Vendetta: Lucky's Revenge

  What was that famous expression? Ah yes…A standing prick has no conscience.

  Hey—he was free, white, and over twenty-one—he could do what he liked. He didn’t have anyone to be faithful to.

  Tin Lee sank to her knees, grappled with his belt, and pulled his trousers and underwear down around his ankles.

  He placed his hands on the back of her glossy black hair, driving himself hard into her petite mouth.

  She almost gagged, managed not to, pulled back, and said, “Please, Alex, can we go in the bedroom?”

  “No,” he said, as hard as the proverbial rock. “I like it out here.”

  She’d come to him, he hadn’t invited her. Now she could take the consequences.

  The music was loud, throbbing and sensual, the set smoky and dark, with moody lighting creating just the right decadent atmosphere.

  Venus was high on the adrenaline of performing, she loved what she did. The only problem was, this was their eighth take, and Rodriguez was blowing it every time. He simply wasn’t a professional.

  “Honey,” she said, drawing him to one side, thinking she had only herself to blame for including him. “You’ve got to relax. All you have to do is stand at the bar while I slither down your body, rip off your shirt, and kiss you. Now, we’ve done that enough times in real life, so what’s the big deal?”

  He was embarrassed. Rodriguez liked to excel at everything, and this was not turning out well. “I’m sorry,” he said, eyes downcast, long lashes casting a faint shadow.

  “Think of me, baby,” she purred seductively. “Forget about the camera and concentrate on me.”

  “I will,” he assured her.

  “Oh, and Rodriguez. Whatever you do—don’t stare into the camera lens. Okay?”

  “Yes, my darling,” he said. “Next time will be perfection.”

  “It better be, ’cause you’re wearing me out,” she muttered under her breath as she went over and conferred with Dorian.

  “We can’t replace him now,” Dorian said. “We have to finish shooting this setup today.”

  “I know.”

  “When are you girls going to learn?” Dorian sighed, pursing his lips. “There’s only one place for a hard cock—and that’s at home.”

  Venus couldn’t help giggling. “Maybe I should take him to my trailer and fuck him,” she mused. “That’ll relax him!”

  Dorian raised a startled brow. “Ooh, you’ve got a mouth on you, girl!”

  “And I suppose you don’t,” she retorted sharply.

  Finally, after another two hours, Rodriguez got it. Everyone sighed with relief.

  As soon as they were finished, Venus rushed to the phone and spoke to Freddie. “I was supposed to hear from you today,” she said accusingly.

  “I’m waiting to get a call from Alex,” he said. “With the changes at Panther, everything’s chaos.”

  “I know, Freddie, but Gangsters starts shooting any minute. I have a schedule to work out.”

  “As soon as I reach Alex, I’ll contact you.”

  She wasn’t satisfied with his reply. “Is it Mickey Stolli?” she demanded. “Is he against using me?”

  “I haven’t discussed it with Mickey.”

  She wasn’t sure she believed him. “Okay, okay—call me when you hear.”

  One of the background dancers passed by. “Just wanna say it was a pleasure working with you, Venus,” the guy said with exactly the right amount of reverence in his voice.

  “Thanks,” she replied, checking him out. He was almost as good-looking as Rodriguez.

  What was this thing she had about handsome men? All package and no calories—that’s what Ron said. She stifled a giggle, observed Rodriguez chatting up the makeup girl, and beat a hasty retreat.

  Her car and driver were waiting outside the studio. “Home!” she exclaimed, collapsing on the backseat. She wasn’t in the mood for sex or conversation. Every muscle in her body ached—all she wanted to do was soak in a hot tub.

  As they entered her driveway, the same guard who’d stopped them before waved the limo to a halt.

  Venus wound down her window. “What now?” she asked impatiently.

  “Your husband, Cooper Turner, is here.”

  “Where?”

  “I thought it was all right, since he’s your husband, to let him in the house.”

  Her green eyes narrowed with fury. Was this guy the moron of the century or what? “You’re fired,” she said.

  “You havin’ a good time?” Isaac asked.

  “I’m having a great time,” Brigette said, and giggled.

  And, yes, she was having a good time. Sitting in a crowded restaurant with Isaac, eating soul food, surrounded by his friends. She’d downed a couple of vodkas and shared a joint with one of the girls in the ladies’ room.

  She’d started off the evening uptight, but the drinks had relaxed her, and the joint had made her feel a lot more at ease with this new group of friends.

  “Hey, you gotta get down,” Isaac said. “You got this uptight thing goin’.”

  “That’s ’cause I usually mix with uptight people.”

  “Yeah, well, now you gotta hang loose, y’know what I’m sayin’?” He handed her a sparerib. “Chew down on it, girl, get your hands good an’ greasy. Y’know how to do that, doncha?”

  “I know how to do that,” she replied, picking up a sparerib, suggestively sucking off the meat.

  “That’s more like it,” Isaac said, laughing.

  An hour later they piled out of the restaurant and made their way to a private club. Brigette had been to several of the more upscale Manhattan discotheques, but the one Isaac took her to was down in the Village, dark, smoky, and very funky.

  He had not gotten her a gun. “I’m workin’ on it,” he’d assured her.

  By this time she didn’t care.

  The group they were with consisted of Isaac, two anorexic black models, one spaced-out white guy, one overexcited Puerto Rican, and a gay Chinese dancer in drag. Nona wouldn’t approve. Nona liked to run with the more successful crowd. This group was on the edge—exactly where Brigette had decided she belonged.

  They stayed at the first discotheque until three in the morning, then they moved on to another place in Manhattan, which didn’t start until dawn. On the way they stopped at a coffee shop, devouring pastrami sandwiches and cheesecake all around. “We need our strength,” Isaac joked. “You’re gonna be dancin’ all night, girl—an’ then some!”

  He was very cute and friendly. When he kissed her on the dance floor, it seemed totally natural. She responded with plenty of heat.

  “Wanna come back to my place?” he whispered in her ear.

  She didn’t know what time it was. She didn’t care. “Yes,” she said.

  They took a cab back to his one room in the Village. As soon as he closed the door, he began kissing her. Starting with her mouth, quickly moving down to her neck. His hands were all over her, and she could feel his urgent desire.

  She responded eagerly.

  She wanted to be with a man.

  She wanted to be with Isaac.

  It was the only way to block out all memories of Michel and the humiliating things he’d forced her to do.

  Isaac began peeling her dress off. She didn’t mind at all. In fact, she was into it.

  They fell on the bed, and he was on top of her, his hands on her breasts, luring her to the point of no return.

  Just as he was about to enter her, she had a hazy thought. “Do you have…protection?” she gasped.

  “Sure, baby,” he responded, not stopping what he was doing for one moment. “Around here there’s a dude with a gun on every street corner.”

  He laughed. She giggled.

  Who cared anyway?

  She gave herself up to the night.

  40

  GINO WAS RELEASED FROM THE HOSPITAL A WEEK after being shot. His doctor remarked that he had the constitution of an ox. Yeah, Lucky thought, he should only know. It wou
ld take a lot more than a couple of lousy bullets to finish Gino Santangelo.

  Lucky hadn’t wanted to tell Gino what was going on while he was in the hospital, but as soon as they got him home and settled in his own bed, she laid out the facts.

  “Santino Bonnatti left a widow,” she said, restlessly pacing up and down next to his bed. “Donatella.”

  “So?” Gino said.

  “So,” Lucky continued, “Donatella resurrected herself. After Santino died, she married his accountant, got herself an education and a makeover, and today she’s a successful businesswoman going by the name of Donna Landsman.”

  “What’re you tellin’ me?” Gino said, struggling to sit up.

  “It’s Donna who’s carrying on the vendetta against the Santangelo family.”

  “A goddamn woman?” he bellowed, his face grim.

  “Yes, Gino, a woman.”

  “Are you sayin’ the bitch put a hit on me?” he said heatedly.

  “I’m certain she did,” Lucky replied. “It was her who plotted to take over my studio. And somehow she arranged to have Lennie killed.” A beat. “That car crash was no accident.”

  “What’re we gonna do about it?” Gino said furiously. “What the fuck we gonna do?”

  Lucky’s eyes were black and deadly. “There’s no we, Gino. You’re eighty-one years old. You’ve just been through a very traumatic experience. You can’t be involved.”

  Gino clenched his jaw. “Says who?” he demanded.

  “Says me, Gino.”

  Their eyes locked. Once he would’ve tried to control his willful daughter. Now he had no chance.

  “I’ve sent Maria, the baby, and Cee Cee to stay with Bobby and his relatives in Greece,” Lucky continued matter-of-factly. “This time I’m dealing with things my way.”

  “What’s your way?” he asked warily, knowing full well what a wild one his daughter was.

  She laughed mirthlessly. “Remember the family motto—‘Don’t fuck with a Santangelo.’”

  He shook his head. “Whaddya think you’re gonna do, Lucky? Blow this fuckin’ bitch away?”

  “No…not yet, anyway. Right now I’m working on regaining control of enough shares so I can throw her out the same way she did me.”

  “Listen t’me, Lucky,” he said warningly. “Things are not like they used to be. This ain’t the old days when violence ruled.”

  “I know,” she said, thinking to herself that he was finally growing old.

  “Paige tells me there’s some detective poking his dick into our business, tryin’ to find out things. In your position, you gotta be careful.”

  “Detective Rollins,” she said dismissively. “Don’t worry about him, he’s an asshole. He’s under the impression this was a mob hit.”

  “In a way it was, huh?” Gino shook his head disbelievingly. “How about that?”

  “The main thing is that you’re protected. I’ve arranged for round-the-clock guards. Now that you’re safely home, I’m leaving for L.A. this afternoon. You still have your gun, don’t you?”

  “Does the Pope keep a Bible?”

  She smiled in spite of everything. “You take it easy, Gino. Remember, you’re not as young as you used to be, even though you think you are.”

  He laughed ruefully. “In my mind I kinda stopped at thirty-five. Hey—kid—I was pretty hot at thirty-five.”

  “You’re pretty hot now,” she said, going over to the bed and kissing him.

  “Listen,” he said, his tone suddenly serious. “One phone call an’ this bitch is taken care of. Not one fuckin’ problem.”

  “No, Gino. That’s not the way I want to handle it.”

  “It’s the clean way.”

  “It’s not my way.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  She stood back from the bed and repeated a phrase from her childhood. “So I’ll see ya, Gino.”

  He grinned, remembering. Then his black eyes met her black eyes, a match in every way, and he said, “So I’ll see ya, kid. Don’t do nothin’ I wouldn’t do.”

  She grinned back at him. “That’s what I like—plenty of leeway.”

  Boogie was waiting downstairs. He already had her luggage loaded in the trunk of the car and was ready to go. Lucky slid into the passenger seat. “You drive,” she said, impatient to get back to L.A.

  Boogie had put together an excellent team of security. Two armed men were on alternate duty at the Palm Springs estate; Enrico had accompanied the children and Cee Cee to Greece; and Dean was staking out her beach house.

  On the ride back, she tried to sleep—a useless exercise, for she had too many thoughts buzzing around in her head.

  Donna Landsman née Donatella Bonnatti. The woman had waited four years to exact revenge for her low-life, child-molesting husband’s death, and she’d done it in a clever and devious fashion. As far as Lucky was concerned, Donna was a far more dangerous adversary than the male Bonnattis had ever been.

  However, clever as she was, she had no idea how swift and deadly Santangelo justice could be.

  Lucky relived the scene in her office. She should have known, she should have seen it in Donna’s eyes. Why hadn’t she noticed the hate there? Why hadn’t she realized before?

  She killed Lennie. My Lennie. My love.

  Donna Landsman doesn’t deserve to live.

  Lucky knew she was going to have to take care of her personally. Whatever Gino said, there was no other way.

  First she’d get her studio back. Then she’d exact the appropriate revenge for the shooting of Gino, and Lennie’s death.

  Boogie drove fast, respecting her silence. She reflected that in times of trouble, Boogie always came through, he’d proven himself so many times in the past. He was also the best investigator in the business; within forty-eight hours he’d discovered everything there was to know about Donna Landsman. He’d accessed her tax returns, bank statements, credit lines. He knew who her doctors were, her dress size, where she lived, what cars she drove. He even came up with a full record of all the plastic surgery she’d undergone. “You know me,” he’d said with a modest shrug. “Once I start digging, it’s all over.”

  He’d also found out that Morton Sharkey kept a very young girlfriend. Her name was Sara Durbon, and she lived in an apartment Morton paid for.

  The lawyer in Pasadena who looked after Mrs. Smorg’s shares had refused to give up the address of his client. “Don’t sweat it,” Boogie assured Lucky. “I’ve got someone on it. We’ll be into his files any moment.”

  As far as Conquest Investments were concerned, Boogie’s contacts were still digging through reams of red tape, trying to find out exactly who controlled the company.

  They arrived at the Malibu house just past noon. Boogie followed her into the front hallway. “What’s our first move?”

  “When I have all the information in front of me, that’s when I’ll strike,” Lucky said. “Today I have to take care of some personal business. Tomorrow I’ll visit Sara Durbon—see what she has to tell us about her very married boyfriend.” She paused for a moment, reaching for a cigarette. “Y’know, Boog, Morton Sharkey is the key to my getting back the studio.”

  “There’s somebody I’d like you to see later,” Boogie said. “I can have him here at six.”

  “Who?” she asked curiously.

  “A person you’ll be interested in talking to.”

  She’d learned never to question Boogie.

  It was a relief being home, even though her mailbox was full, and the answering machine jammed with messages, including several from Alex Woods.

  She summoned Kyoko, who hurried over, anxious to return to work. He’d quit Panther the same day Lucky left. The good thing was, he knew everything that was going on there due to the fact that a close friend of his still worked at the studio. According to all reports, Mickey Stolli was running riot like a crazed despot, firing people and replacing them with his own team as swiftly as possible.

  “Is he changing the schedule?”
she asked.

  “Not on anything in actual production,” Kyoko replied.

  “How about Gangsters?”

  “It’s still a go.”

  “And the Landsman woman, is she around?”

  “Lunches every day in the commissary at your table.”

  Lucky burned with fury, imagining Donna sitting there, gloating, thinking she’d won, thinking she’d outsmarted Lucky Santangelo.

  Not for long…

  Oh, no, not for long…

  And retribution will bring with it a taste of hell.

  Never fuck with a Santangelo.

  41

  WHEN WAS THIS TORTURE GOING TO END? LENNIE didn’t know how much more he could take.

  The last time one of his captors had come to the cave with food he’d kicked it back in his face.

  The man had yelled a stream of foreign curses and fled.

  Lennie hadn’t cared. “FUCK YOU,” he’d screamed after him. “I DON’T GIVE A SHIT ANYMORE. DO YOU HEAR ME, ASSHOLE? I DON’T CARE IF I EAT, I DON’T CARE IF I SLEEP. I’D SOONER BE DEAD THAN TRAPPED IN THIS HELLHOLE.”

  He knew he must look like a crazy man with his long, straggly beard, matted hair, and filthy, torn clothes—what did it matter? There was no one to see him.

  A week ago he’d discovered a jagged piece of rock embedded in the walls of the cave. It had taken him awhile, but eventually he’d managed to pry it free. Ever since, he’d been concentrating on grinding the chain around his ankle. For several hours a day he worked on the rusty chain, praying for results.

  Yeah. Who was he kidding? Maybe in another six months.

  For the last few days only one of the men had appeared with his food. Nobody told him why. Nobody spoke to him and it was driving him FUCKING CRAZY!

  What would happen if they both dropped dead? Would he be left to starve to death? Did anyone else know he was there?

  Over the weeks, months, he’d tried to communicate with them. They refused to listen. They were robots, fucking robots.

  Today he was putting into operation a plan he’d been thinking about for a while. When the man came in with his food, he was going to grab him and hold the jagged piece of rock to his throat. Then he’d threaten to slit the bastard’s jugular unless they released him.