The Santangelos (21 page)

“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 G
ó
mez 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 heavy 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.”

“Huh?”

“I knew him back in the day,” Beverly continued. “He was a great man.”

“What are you talking about?” Bobby said, alarm sweeping over him. “Has something happened to Gino?”

For a few moments, Beverly almost lost her composure as it occurred to her that Bobby was unaware of the tragedy that had taken place. “He was … uh … shot,” she said at last. “I thought you knew.”

“Gino was
shot
?” Bobby said feverishly. “How the hell would
I
know? I’ve been locked up here all night.”

“I was under the impression that you’d spoken to Lucky. Surely she must have told you?”

“No,” he said, the knot in his stomach becoming unbearable. “I haven’t spoken to anyone. They only allowed me one phone call. All I got was Lucky’s voice mail, so I left a message.”

“I see,” Beverly said.

“Tell me about Gino,” Bobby said urgently. “Is he doing okay? Where was he shot? How serious is it?”

“He’s gone, Bobby,” Beverly said quietly, lowering her voice. “I’m so very, very sorry.”

Realization dawned. Was this woman telling him that Gino was
dead
?

It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. Gino was a survivor—an unstoppable force of nature.

“How did it happen?” he asked, choking back his emotions. “Who did it?”

“Lucky thinks it was a hit. An assailant shot him execution-style while he was out walking with his wife. It was no accident.”

“Jesus
Christ
!” Bobby exclaimed as a black rage overcame him. Here he was stuck in jail for a murder he hadn’t committed. Now Gino was
dead
?
Assassinated
. Was this a conspiracy against the Santangelos? It sure as hell seemed like it was. And he was trapped in jail, unable to do anything.

“You’ve got to get me out of here,” he said forcefully. “My family needs me.”

“I’m on it,” Beverly said, nodding. “I’ve already set up a meeting with the DA, and after the story you’ve told me, I’m almost sure I can get the charges dropped, or at least get you out on bail.”

“When?” he demanded, grief and frustration mixed with a hard cold anger.

“Soon.”

“Soon’s not soon enough,” he said, the words sticking in his throat as he imagined what Lucky must be going through.

“Unfortunately, there are hoops to jump through,” Beverly explained. “The positive news is that I’m tight with the ringmaster, so let’s see if I can speed up the process. Going to the emergency room and getting tested for drugs was the best thing you could’ve done. I’ll be back this afternoon. Hang in there, Bobby. You know that’s what Lucky would want.”

Beverly was right: Lucky would expect him to stay strong.

He thought about Denver. Did she know about any of this? And Max, his kid sister, where was she? Still in Europe? Or had Lucky summoned her home? And how about his two younger brothers. Where were they?

Jesus Christ! So much to deal with, and here he was languishing in jail, unable to do anything.

For the first time in his life, he felt powerless. All the money in the world and yet he couldn’t buy himself out of this one.

He had to believe in Beverly Villiers. He had to get the fuck out.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Sam was standing on her doorstep, surprising Willow, because even though she’d given him her cell number, she hadn’t given him her address, so how had he found her?

Not that she minded. Sam turning up at her house was an excellent omen. It meant that he was indeed interested in her proposal that he write and direct his own movie. Well, not really
his
movie—more like
her
movie. Although what was his movie about anyway? When they’d worked together, she’d had a vague recollection of him telling her it was the story of a young man’s journey toward career and love. Hmm … maybe he could change it to a young woman’s story and she would star alongside Billy Melina.

She’d already placed a call to Eddie Falcon. He’d agreed to meet with her later. This was a good sign, since Eddie was one of the hottest agents in town. During the time he’d represented her, they’d shared many an intimate moment. That is, until he’d informed her he could no longer be her agent due to her latest brush with the law—a stupid incident when, high on drugs and tequila, she’d run over a paparazzo with her car, smashed the asshole’s camera, and spat at the cops when they’d arrived on the scene. It had not been her finest moment.

Anyway, that was back during her days of
really
bad behavior. Now she was clean and sober. Well, kind of sober—not exactly, because life without booze would be boring beyond.

“What’s up?” she asked Sam. “Are you here to tell me that you’ve made a decision?”

“Not exactly,” he said. “Thought you might do me a favor.”

A favor. Oh yes, she’d do him a favor all right, if it meant him getting on board with her project.