‘On this day of May the Fourth, Nineteen Eighty-Four. In the State of California . . .’
Words. So many words. And where were they leading to?
She glanced quickly around the courtroom and fixed on Brigette sitting in the front row. The young teenager was solemn, her pale face expressionless, her blonde hair tightly drawn back in a sedate braid.
Lucky was angry that she had been allowed to come. The nightmare was behind Brigette now, there was no reason why she should be reminded.
The Court Clerk droned on.
Lucky held her breath and hoped . . . prayed . . .
It was a foregone conclusion that she would be found guilty. The newspapers had crucified her long ago. Lucky Santangelo. The mobster’s daughter. Gino had not been involved in organized crime for over twenty years – and yet the stench remained.
Lucky lifted her chin proudly, she refused to crumble. She was prepared to take whatever they handed out.
‘And we, the jury,’ the clerk continued sonorously, ‘do find the defendant, Lucky Santangelo,’ a pause, ‘guilty of murder in the second degree.’
The verdict jolted through her like an electric shock as the courtroom erupted.
Voices.
Noise.
A hundred stampeding feet.
The buzz filling her ears, her eyes, her nose, her throat.
The buzz was suffocating her.
She gazed at the movement in the courtroom, her black eyes glassy. The scurrying figures . . . rats running for . . . God, what were they running for?
Telephones. Deadlines. The business of getting the news out first. Supplying the greedy masses with their fix of junk-news.
Suddenly a piercing anguished scream shuddered through the courtroom as Brigette leaped to her feet.
‘NOOO!’ the young girl yelled. ‘NO! NO! NO! LUCKY SANTANGELO IS NOT GUILTY. I DID IT. I SHOT SANTINO BONNATTI. I’M THE GUILTY ONE!’
Epilogue
September the first, 1984, was a beautiful day for a wedding. The sky was blue and cloudless, the sun bright, but not unbearably hot. The white house, standing in the middle of lush gardens filled with flowers, seemed peaceful and welcoming.
Roberto, now five and a half, strode around greeting guests in his dark suit. He was a sturdy lad, undeniably good-looking with his long-lashed jet eyes and black curly hair. CeeCee hovered watchfully in the background, ever alert, as were the security guards who ringed the perimeter of the house, and the plain-clothes detectives who mingled unobtrusively and checked out the arriving guests.
Costa, Ria, and their baby, were among the first to get there. Alice rushed to meet them. She wore ribbons in her dyed red hair, and a bright green, swirling chiffon dress. People magazine had just photographed her, and she was dizzy with success. Claudio had been replaced with German Rolf, an aging pop singer with pointed teeth and a tendency to whistle non-stop.
* * *
Jess and Matt arrived shortly after. Matt was dressed conservatively in a grey suit, while Jess positively bounced in a polka-dot maternity dress. She was expecting twins any moment, and as Lennie so rudely joked – she looked like a ripe watermelon just about ready to burst.
* * *
Steven Berkeley drove up in a bronze Rolls-Royce, a wedding present from his bride, Mary-Lou, who sat beside him. They had done the deed a week after she was released from the hospital. Carrie accompanied them. As usual she was her usual soignée self. Women’s Wear Daily had just elected her to their Best Dressed Hall of Fame.
As a wedding present Carrie had handed Steven a copy of her manuscript. ‘It’s up to you whether I publish or not,’ she had said. And then she finally revealed who his true father was, because he had every right to know.
Steven had taken Mary-Lou to Europe for their honeymoon, and while there he read his mother’s story. When they returned he told Carrie he thought it would be a crime if she didn’t allow it to be published. Then he took a copy of it, and the relevant documents concerning his parentage, out to California, where he visited Lucky Santangelo in jail.
The newspapers were making Lucky an example. After all, she was a woman who had gotten away with murder once, and they were determined that all the money and influence in the world could not buy her freedom twice. Especially since the man she was accused of shooting was the son of her original victim.
GANGLAND VENDETTA the headlines had screamed. NO BAIL FOR LUCKY SANTANGELO.
He told her everything. ‘Our lives seem intertwined in every way,’ he said before leaving. ‘I don’t know if you ever want to accept it or not, but I’m proud to have you as a sister. And I’ll do everything I can to help you.’
Not only did Lucky accept him, she convinced Gino he had a son. And although it took him months to believe her story, he finally agreed to meet with Steven – and maybe – only maybe – forge some sort of relationship.
* * *
Brigette wore a white dress. A virginal dress. A maid of honour dress. She looked devastatingly pretty with her pale skin, huge blue eyes, and lush body.
Brigette was now one of the richest girls in the world. She had inherited all of her mother’s fortune, plus she had her own trust funds, which were enormous, and also the allowances from her late grandfather.
Brigette attended a private girl’s school in Connecticut, and spent the weekends with Lucky – who had willingly taken on the role of legal guardian.
Once a month she had to visit a probation officer – purely a formality to avoid the press screaming she had gotten off scot-free because she was Dimitri Stanislopoulos’ granddaughter, had money, and powerful contacts in the right places.
Brigette sometimes suffered from nightmares. They were always the same:
Tim Wealth
Smiling
Happy
Saying
‘How y’doin’, little girl?’
And a picture of his dead body while Santino Bonnatti stripped off her clothes and did his degrading deeds.
She remembered that fateful day in terrifying detail.
The gun.
Santino’s gun.
Lying on the table.
Santino. So intent on trying to molest Bobby. His filthy face a smirking mask. She had to stop him . . .
She crawled, sobbing across the bed. Reached for the weapon.
Bobby’s stubborn baby voice one long scream of terror.
With shaking hands she picked up the gun.
His gun.
Instinctively she pointed and squeezed the trigger.
The explosion threw Santino back, and blood spattered from a gaping hole in his shoulder. He looked at her with surprise and fury spilling from every pore. ‘Ya little cunt—’ he started to say.
She pulled the trigger again, and a third time.
Thick blood splashed everywhere as he fell to the floor without another word.
And that’s what Lucky found when she dashed into the room.
From then on it was all a blur. Lucky prising the gun from her shaking hands, wiping the handle clean, grabbing the tape from the video machine and ordering Boogie to get the children out.
And then a large woman appeared in the doorway and started to scream hysterically and point an accusing finger at Lucky. ‘You did it!’ she wailed. ‘You whore! You shota my husband. You killed him. I saw you!’
In the ensuing confusion she and Roberto were hustled away by Boogie, who wrapped them in blankets and spirited them out the back to a waiting car. They were rushed to the house in Bel Air, given sedatives and warned never to mention what had taken place.
The next thing she knew, Lucky was arrested for murder, and Brigette stayed silent, until she could hold her guilty secret no longer. She confessed at the trial. She would have done it before but she was too frightened. After her confession there was complete confusion. Eventually the true facts were revealed, and the incriminating video tape produced. Lucky was released, and Brigette – being a minor – was put on probation for a year only. After a
ll, it was a clear case of self-defence.
She was glad she had confessed. At first Lucky was angry at her, but one day she had taken her by the hand, looked her in the eye, and said, ‘Thank you. What you did took a great deal of courage. And I’m grateful.’
Now life was okay. Although it wasn’t perfect. She missed her mother. Olympia. She really missed her a lot.
* * *
‘Hey,’ Gino said, ‘you’re lookin’ good.’ He clapped Costa on the shoulder.
‘I’m not feeling good,’ Costa complained mournfully.
‘Always bitchin’,’ Gino laughed. ‘Always carryin’ on.’
‘My arthritis is bad,’ Costa groaned. ‘I’ve got pains in my shoulder. My—’
‘Cut it out!’ Gino exclaimed. ‘Who needs a list of your problems? Think healthy. Stay healthy. It’s the only way, pal.’
Gino was a wonderful advertisement for his own words. He still looked years younger than his age – although his hair was finally grey, and a slight twinge of bursitis reminded him he was human. But he enjoyed life. He had a beautiful daughter. A grandson to carry on the family tradition, and excellent health. Oh yeah – and he also had a newfound son. Bizarre, but apparently true. Steven was a complex and interesting man, he was just starting to get used to him.
He did not have Paige Wheeler. Of all the women in his life, she was the one he had never been able to possess.
They still saw each other. Afternoons in the Beverly Wilshire, an occasional weekend, but she simply refused to leave Ryder.
Gino kept trying, it gave him a challenge. It kept the juice in his life.
* * *
Lennie checked himself out in the mirror. He was nervous as a tiger in the circus. And yet he was also incredibly elated. High. Charged.
For the second time he was taking the step. And this time he was in control of his senses. And this time he knew it was forever.
Lucky Santangelo.
Dangerous.
Stubborn.
Strong.
Crazy.
Sensual.
Everything.
He had thought – once – that Eden was the woman for him. Poor pathetic Eden, who stood up in court and gave evidence about what had taken place in the bedroom of the house on Blue Jay Way – when she knew nothing. He, of course, had arrived too late. It was all over by the time he got there. Lucky had handled it her way.
Eden and he came face to face one day outside the courtroom. ‘Lennie.’ She placed her hand on his arm and stared piercingly into his eyes. ‘I missed you so much, but Santino kept me a prisoner. Can you understand how difficult it has been for me?’
He felt nothing. It was as if their years together had never been.
‘I want to see you, Lennie,’ she murmured seductively. ‘I think I could be just about ready to make a commitment.’
He tried to let her down gently. But there was no such thing as gently with Eden. ‘Big star now, huh?’ she hissed. ‘I knew it would go to’your head.’
Eden was past history.
He adjusted his tie. Silk tie. White silk shirt. Black Armani suit. And black tennis shoes.
Well – nobody had ever accused him of being conventional.
* * *
‘Hey – daughter.’ Gino put his head around the door. ‘We about ready?’
Lucky turned to look at her father. ‘You’ve never called me that before,’ she said softly.
‘Called you what?’
She smiled. ‘Daughter.’
He came into the room. ‘Y’know somethin’?’
‘What?’
‘I kinda always forgot t’tell you this – an’ I guess it’s not important – cos you know anyway.’
‘Yes?’
‘I love you, kid. I really love you. And I’m proud of you. Real proud.’
She blinked away tears – because it wouldn’t do to cry on her wedding day, and fell into his arms. ‘I love you too, Daddy.’
‘Hey—’ He gave her a gentle shove. ‘You’re wrinklin’ the suit.’
Gino. So sartorially splendid. So great-looking. She didn’t care about his past – so what that because of him and his public reputation she had been allowed no bail. And seven months spent in jail for a crime she did not commit was tough, but she rode it out – took it like a Santangelo. What she did care about was Gino the man. Her father. She loved him, and now she could freely admit it.
‘Whyn’t we move on out?’ Gino suggested. ‘The guests are ready, an’ so is my arm.’
He extended it in a courtly fashion, and happily she attached herself.
Lennie was waiting.
* * *
They were married in the garden of the East Hampton house. Lucky Santangelo and Lennie Golden.
Lucky stared at her bridegroom to be as she walked toward him. He turned and met her gaze.
Electricity sparked. They were destined to be a lethal combination.
Gino gave his daughter away.
Roberto was a page.
Brigette the maid of honour.
And Jess, Lennie’s best man.
It was a perfect wedding.
About the Author
There have been many imitators, but only Jackie Collins can tell you what really goes on in the fastest lane of all. From Beverly Hills bedrooms to a raunchy prowl along the streets of Hollywood; from glittering rock parties and concerts to stretch limos and the mansions of the power brokers – Jackie Collins chronicles the real truth from the inside looking out.
Jackie Collins has been called a ‘raunchy moralist’ by the late director Louis Malle and ‘Hollywood’s own Marcel Proust’ by Vanity Fair magazine. With over 400 million copies of her books sold in more than 40 countries, and with some twenty-eight New York Times bestsellers to her credit, Jackie Collins is one of the world’s top-selling novelists. She is known for giving her readers an unrivalled insiders knowledge of Hollywood and the glamorous lives and loves of the rich, famous, and infamous! ‘I write about real people in disguise,’ she says. ‘If anything, my characters are toned down – the truth is much more bizarre.’
Visit Jackie’s website www.jackiecollins.com, and follow her on Twitter at JackieJCollins and Facebook at www.facebook.com/jackiecollins
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