The Santangelos

  “Why are you treating me like this?” Paige cried out. “What have I ever done to you?”

  You took Gino away, Lucky thought. You cloistered him in Palm Springs, where you allowed him to get himself shot. And I never liked you and your money-grabbing ways. You were always a bitch.

  “We’re clear, then?” Lucky said coldly.

  “You’re giving me no choice,” Paige muttered.

  “That’s the whole idea, because I make the choices now,” Lucky said. “Gino is to be buried in Vegas. My assistant, Danny, will be in touch. Oh—and those friends of Gino’s you mentioned, they’re welcome to fly to Vegas to pay their respects. Just give Danny the list.”

  “The photos?” Paige said tightly. “When do I get them?”

  “After the funeral,” Lucky said. “They’re all yours.” She clicked off and buzzed Danny. “Is everything on point?”

  “Yes, Lucky,” Danny replied. “There’ll be a plane waiting for you at Van Nuys Airport.”

  “Call Max, get her back from Europe. And you’d better bring Lennie up to date. Try him at his editing bay, and tell him we’ll all meet in Vegas. And make sure everyone we’ve already contacted knows the date it’s actually happening.”

  Danny was overwhelmed with all that he had to organize. Fortunately, he’d hired even more assistants to help out, plus his partner, Buff, was also around. Danny set them all to work finalizing the arrangements he’d already put in place.

  Gino Santangelo’s funeral service was destined to be a magnificent affair. A celebration of a life well lived.

  Danny would make sure that Lucky was proud.

  BOOK THREE

  “I wish to meet Britney Spears, Katy Perry, Willow Price, and Lindsay Lohan,” thirteen-year-old Tariq announced to his grandfather King Emir Amin Mohamed Jordan. “Kindly have someone arrange it.”

  “I will have whoever you wish flown to Akramshar for your next birthday,” King Emir assured him. “We will enjoy a big celebration.”

  “Why can’t I meet them here?” Tariq said, his voice turning into a whine. “You’re a king, and I’m a prince. Surely I can have whatever I want?”

  “You can, my grandson, when I say so,” King Emir replied, doting on the boy, his only connection to his son Armand.

  Tariq was a fine-looking boy, tall and athletic, with his dear departed father’s strong features.

  The king never stopped thinking about Armand, the only son among his many sons that King Emir had truly admired. Armand had left Akramshar and traveled to America with his ex-showgirl American mother at a young age. After attending college in the United States, and with the help of his mother’s new husband, he’d risen to become a real estate titan. Every year, he’d dutifully returned to Akramshar to celebrate the king’s birthday, and to visit Soraya, the wife the king had arranged for him to marry, and the several children Soraya had given birth to. One day Armand had made a solemn promise to his father that when the king passed, he would return to Akramshar permanently, and he would rule the country as was King Emir’s wish.

  Unfortunately, that day would never come to pass, for Armand had been brutally assassinated in America, gunned down at the Keys hotel, a property he had been negotiating to buy. And as King Emir had eventually learned, it was all the fault of a woman—a mere woman who’d refused to make the deal with Armand.

  Lucky Santangelo. She was the responsible one.

  It had taken almost a year involving much planning for King Emir to plot his revenge. Now the time for vengeance was near, and the king was running out of patience with a teenage boy desperate to meet a few celebrity whores. He knew it was time to teach Tariq that women were the cause of all the troubles in the world. In Akramshar they knew their place and they stayed in it or faced dire punishment. King Emir should know, for he had six wives and countless children. None of them had ever dared to disobey him.

  King Emir did not love his wives. They were simply there for his convenience when he desired sex, or to act as broodmares giving birth to his many children. Women were vessels to be used and discarded when he felt like it. Women were weak, inferior beings, and it shocked him how they were allowed so much freedom in the Western world, whoring themselves out on TV and in the movies. Showing everyone their breasts and big buttocks like prize cows.

  When Armand’s American mother had left Akramshar and returned to the United States, he’d been pleased to see her go—she was hardly a good influence on his other wives, outspoken and not respectful enough. However, she’d certainly given him a son to be proud of. Armand. So handsome. So smart.

  Lucky Santangelo had taken that son away from him, and for that she would be severely punished.

  King Emir savored contemplating what would happen next.

  Oh, how the infidels would fall. Finally, justice would be his.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  “I will be accompanying you,” Dante announced when Max received the news of Gino’s funeral date.

  “W-what?” Max stuttered, almost speechless. “That’s so not going to happen.”

  “Ah, but it is,” Dante said with a snakelike smile—yellow teeth front and center. “Contractually, we should not allow you to go. However, since it is a family funeral, we have decided to excuse your absence.”

  Max simply stared at his deathly pale face. Why was she about to get stuck with this sicko when she was quite capable of flying to America by herself?

  The last few days had been something of a nightmare. After firing Ross, Dante had come to her cabin on the yacht and tried to force himself on her, threatening that if she wasn’t nicer to him, her job would be in jeopardy. He’d actually started to unzip his pants before she’d managed to kick him in the balls—her signature move—and lock him out of her cabin. He hadn’t been pleased. He’d screamed a litany of insults at her in Italian and finally limped away.

  Carlo was no help. It seemed that whenever Natalia was around, he had nothing to say—he simply drank himself into a stupor.

  “When we are done with the funeral in Las Vegas, there are magazine editors in L.A. Alfredo wishes you to meet,” Dante continued. “It is important for the Dolcezza image to become known in America, and with you as the face of Dolcezza, this is perfect timing.”

  Perfect timing indeed. Her grandfather’s funeral. What a disaster! She didn’t care to have Dante following her around; it wasn’t going to happen.

  “I shall be making all travel arrangements,” Dante said. “We fly tomorrow.”

  “Will that get us there in time?” Max asked, resigning herself to the fact that she had no choice.

  “Certainly,” Dante said. “Tonight we leave the yacht. A helicopter will be waiting to take us to Rome, and from there we catch a flight to L.A.”

  “Gino’s funeral is in Las Vegas,” she pointed out.

  “I shall arrange a helicopter to meet us in L.A. to take us there.”

  “Us”? Had he just said “us”? This was turning into a freaking nightmare. He was acting as if he was her significant other, and nothing could be further from the truth. The very thought. Ugh, gross!

  “There’s no need for you to come to the funeral,” she said flatly. “You can’t anyway. It’s a close-friends-and-family-only affair.”

  “I have spoken to your mother,” Dante said. “She will be happy to welcome me.”

  He’d spoken to Lucky? How was that possible?

  “Whatever,” Max muttered, determined that when they arrived in Vegas, she would distance herself from hateful Dante big-time. She’d warn Bobby what a douche Dante was—and even though he was her so-called boss at Dolcezza, she wanted nothing to do with him. Bobby would understand; he’d always been extremely protective of her. Besides, she couldn’t wait to hang with Cookie and Harry. She was really looking forward to catching up with all her old friends, even though she would’ve preferred it to be under different circumstances.

  If only Lorenzo were coming with her instead of Dante, that would’ve been major. She
could’ve fixed him up with Harry, and maybe Lorenzo and Harry would’ve lived happily ever after.

  Hmm … happily ever after. Was there such a thing?

  No. Billy had proved that to her. She hadn’t heard a word from him.

  Too bad. His loss.

  She was the new face of Dolcezza.

  Soon she’d be famous too.

  * * *

  The last couple of days were a blur for Denver. They’d sprung Frankie Romano from jail and he was currently under police protection in a hotel, spewing information that, if it turned out to be accurate, would definitely put Alejandro Diego behind bars.

  Denver was exhilarated to think that they almost had him.

  Leon was all about going out and celebrating, but Denver was not in a celebratory mood. Bobby was gone. He’d walked out on her. Packed up and left.

  In a way she was devastated. On the other hand she considered that maybe it was for the best. She’d loved Bobby, but she’d never loved his lifestyle. He was a man who had everything—and even though he didn’t flaunt it, it was always there, hovering between them. Bobby was heir to an incredible fortune. He could—if he so desired—have anything he wanted. But that wasn’t his particular style. He rarely used the Stanislopoulos family plane. He’d never touched his inheritance. He’d never traded on his infamous mother’s name, or on his stepfather’s stellar reputation as an extremely talented filmmaker. He’d forged his own way with his successful chain of clubs. And until Chicago, she’d always imagined he was faithful.

  Then came Chicago, and like a fool she hadn’t trusted him. Because of her suspicions, she’d sent their relationship into a spin that neither of them could struggle out of. It was over, and as sad as she was, there was something about not being with Bobby that set her free.

  Instead of celebrating with Leon, she’d called Sam. “I want Lady Gaga,” she’d said. “Can you bring her over?”

  “She’s all yours,” a delighted Sam had replied.

  And it occurred to her that maybe it was Sam she should’ve been with all along.

  * * *

  Newspapers were not into writing retractions. They’d labeled Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos a murderer, and they were reluctant to print a correction. A few lines of copy hidden in the depths of the paper admitted their mistake. Nobody read it.

  Bobby realized that the story would always be out there thanks to the Internet. He was sage enough to know there was nothing he could do about it—except try to forget and move on. The Chicago incident had changed his life. No more Mr. Nice Guy—he was smarter and wiser, less trustful of people, and now he was on his own with no girlfriend. Denver had failed to stand by him, and he couldn’t help feeling that a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He’d definitely loved her, but he was beginning to realize that sometimes love is not enough to save a relationship.

  After thinking about it, he called Beverly and informed her that he wished to cover all funeral expenses for Nadia. Even though she’d lured him up to her suite, then drugged him, surely she hadn’t expected to be murdered.

  Beverly assured him she would take care of it.

  M.J. flew back from Chicago with news that Mood was packed every night.

  “Hey, man, at least your notoriety was hot for business,” M.J. joked.

  “Thanks a lot,” Bobby answered drily. “That really makes me feel it was all worth it.”

  As soon as he’d left the house he shared with Denver, he’d checked into a hotel for the night. When M.J. heard about the breakup, he’d made it clear to Bobby that he was to stay with him at his L.A. apartment, no argument, so Bobby had checked out of the hotel and moved in.

  He wasn’t quite sure when to mention to M.J. that he was intent on selling the Chicago club. He couldn’t care less if he ever visited Chicago again. Too many bad memories. M.J. wouldn’t be happy; they’d put a great deal of work into building an amazing venue. He could only hope that M.J. would understand.

  Over the next couple of days, they’d spent a lot of time sitting around talking about women and sports and their future as entrepreneurs. Both were on the same track, with ambitions to achieve bigger and better things. Bobby was into the idea of building a series of boutique hotels, and M.J. was on board all the way.

  “We should make a pact,” Bobby said. “No more live-in girlfriends for the next couple of years.”

  “You got it!” M.J. responded. “Work bros—no hoes.”

  Laughter followed. But Bobby knew for sure that before anything, he had to find out who’d assassinated Gino. Like Lucky, he was not giving up.

  Someone had to know something, and he was determined to chase the truth.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  Willow was flying high. Attending a glamorous premiere in Westwood with Ralph Maestro had upped her profile from the girl who used to have a promising career to Ralph Maestro’s latest girlfriend. She’d stood beside him in a sleek designer dress lent to her for the occasion while he was interviewed by Access Hollywood and Extra and ET. The on-camera hosts had actually asked her questions. Mario Lopez had given her his irresistible dimpled grin and told her she looked beautiful—while Billy Bush had cocked an eyebrow and congratulated Ralph on his choice of date.

  Needless to say, the next day photos of her clinging on to Ralph’s arm were everywhere.

  Willow was thrilled. She’d loved every minute of being out and about with a bona fide star. Well … more of an old-school movie star, and yes, she’d sooner have been on the arm of Billy Melina or Nick Angel—but that would happen as soon as Alejandro came up with the money for their movie. Unfortunately, this was not taking place as fast as she’d hoped, and Eddie was doing nothing until he saw the cash that would go straight into his pocket. He hadn’t even gotten up a deal memo for Sam, and speaking with Sam on the phone, she’d noticed that he was definitely cooling off on the project, telling her that if he didn’t get something in writing within the next twenty-four hours he was moving on.

  Some people were so ungrateful. Here she was, giving Sam the opportunity of a lifetime, and he was talking about moving on. Most writers would kill for full control.

  Who cared anyway? The moment she gave Eddie the money, he’d come up with a better writer who would tailor a script especially for her.

  When the photos of her and Ralph hit the magazines and Internet, both Alejandro and Eddie were majorly pissed.

  “You’re my girlfriend,” Alejandro had raged. “How do you think this makes me look? My friends are laughing at me.”

  What friends? she’d wanted to say. You don’t have any friends.

  Instead, she’d tried to smooth things over, telling him that it was all for the sake of their movie, and that a huge star such as Ralph Maestro might even agree to make a cameo appearance.

  As for Eddie, he was just plain jealous, and she loved that she could get to him.

  Days were passing and still no money. Alejandro blamed Rafael, while he kept on assuring Willow that they would be wallowing in cash any moment.

  Like Sam, her patience was running thin.

  * * *

  It hadn’t taken long for Alejandro to realize that Rafael was not the same man who’d gone to Colombia on a mission to get movie funding from his father. No, somehow along the way Rafael seemed to have acquired a set of balls.

  “Where’s the cash?” Alejandro had demanded upon Rafael’s return. “I told you to bring back cash.”

  Rafael remained calm. “Pablo has agreed to finance your movie. He is making arrangements.”

  Alejandro’s face had imploded with a dark flash of fury. “That wasn’t supposed to be the deal,” he’d yelled. “I ordered you to come back with cash. What kind of moron are you?”

  Rafael had shrugged. “This is Pablo’s decision, and neither of us argues with Pablo. He wants to slide the money through certain channels before you get it, legitimate channels. So I suggest that instead of worrying about the money, you should be worrying about Frankie shooting his m
outh to the DA, the woman who’s trying to lock you up.”

  “Are you telling me you didn’t take care of Frankie?” Alejandro steamed, his eyes popping.

  “You sent me to Colombia, remember? And while I was there, I convinced Pablo you could become a movie producer. Isn’t that enough?”

  “You dumb-ass!” Alejandro screamed. “I’m sending the sex tape to your puta girlfriend. She deserves to see who you really are.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Alejandro had stopped screaming and shaken his head, perplexed. Surely he couldn’t be hearing right. What was going on with Rafael? Why was he acting as if nothing mattered?

  “You’d better take care of Frankie,” he’d snarled. “Then maybe I won’t send the tape to Elizabetta.”

  “The DA has Frankie Romano sequestered,” Rafael had replied, stone-faced. “He’s under strict guard.”

  “Then pay someone to get to him,” Alejandro had rasped. “You’re capable of doing that, aren’t you?”

  “Sure, Alejandro,” Rafael had replied, while thinking, Why would I do that? The money is coming and it’s going straight to me. Alejandro will soon be arrested and when he is, I’m taking off.

  Karma was a sneaky bitch.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  The day before Gino’s funeral, Lucky awoke in her penthouse at the Keys with a peaceful feeling. Her father was to be laid to rest in Las Vegas, scene of his greatest triumphs, a fitting place to celebrate his life.

  Everyone he’d loved was either there or on their way. Max was flying in from Europe, the boys were already present with Steven and Lennie. Bobby and M.J. were driving from L.A. And Brigette and her girlfriend had arrived from Sweden. Gino’s old-time cronies—the ones who were still alive—had all made it. Also present were close friends of the family, among them Venus; Max’s closest friends from high school, Cookie and Harry; movie director Alex Woods; a scattering of beautiful movie stars; and several politicians, including Lucky’s ex-husband, Craven, and his politically pushy parents, Senator and Mrs. Peter Richmond. It was certainly a mixed group.