The Santangelos

  She tried calling him again. Her call went straight to voice mail.

  Then the doorbell rang, and hoping it was him, she rushed to answer it.

  But it was not Bobby, it was Sam, standing on the threshold carrying a large cardboard box.

  “What are you doing here?” she exclaimed, not thrilled to see him.

  Sam grinned, all crooked teeth and rumpled clothes. “Delivering a package,” he announced, thrusting the box at her.

  “H-how did you know I was home?” she stammered.

  “I stopped by your office. Some guy told me you had a family emergency. Anything I can do to help?”

  Yes, she thought. You can go away. And while she was thinking this, something began moving inside the box she was holding.

  Leaning forward, Sam obligingly removed the lid. “Meet Lady Gaga,” he said, still grinning as he scooped a golden puppy out of the box and thrust it at her. “She’s a Maltipoo rescue and desperate for a new home.”

  Denver was speechless.

  “There’s no way I can take care of a dog,” she said at last as the small puppy wriggled in her arms.

  “Sure you can,” Sam said cheerily. “You took care of Winehouse. Face it, D., you’re a dog person.”

  “No, I’m not,” she said stiffly.

  “Yes,” he teased, not realizing that she was pissed. “You are.”

  “Well, maybe I am,” she allowed. “Only now is not the time for me to be getting one.”

  “No?”

  “No,” she answered firmly. “I appreciate the gesture, but I cannot accept.”

  The puppy licked her face, forcing her to admit to herself that the little dog was adorable, but she wasn’t about to weaken.

  “Is everything all right?” Sam inquired. “I was under the impression that last night was—”

  “Was what?” she interrupted, still filled with guilt. “As far as I’m concerned, last night was a big mistake.”

  Sam looked crestfallen. He’d been sure they’d forged a connection, but now Denver was acting as if nothing had happened between them.

  “Did I do something to offend you?” he asked.

  She shook her head, thinking how impossible this situation was. Sam, on her doorstep, gifting her with a puppy. It wasn’t right, and it was all her fault. Like an idiot she’d encouraged him, and now here he was, all ready for her to take it a step further, something she had no intention of doing.

  “Look,” she said quietly. “Last night should never have happened. I was upset ’cause I hadn’t heard from Bobby, and I guess I drank too much wine. What went on with you and me … well, like I said, it shouldn’t have.”

  “Is that how you really feel?”

  “Yes, Sam, it is.”

  Breakfast with Willow, followed by this put-down. Apparently it wasn’t his day.

  What the heck was he supposed to do with a puppy? He had a meeting in San Francisco, and he couldn’t take the puppy with him.

  Willow came to mind. She had to be useful for something.

  “Okay, then,” he said, finally realizing that he was getting nowhere. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

  Denver nodded. She knew where to find him, all right, although she had no intention of ever doing so.

  Sam was her past.

  Bobby was her future.

  And that’s the way it had to be.

  * * *

  Waking up with the Malibu morning light flooding their bedroom and the sound of the waves breaking outside, Lucky lay very still.

  Gino is dead.

  My beloved father is gone.

  Goddamn it, Gino. How could you do this to me?

  Or perhaps it was all some horrible nightmare and everything would soon be back to normal.

  No. It wasn’t a nightmare. Sadly, it was the truth.

  Tears stung her eyes and rolled silently down her cheeks. Yesterday she hadn’t cried. Today she’d allow herself the luxury of doing so, although only for a few minutes. She refused to weaken; it was imperative that she stay strong.

  We must celebrate Gino’s life, not mourn his death. That’s what he would want.

  Of course, she’d known this day would come. Gino was old. She’d imagined he’d go to bed one night and pass peacefully in his sleep. Unfortunately, that was not to be. Gino had been violently gunned down execution-style, and whoever was responsible would pay the price. The Santangelo price.

  Never fuck with a Santangelo.

  Lennie came into the room carrying a mug of strong black coffee. “Mornin’, beautiful,” he said, handing her the mug. “How’d you sleep?”

  Quickly she wiped away her tears and sat up.

  “That’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve seen you cry before,” he said, sitting on the side of the bed.

  “I’m not crying,” she insisted, taking a sip of the hot coffee. “It’s just an allergy.”

  “Sure,” he said, reaching for her free hand.

  “Don’t baby me, Lennie,” she said, pulling her hand away. “I need to be strong for the family.”

  “You are strong,” he assured her. “Never let it be said that Lucky Santangelo isn’t a warrior.”

  “A warrior, huh?” she said, summoning a weak smile. “I like it.”

  “You want to tell me what happened yesterday after I left?” he said.

  “It wasn’t great,” she sighed. “Paige started acting like the queen of Palm Springs.”

  “Nice.”

  “Can you imagine, she actually invited people over to the house.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “No, I’m not. The heartbroken widow couldn’t even wait a day.”

  “Sounds pretty cold to me.”

  “Oh, she’s cold, all right,” Lucky said, experiencing a flash of righteous anger. “She’s turned into the calculating bitch I always suspected she was.”

  “Yeah,” Lennie said slowly. “None of us ever warmed to her.”

  “I tolerated her for Gino’s sake, although I always had the feeling she was in it for the perks. She got off on being Mrs. Gino Santangelo. The title suited her, and she basked in the attention. You should’ve seen her last night, surrounded by celebrities and loving every moment of it.”

  “More important, what’s going on with the case?”

  “The detectives have nothing except Paige’s description of the shooter.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Apparently so,” Lucky said, finishing her coffee. “They had a slew of cops canvassing the nearby houses. It seems nobody saw anything, and I’m not surprised ’cause everybody lives behind fucking iron gates.”

  “So nothing, huh?”

  “A dead end.” She paused for a moment. “After you left, I went through Gino’s desk.”

  “Good thinking. Did you find anything useful?”

  “I don’t know if it means anything or not, but I did discover some kind of threatening note.”

  “Trust you to come across something. What did the note say?”

  “Short and to the point. One printed word—vengeance.”

  “I guess you handed it over to the detective on the case, right?”

  “What do you think?” she said, throwing him a disparaging look.

  He raised a cynical eyebrow. “If I had to make an educated guess, I’d say you didn’t.”

  “That’s because I’ll be taking care of it myself.”

  “Of course you will.”

  “Yes, Lennie, of course I will.”

  He took a long silent beat before getting into it with her. “You do know that you shouldn’t get involved,” he said.

  “You know what? Don’t even go there,” she replied, narrowing her dark eyes. “Whoever did this to Gino will pay for it, you can bet on that.”

  “Here’s the thing, sweetheart,” he said, making what he knew was a futile attempt to convince her. “You could be putting not only yourself in danger, but the rest of the family too.”

  “What exactly
do you expect me to do, Lennie?” she said fiercely, brushing back a lock of jet-black hair. “The detectives are coming up with nothing. Nada. Believe me—this is personal.”

  “For you, yes.”

  She fixed him with a long steady gaze. “For all of us.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” he said, giving way a little. “Only you’ve got to be careful. Whoever did this to Gino could have you in his sights next.”

  “You think?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “You’re being dramatic.”

  “Dramatic or not, what we should do is hire security for the whole family.”

  “There’s no way I’m running scared, you know that.”

  “Jesus Christ,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re just like Gino—fucking stubborn.”

  “And you’re not?” she countered. “You’re the most stubborn man I know.”

  Lennie decided that right now it was time to back off. Maybe later he could reason with her. “Have you spoken to the kids?” he asked.

  “I left messages. Still haven’t heard back from Max or Bobby.”

  “Typical—which brings me to my thoughts on Max.”

  “What are your thoughts on Max?”

  “We should be keeping a more diligent eye on her. She’s over in London doing her own thing, doesn’t have to answer to anyone, and I gotta say, I don’t like it at all.”

  “Max is nineteen. We can’t tell her what to do,” Lucky said, fully aware that Lennie still regarded Max as his precious little girl whom he needed to protect.

  “I don’t give a crap how old she is,” he said irritably. “She’s still a kid.”

  “A kid who’s learning to be independent,” Lucky said, willing herself to remain patient, because this was not the time to start a fight. “I mean, that’s what we want for her, isn’t it?”

  “That’s what you want for her,” Lennie said, wondering why Lucky wasn’t more concerned about their daughter. “I want her back in America where she belongs, especially now.”

  “Spoken like a true chauvinist,” Lucky exclaimed. “You know something—it’s you who’s beginning to sound exactly like Gino.”

  “Not such a bad thing,” Lennie said. “He was a smart one. I’m sure as hell gonna miss that old guy.”

  “We all are,” Lucky said, reaching for her cell phone and clicking on her messages. “Let’s see if Max or Bobby have texted me.”

  There was nothing from Max. One voice mail from Bobby. He sounded panicked and shaken.

  She listened intently to his voice.

  Bobby.

  Her son.

  Arrested in Chicago for murder.

  Lucky launched into action.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “Your lawyer’s here,” the duty cop announced, unlocking the cell door.

  Bobby quickly jumped up from the hard wooden bench where he’d spent a restless night. Lucky must’ve finally received his frantic message and hired someone. Thank Christ for that, because it was imperative that he get out of this hellhole before he lost it. He brushed a hand through his dark hair, thinking how crappy he must look. Disheveled and tired, he was more than ready to get out of jail and resume life as he knew it. Being locked up was no fucking joke.

  Even though his mind was all over the place, one thing he was sure of—drugged or not, he had nothing to do with the girl in the red dress’s murder.

  He followed the cop down a long narrow corridor, up some stone stairs, and into what he presumed was an interview room, similar to the one where he’d been interrogated by the burly gum-chewing detective. He sat down on one side of an oblong wooden table and waited. After a few minutes, an attractive black woman entered the room. She was in her late forties, well dressed in a smart blue suit. Her hair was cut short in a sleek bob, and she wore tinted glasses.

  Turning to the cop, she said a brisk “I need time alone with my client. I’ll call you when we’re finished.”

  The cop threw Bobby a surly look and left the room.

  “Beverly Villiers,” she said, proffering her hand to Bobby. “I’m an old friend of your mother’s, and I’m sure you’ll be glad to know that I’m one helluva lawyer.”

  He immediately liked her style, but who was she? Lucky had never mentioned a Beverly Villiers, but then again there were many things about his mom he didn’t know. Lucky had led some life, and she wasn’t one to dwell on her past.

  “All I can say is thank Christ you’re here,” he muttered, swallowing hard.

  “My intent is to get you out of here as fast as possible,” Beverly said, sitting down opposite him.

  “Then you should know that this is all some big fucked-up mistake,” he said, rubbing his chin.

  “I’m listening,” Beverly said, removing a weathered crocodile-skin notebook from her purse. “I’m old-school,” she said with a wry smile. “So … I suggest you tell me everything—and I do mean everything.”

  “I will. I want to.”

  “Good, so let’s start off with: Did you do it?”

  “No way,” he said, fervently shaking his head. “I don’t even know how the girl died. The last time I saw her she was alive and well.”

  He flashed onto Nadia offering him a drink, handing him a glass, and saying, Vodka. For luck. For love. For the future of our loved ones. That was all he could remember until he’d woken up slumped over the steering wheel of his rental car.

  “Miss Gómez was discovered naked in the hotel bathtub,” Beverly said, lowering her glasses and watching him closely. “Her throat was slit with a hunting knife.” She paused. “Your prints were on the weapon.”

  Once again, Bobby swallowed hard, feeling a sickening pit in his stomach. “I … I told you, I didn’t do it,” he stammered, images of the beautiful vibrant girl in the red dress once again flashing before his eyes. “It wasn’t me.”

  “Then start talking,” Beverly said calmly. “And please keep in mind that no detail is too trivial for me to hear. The more details you can come up with, the better. Do you understand?”

  Bobby understood. And so he began his story.

  * * *

  Sitting in the back of a chauffeur-driven car on the way to meet with the Dolcezza group of executives, Lorenzo gave Max a brief rundown. Alfredo Agnelli owned the company. His two sisters, Marcella and Gabriella, ran it, while Alfredo’s daughter, Natalia, and his son, Dante, were both creative consultants. They were twins.

  “It is a family business,” Lorenzo explained. “Very successful for many years. The face of Dolcezza changes every eighteen months. Now—if all goes well—that face will be you.”

  Max didn’t like the sound of “if all goes well.” What did that mean? Surely she was the chosen one? Her agent had assured her that the Dolcezza people loved her. She’d signed a contract. Oh crap! What if it all went wrong? What if they sent her back to London? That would really suck.

  “I hate this stupid outfit,” she said, turning up her nose. “I look like a joke.”

  “You are a very lovely girl,” Lorenzo said, his thin face sincere. “They will adore you.”

  “You think?” she asked hopefully.

  Lorenzo took a furtive glance around as if someone might be listening to their conversation. “Be careful of Dante,” he warned. “He will try to use his position to get you into bed. Do not succumb.”

  “I haven’t even met the dude,” Max said, frowning. “What makes you think he’s gonna jump me?”

  “Dante has a reputation … that’s all I will say.”

  “Oh, come on,” Max insisted. “Don’t throw me crumbs. You gotta fill me in.”

  Lorenzo shook his head. “We are here now,” he said as the car pulled up in front of an impressive old building. “This is the Dolcezza headquarters.”

  Max got out of the car and followed him into the building, feeling like an idiot in her oversized pink jumpsuit. Some way to make a first impression. At least she’d managed to tame her hair and wipe off most of the he
avy makeup.

  Alfredo Agnelli greeted her with a bear hug and kisses on both cheeks. He was a distinguished-looking man, very tall, with a face carved out of rock, extra-large teeth, a deep suntan, and a strident voice. His English was limited, and Max couldn’t understand a word he was saying. Lorenzo translated. “Signor Dolcezza welcomes you to the house of Dolcezza, and says they are delighted to see you.”

  Hmm … delighted to see her. A good sign.

  “May I present Signora Marcella and Signora Gabriella, my dear sisters,” Alfredo boomed, gesturing toward the two women in the room.

  His dear sisters couldn’t have been more different. Marcella was as tall as Alfredo, with sharp features, heavy makeup, long straight blond hair, and a pained expression. Gabriella was short and plump, with rosy cheeks, a twinkle in her eye, and spiky red hair. Max figured that they were both in their fifties.

  More cheek kisses were exchanged.

  They were meeting in a large room that looked more like a well-appointed living room than an office. Antiques and comfortable leather couches abounded, and right in the center of the room stood an enormous desk, its surface covered in silver frames—all of them filled with photos of smiling, suntanned children doing everything from waterskiing to riding horses.

  Alfredo noticed her checking out the frames. “My family,” he said with an expansive wave of his hand.

  “Wow!” Max exclaimed. “You have a huge family.”

  “And now you are a part of it,” Gabriella said, joining in with a jolly smile.

  Things are definitely improving, Max thought. Pink jumpsuit or not, I am about to become part of the Dolcezza family.

  * * *

  An hour and a half later, Beverly Villiers had made copious notes and talked on her cell phone several times. She was now preparing to leave.

  “What do you think?” Bobby asked anxiously, his stomach churning as he leaned forward.

  “Truth or bullshit?” Beverly said, putting away her notebook.

  “You believe me, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do,” she said, then, after pausing for a moment, she said, “Although, Bobby, surely you should’ve been able to spot a setup when it was coming at you full force? After all, you’re Lucky’s son. Gino’s grandson.” After another, thoughtful pause, she added, “By the way, I was extremely sorry to hear about Gino.”