent his money, and indulged in massages and manicures. Womanly pastimes, that’s all she was capable of.
For a moment he felt sorry for her. At least she was a normal woman who’d never requested any depraved sexual acts from him. Goddammit, she was his wife, she’d better not.
Next he phoned Emmanuelle. “What’s goin’ on, sweet-ass?” he asked, thinking of her undulating sun-kissed body and luscious lips, and wondering why he’d gone elsewhere when Emmanuelle was always available.
“I just finished shooting the cover for Crude Oil magazine,” Emmanuelle said excitedly. “Isn’t that the best!”
“Yeah?” he questioned, not so sure he liked her posing for magazine covers where every asshole on the street could ogle her spectacular body. “What didja wear?”
“Veree short Daisy Dukes and kind of a skimpy bra,” she said, her voice low and seductive. “Veree sexy. You’ll love the photos.”
“You’d better not love the photographer,” Anthony warned. “It better be a woman.”
“No, honey bunch,” Emmanuelle cooed, purposely pissing him off because she got a kick out of making him jealous. “It was a super-sexy Latin man.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Emmanuelle,” Anthony growled. “I ain’t in the mood.”
He put the phone down and thought briefly about Carlita before calling his man in New York. “Any news?”
“Too soon, boss. Nothin’ to report.”
Could it be that he was wrong about Carlita?
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Now he had to think about what he was going to tell Francesca. She’d expect to hear that everything was in line to sabotage the opening of Lucky Santangelo’s hotel, only in view of what had taken place he wasn’t so sure about Renee. She was pissed because he’d accidentally killed some freaky bitch, and even worse—she’d refused to admit that it was all her fault for putting them together in the first place.
Too fuckin’ bad. She’d better get over it and fast, because once the body was taken care of he would be back in Vegas calling all the shots.
And that’s exactly the way it should be.
* * *
After speaking to her husband, Irma experienced a moment of sheer panic. Did Anthony suspect something? Did Anthony know?
She assured herself that she was being paranoid—there was no chance of Anthony suspecting anything. How could he? She was beyond discreet, never bringing Luis in the house when any of the servants were around, always making sure to lock the bedroom door so no one could accidentally intrude.
The only way for Anthony to find out would be if he walked in on them, and that could never happen because Anthony always informed her in advance when he was coming home. He did this because he expected her to have everything ready for him. He insisted that the kitchen was fully stocked with all his favorite foods; his two Dobermans had to be sent to the vet to be bathed and groomed; plus he expected her to put together a series of fancy dinner parties for his friends.
Well, Anthony called them friends. Irma called them a bunch of suck-up freeloaders who laughed at Anthony’s jokes and sat around watching him admiringly whenever he decided to entertain them with his not-so-brilliant karaoke skills. Karaoke was his favorite way of amusing himself, but only as long as he had an adoring audience fawning all over him.
No, Anthony would never surprise her. He wanted everyone on alert when he came home.
She walked to the window and glanced outside.
Luis was busy working on the grounds.
Immediately she experienced a rush of excitement. Just looking at the man made her heart beat faster.
Luis was her savior.
Luis made every day worth living.
Later she would invite him up to the house.
She could hardly wait.
* * *
When Anthony was eleven and more or less existing on the streets of Naples, he’d stabbed a man. He wasn’t sure whether he’d killed the man or not, but he’d certainly experienced an overpowering rush of adrenaline—especially when he’d bent over the fallen man and extracted his wallet from his jacket pocket.
Stuffing the wallet down his pants, Anthony had raced off down the street like a deer. Run fast, never let ’em catch you, that was his motto.
Most of the time he hung out w
ith a gang of kids who all came from one-parent families. They watched out for each other, sometimes robbing tourists and other unsuspecting civilians. Anthony led the pack; even at such a young age he was a born leader.
Arriving in America at the age of twelve, and spending time with his grandfather, Anthony had soon realized that in America anything was possible. Enzio Bonnatti had taught him a lot, and he was sad when the old man got himself shot, but he was happy Enzio had shown him a way of living that brought great rewards.
Although Tasmin’s death was accidental—and nobody could prove otherwise—Anthony had no regrets. She’d been asking for it with her kinky requests.
His only problem was Renee. The old dyke better not give him any shit, because if she did, he had ways of dealing with her.
Nobody fucked with Anthony Bonar and got away with it. And if Renee was smart, she’d definitely keep that in mind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“What’s up?” Venus asked over the phone.
“What’s up is I’m knee-deep in ground beef, tomato sauce, bread crumbs, and garlic,” Lucky answered, cradling the phone under her chin.
“You are? Why’s that?”
“’Cause I’m making my famous Italian-style meatballs. Remember I told you I’m cooking a big blowout dinner for Gino and everyone? They’re all here, the entire family, and I’m loving every second of playing Mama. How’s that for a switch?”
“Can I come over?”
“I thought you and Billy were all set for a romantic night on the town?” Lucky said, squeezing a tube of tomato paste into the bowl.
“We were,” Venus said, trying to sound like she didn’t care. “That is until Billy bailed on me, and now I really need to talk.”
“You do?” Lucky said, because family dinner and Venus pouring her heart out was not a perfect combination.
However, she rallied, because Venus was her best friend and she knew if the situation were reversed Venus would be there for her.
“Sure, come on over,” she said warmly. “Gino would love to see you, and Bobby’s gonna be thrilled.”
“Little Bobby?”
“Not so little anymore,” Lucky pointed out. “And hands off. Remember who he is.”
“Oh sure,” Venus said with a dry chuckle. “Like I’m about to make a move on your son. I don’t think so.”
“I don’t think so either, so let’s keep it that way.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And don’t dress up, it’s super casual, and bring your appetite.”
“Any more instructions?”
“Nope, that’s it for now.”
“Okay, I’ve got it. Hands off Bobby. Skanky old jeans. Enormous passion for meatballs.”
Lucky laughed. “We’ll talk, but it’ll have to be later, okay?”
“Sounds like a plan,” Venus said, then after a long beat she added, “It’s just that I don’t think I can be alone tonight.”
“I understand.”
Venus put down the phone. She felt as if she was thirteen and her big high-school crush was crapping all over her. Why, oh why, had she allowed herself to fall in love with Billy? They hadn’t even been together a year and he was pulling away, she sensed it, and it was driving her nuts.
Well, screw him, she thought, attempting to pull herself together. She was Venus Maria, superstar. She would never let him see her crumble, however much it hurt.
* * *
“This is freakin’ great!” Billy exclaimed, lounging on the couch in his underwear and a T-shirt in front of his new big-screen high-definition TV, munching popcorn and scratching his crotch.
“Told ya,” Kevin boasted. “You can pick your nose, hang a fart, change channels, do whatever the fuck ya want. An’ no little lady gettin’ on your case.”
“It rocks.”
“Sure it does. And…” Kev paused for a moment before continuing. “If ya start feelin’ horny later, I got a number I can call that’ll send a coupla girls over to do anything your dick desires. No questions asked.”
“Hookers?”
“Highly paid young ladies.”
Billy hesitated, then: “I’m not into paying for it, Kev. That’s not my bag.”
“I know that, an’ everyone knows you don’t have to. But sometimes it’s the convenient way. They come. They go. No hassles.”
“Look, just ’cause I’m takin’ a night off doesn’t mean Venus and me are through. We’re very much together.”
“Yeah, I get it. But sometimes banging a girl you paid for can be a kick.”
“Thanks, but I’m not into cheating.”
Kev shrugged. “Whatever swings your balls.”
For a moment Billy flashed on the girl he’d picked up at Tower Records. He felt guilty, but the good news was that no one knew, and he wasn’t about to tell. The girl was a one-off, a lack of judgment on his part.
He redirected his attention to the TV, stuffed his face with a handful of popcorn, and settled back to enjoy the game.
* * *
Venus liked to drive herself whenever she could dodge the paparazzi who lurked outside her gates day and night waiting for her to emerge. A few months ago she’d come up with the perfect escape plan, eliciting the help of a friendly neighbor—a stoned record producer who’d allowed her to build an illegal underground tunnel into his garage, where she kept a dark blue Phaeton with blacked-out windows. Whenever she didn’t feel like being followed she used the tunnel and took out the anonymous Phaeton, zooming past the hapless paparazzi who had no clue that it was her in the car.
Tonight she hurried through her escape tunnel, got in the car, and revved up the Phaeton—her low-key luxury vehicle. Outsmarting the paparazzi gave her a big charge. Fuck ’em. Oh sure, they had a job to do, but did they have to do it 24/7? It made her especially mad when Chyna was with her, and they stuck cameras in her child’s face.
Cooper didn’t seem to care. He was always allowing himself to be photographed with his cute and somewhat precocious little daughter. There they were in People and Us strolling down Rodeo eating ice cream, sitting courtside at the Lakers game, picking up shells on the beach in Malibu. Recently he’d added Mandy—his teenage girlfriend—to his family outings. Mandy was a publicity-crazy nineteen-year-old wannabe singer/actress/model, and Venus did not want her daughter being around the girl.
“It’s not healthy for Chyna to be exposed to so much media,” she’d complained to Cooper, carefully not mentioning Mandy’s name.
“Look who’s talking,” Cooper had responded. “You’re queen of the media, running around all over town with your young stud. Were you banging him when we were together?”
“No, Cooper—you were the one out getting laid. Remember?”
Another nasty verbal battle had then taken place, which was exactly what Venus didn’t want. There was nothing worse for Chyna than having to watch her divorced parents fight.
At least their daughter was safely away at summer camp, and according to her e-mails and phone calls, she was having a fantastic time.
* * *
“Shit!” Billy exclaimed.
“What?” Kev responded.
“I think I got a problem.”
Kev burped and loped into the kitchen to fetch another beer.
Billy rolled off the couch and followed him. “Aren’t you listening to me?” he said, scratching his crotch. “You’re supposed to listen to me.”
“I’m listening,” Kev said, popping the top off a bottle of imported Carlsberg. “You got a freakin’ problem. Spit it out.”
“Like you care.”
Kev took a swig of beer before giving his full attention to his best friend and employer. “Spill. What’s the problem?”
“I think,” Billy said, vigorously scratching away, “I got me a case of the freakin’ crabs.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“You’re joking, aren’t you?” Max said, staring at Ace wide-eyed.
“What do you think?” he answered w
ith a sly grin.
“I think you’re putting me on,” she said, struggling to remain cool in the face of his confession.
“Why’s that?” he asked, staring her down.
“’Cause if you were planning on robbing a bank for real,” she said, narrowing her eyes, “there’s no way you’d tell me.”
“Why not?” he said, shrugging. “It’s not as if there’s anything you can do about it.”
“I could go to the cops,” she answered boldly.
“An’ tell ’em what?” he said, full of bravado.
“That … y’know…” She trailed off, aware that if she went to the cops she’d probably sound like a crazy person. And why would she go to the cops anyway? It wasn’t her business what he planned to do.
“Yeah, go on,” he said, encouraging her.
“You’re like eff-ing with me,” she said.
“If that’s what you think.”
She didn’t know what to think. But at least he was keeping her occupied until Internet Guy put in an appearance—that’s if the jerk ever showed up.
They were standing outside Starbucks, and Ace made a move to go inside.
Max stood her ground. “I’ve decided I don’t want a coffee,” she said petulantly. “I’m incredibly hungry. I need like real food.”
“Am I stopping you from eating?” he said, giving her a quizzical look.
“Y’know what?” she said boldly. “There’s no need to sweat it, I can buy my own burger. All you have to do is point me in the direction of someplace that serves food, then go rob your bank.”
“Oh, Miss Cool,” he said, grinning, “doesn’t give a fast crap.”
“It’s not as if I believe you,” she said, tossing back her long hair.
“Nobody said you had to,” he answered. “An’ by the way, how long you planning on waitin’ around for your loser friend? ’Cause it looks t’me like he’s a no-show.”
“He’ll be here,” she said stubbornly.
“I sure hope so—otherwise it seems I’m stuck with you.”
Double Lucky Page 12
