Double Lucky (110 page)

Max leaned back on the plush leather banquette in the London club and considered her options. She was a very pretty girl with full pouty lips, emerald green eyes, and long dark hair. Tonight she wore a cut-off top, multiple gold chains, ridiculous heels, and tight black leather pants.

Max was eighteen, almost nineteen, and delighted that in London she could get away with drinking in clubs. Her brother, Bobby, who owned a string of successful nightclubs around the world, wouldn't allow her to drink in his Vegas and New York clubs. “You're underage,” he'd informed her. “Go get someone else's license pulled.”

“Screw you, Bobby,” she'd always responded.

The truth was that since moving to London, she really missed Bobby—along with the rest of her family. Mom, Lucky. Dad, Lennie. Little bro, Gino Junior, half brother Leonardo, and Grandpa Gino. What a family. What a close-knit group. She loved them all, but she'd had to get away after everything that had taken place.

Athena was pushing her for an answer. Drake was pounding it over the sound system.

“What?” Max said irritably. “You go for it, 'cause I'm not in the mood for getting high.”

Athena widened her eyes like she couldn't quite believe anyone would be dumb enough to turn down free drugs. “Oh, please,” she said impatiently. “Make a decision.”

“Actually, I'm about to head out,” Max announced, reaching for her phone and texting for an Uber cab to pick her up.

“You're leaving me?” Athena said with a put-upon frown.

“You're a big girl, you'll manage,” Max said, sliding out of the booth past the heavyset man and several other rich men only too happy to pick up the check for two delectable young females.

 

 

DENVER

“Long-distance relationships suck,” Denver Jones complained to her friend, Carolyn Henderson, as they sat on the back patio of Carolyn's small house in West Hollywood eating breakfast, while Carolyn's infant son, Andy, slept nearby in a wicker carry-cot.

“Then maybe you should break up with him,” Carolyn responded with a casual shrug, tearing at a warm croissant and smothering it with butter.

“I didn't
say
I wanted to break up with him,” Denver said, throwing her a stony look, wondering why Carolyn was always so negative. “I'm merely bitching about Bobby traveling all over the place while I'm stuck in L.A. 'cause of my job.”

“Ah, but it's a job that you live, breathe, and totally love,” Carolyn pointed out.

“Oh, yeah,” Denver drawled sarcastically. “I so
love
trying to nail sleazebags who sell drugs to children and murder people when they get in their way. It's
so
rewarding, not to mention major exciting.”

“Although, as a very competent assistant D.A., you
do
love it when you hear the magic word—guilty,” Carolyn said matter-of-factly. “You're the one who gets to lock the bad guys away.”

“And how often does
that
happen?” Denver said, reflecting on how screwed up the justice system could be. Nothing was ever a sure thing. “These guys hire the most expensive and canny lawyers, men in five-thousand-dollar suits who are paid fortunes to get those criminal assholes off the hook. And most times they succeed.”

“Unfortunately that's the system,” Carolyn said, adding jam to her croissant.

“Yeah,” Denver said glumly. “The system blows, and I should know since I was once part of it. I am
so
much happier being on the other side.”

“I can tell,” Carolyn said. “And you
did
get Frankie Romano arrested and thrown into jail.”

“True,” Denver said thoughtfully. “In spite of Bobby urging me to go easy on him.”

“Bobby gave you a hard time, right?”

“He certainly did, Frankie being an old friend of his. I mean, what did he
expect
me to do? It's my
job
, for God's sake, there's no way I can call in favors. Frankie's apartment was drug city.
And
he was dealing big-time.”

Since leaving the law firm of Saunders, Fields, Simmons, and Johnson, where she had been one of their youngest defense attorneys, Denver was thrilled that she no longer had to defend scuzzy celebrities who were obviously guilty—including action movie star Ralph Maestro. It was all a big relief, she was so glad she'd switched sides to become an assistant D.A. Now she was currently part of a drug task force—a tight-knit group of people, all with the same endgame in mind—valiantly attempting to stop the endless flow of illegal drugs into America. The stories that she saw and heard devastated her. Babies born addicted to crack; teenagers overdosing at parties; young girls forced into addiction and prostitution. And who profited from all this misery? The dealers, of course. From the kids on the street who peddled pot and pills, to the drug lords like Pablo Fernandez Diego—an unprincipled Colombian drug lord who funneled drugs from his country into the U.S. at an alarming rate. The Diego cartel was notorious for supplying large shipments of cocaine, marijuana, heroin, methamphetamine. It seemed his drug operation was unstoppable, and although it would be more or less impossible to nail Pablo in Colombia, if they could nab his lowlife son, Alejandro, it would be a major coup. Alejandro owned Club Luna, a Hollywood hangout which everyone knew was a front for drug running—but so far nothing could be proved. Arresting Frankie Romano was a positive, and Denver had high hopes that eventually Frankie would start hemorrhaging information, for as Alejandro's former close friend he had to know plenty.

Leon, one of Denver's colleagues, had been working undercover, which was how they'd managed to nail Frankie. Now, getting him to talk was the key to maybe indicting Alejandro, but so far Frankie was refusing to cooperate.

“Have you ever thought that Bobby might fool around on you?” Carolyn asked.

“Are you kidding me?” Denver said, surprised that Carolyn would even suggest it. “Why would you say that?”

“It's never crossed your mind that he could cheat?”

“No, it never has.”

“Then you're more naïve than I thought,” Carolyn said, taking a gulp of hot coffee. “
All
men cheat.”

 

 

ALEJANDRO

“That fuckin' D.A. is a fuckin' bitch cunt,” Alejandro Diego fumed, pacing up and down the polished white marble floor of his luxury penthouse located on the Wilshire Corridor in L.A. “I got people telling me she's trying to get Frankie fucking Romano to spill on me. You know what my father would say? That they both got to be dealt with, an' my papi is always right.”

“Pablo's not here,” Rafael, Alejandro's right-hand man, pointed out. “Pablo's in Colombia.”

Alejandro's nostrils flared, indicating his sour anger. “You think I don't know that?” he steamed. “You think I'm a fool?”

“You should never have become involved with Frankie,” Rafael said in his best I-told-you-so voice. “I tried to warn you he was bad news. The problem is that you never listen.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Alejandro spat. “How come you're always the voice of doom? What is it with you?”

“Your lawyer says you're safe for now,” Rafael said, remaining calm, even though he had an urge to smash Alejandro in his dumbass face.

“My lawyer doesn't know shit,” Alejandro muttered. “It's
my
opinion that matters, and
I
say that Frankie needs taking care of before he opens his big mouth. As for that attorney bitch, take care of her, too. You
know
she's trying to get me indicted, so why aren't you doing something?”

“I am,” Rafael said quietly.

“What?” Alejandro demanded.

“You'll see. There is a plan in motion.”

Alejandro turned on Rafael with a vicious expression. “It better be good,” he threatened.

“It will be.”

Alejandro was the privileged son of Pablo Fernandez Diego, a feared Columbian drug lord, who ruled an empire. And Rafael was the lowly son of Eugenia, Pablo's housekeeper. The two men had grown up together.

Eugenia, a comely woman, had cared for both boys as if they were brothers, and many people suspected that they were, for Eugenia had no husband or significant other. The only man in her life was Pablo, whom she doted upon.

Pablo Fernandez Diego was not only a major drug lord, he was also a notorious womanizer. Married three times to a trio of beauty queens, he entertained an endless parade of mistresses. After business, sex was his favorite pastime.

Alejandro's mother had died in a tragic car accident when he was a baby, so the only mother figure he'd known was Eugenia. He had no siblings—maybe Rafael, although neither Eugenia nor Pablo would admit that Rafael
was
his actual brother, which suited him fine. Alejandro took pride in the fact that
he
was the chosen one who would eventually inherit Pablo's huge drug empire. Rafael had no inheritance rights.

At twenty-nine the two of them were a month apart in age—Rafael being the oldest. They'd attended school together, hung out together, screwed the same girls, and finally completed their education at UCLA in California, where Rafael had spent most of his time clearing up Alejandro's messes. Over time there were many—from several girls Alejandro had gotten pregnant to a major cheating scandal.

Alejandro had fallen in love with the American way of life, and after returning to Pablo's ranch in Bogotá for a couple of years, working in the family business, he'd persuaded his father that there was more money to be made if Pablo appointed him in charge of trafficking cocaine and other illegal shipments to California.

“I already have people in place who are taking care of that,” Pablo had informed him. “Everything's running smoothly.”

“I know,” Alejandro had replied, working on Pablo as only he could. “But do not forget, Papi, that
I
am family, so who better to trust?”

After a while Pablo had agreed that it wasn't such a terrible idea. If his son wanted power, perhaps it would be prudent to give him a small taste. Eventually he'd arranged for Alejandro to make the move to the U.S.—as long as Rafael accompanied him, and the two of them worked with the people Pablo already had in place.

Rafael had balked at the thought of leaving. He now had a young girlfriend, Elizabetta, who'd recently given birth to a baby boy, and he had no wish to leave them. However, Pablo insisted—and when Pablo insisted, nobody dared to argue, not if they valued their life.

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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 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 more than 500 million copies of her books sold in more than forty countries, and with some thirty
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 unrivaled insider's 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.” You can sign up for email updates
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