Vendetta: Lucky's Revenge (45 page)

THEY’D TAKEN OUT HIS COMPUTER, BUT THEY
hadn’t gotten into his closet.

“What do you have in there?” Donna demanded, angrily pacing around his room. “More filth?”

He knew it was only a matter of time before his stupid mother managed to get into his closet. She’d already searched his room and discovered a couple of joints hidden in his underwear drawer, which, of course, she’d confiscated. She’d yelled some more when she couldn’t open his closet, and had demanded the key.

He’d told her he’d lost it.

She didn’t believe him. “Tomorrow morning I’ll have a locksmith here,” she threatened.

If she ever found his stash of Venus memorabilia and porno magazines, she’d go berserk. He had to smuggle his suitcase out of the house until things cooled down. Maybe if he locked it in the trunk of his car it would be safe.

He scowled. “I dunno what you’re getting so mad about,” he said. “I wrote to Venus Maria as a joke—somebody at school dared me.”

Donna glared at him imperiously, as if he were the worst piece of shit in the world. “Who would dare you to write such vile pornography?”

He shrugged, wishing they’d both get the frig out of his room. “One of the guys. It’s no big deal.”

“It’s a very big deal,” George interrupted, puffed up with his own importance. “The trouble with you, Santo, is that you take no responsibility. You expect everything to be easy. Well, this time you’ve gone too far.”

Who voted that the creep could have a say in his life?

If it weren’t for George trying to show he had balls, everything would’ve been okay by now.

“You’re to stay in your room until we decide what to do with you,” Donna said, throwing in a contemptuous look for good measure.

We? Why was she bringing George into it? He had no say in his life.

The two of them marched out. A couple of tired old fools.

Santo went into his bathroom. He was sick of being bossed around.

Peering at himself in the mirror above the sink, he slicked back his hair with gel. Yes, with the hair off his face, he did look like his father. He was proud he bore such a strong resemblance to Santino.
He
was a true Bonnatti.

He went back into the bedroom, opened his desk drawer, and took out the wedding photograph he kept of his father and mother. Santino and Donatella. The prince and the peasant. She couldn’t even speak English when his dad married her. Santo knew all about her past, in spite of the airs and graces she put on. Santino Bonnatti was a fine man—Santo remembered him well. His dad had bought him expensive clothes, taken him out to ball games and movies, and sometimes to fancy restaurants. The two of them had always done things together.

Sometimes Donatella had tried to tag along. Santino wouldn’t allow it. “Ya gotta know one thing about
women,” his father had taught him. “Keep ’em at home slavin’ in the kitchen where they belong.”

Yes, well…his mother hadn’t stayed at home, had she? She’d changed her appearance with plastic surgery, lost a ton of weight, and turned into a monster. It was like she was
waiting
for Santino to die so she could undergo a transformation and marry his freaking feebleminded accountant.

Now he fully understood why his father had always kept girlfriends.

Oh, yes, he knew about the girlfriends, too. He even remembered the last one’s name—Eden Antonio, a horny blond. Santino had called Eden a business associate, but Santo knew his dad was screwing the ass off her.

It was in the house Santino had bought for Eden that he’d been shot. Boom! Just like that he’d gotten his freaking head blown off.

If Santino were alive, he wouldn’t be locked in his room now.

If Santino had caught him with a girl, he wouldn’t have been punished.

If Santino had found out about the letters, he wouldn’t have thought it was so disgusting.

No. Santino would have laughed. “Leave the boy alone,” he’d have said to Donna. “Get off his fuckin’ case.”

Many times he’d heard Santino say those words to her. She’d rush off into the kitchen muttering Sicilian curses under her breath, later returning to the living room to scream insults at her husband in broken English.

Why was his father dead and not his mother? It wasn’t right. It wasn’t the way it should be.

He unlocked his closet, hastily removing the suitcase filled with his Venus collection. Had to smuggle it out to
his car, lock it in the trunk, then maybe in a couple of days he’d get the opportunity to ask Mohammed to look after it for him.

In the meantime, he hid it under his bed, where she’d already looked.

That done, he suddenly remembered his gun. His twelve-gauge semiautomatic Magnum shotgun. Shit! If she found that, she’d really have a nervous breakdown.

The shotgun was propped in his closet, cleverly hidden behind a bunch of winter clothes. She’d have to search to find it, but knowing his mother, she’d do just that.

Maybe he’d hide the gun in his car, too. Yeah, for now, that was the safest plan.

As soon as they were asleep, he’d make a couple of trips to his car. First he’d take the suitcase, then the shotgun.

He quickly hauled it out of the closet, shoving it under the bed, next to the suitcase.

All he had to do now was wait for them to retire for the night.

Donna never drank, it did not suit her to lose control. Tonight, she was so distressed by Santo’s behavior and the happenings of the last few days that she told her houseman to fix her a vodka martini.

One turned into two, then three.

By the time she sat down to dinner with George, she was swaying slightly and more than a little belligerent.

“Why are you drinking?” George asked, a disapproving note in his voice.

Ha! Like she had to explain herself to George. She’d had enough of him trying to assert himself; it was time to put him back in his place, where he belonged. “None of your business,” she snapped.

“I know it’s upsetting, dear,” George said, attempting to soothe her.

“You have no idea how upsetting it is,” Donna replied bitterly, picking up a glass of red wine and draining it just to spite him. “No idea at all.”

After dinner, George announced he had work to attend to. “There’re some papers you must sign before you leave,” he said.

Was this her lot in life? Men placed documents in front of her and she signed them.

She had the houseman fix her another martini and carried it up to her bedroom. For the last two years she and George had maintained separate bedrooms; it suited her that way. When she wanted sex—which was less and less often—she summoned him. He had no choice in the matter.

She went into her bathroom, stripped off her clothes, and inspected herself in the mirror.

All the liposuction in the world could not bring her flesh back to the way it had been when she was a young girl in Sicily. A young girl…pursued by Furio…the belle of her village. She turned sideways. Not bad. Since she’d lost all that weight, she liked to admire her body, although it was wasted on George; he was no longer the lover he’d been when they were first married. She’d thought having control of a Hollywood studio might lead to more exciting relationships. A movie star wouldn’t be bad. Lucky had a movie star, why shouldn’t she?

The room was spinning, she wasn’t used to drinking. She wasn’t used to losing either.

She ran a hot bubble bath, sat in the tub, martini glass balanced on the side, then she stretched out and reached for the phone.

The phone rang. Lucky picked up. A woman’s voice, thinly disguised, very drunk: “’S’ that you,
bitch?
”

“Who’s this?”

“You…think…you’re so goddamn…clever.”

Lucky tried to stay calm. “Donna?”

“You think you’re…Miss Fucking…Smart-ass.”

Her voice cold, “What do you want?”

“You notta so smart,
bitch
,” Donna said, weaving in and out of her former accent. “Your precious Lennie he’sa dead now. You had a chance to save him, but no…you were too busy with your studio to figure he might still be alive. Ha! You gotta Panther now, I hope you’re happy. This isn’t the end…this is…just the beginning.”

The line went dead.

What was Donna talking about? A chance to save Lennie? There’d been no chance, he’d died in that car crash, nobody could have survived.

Unless he wasn’t in the car…

But he
was
in the car. The doorman had seen him drive off.

They’d recovered the body of the driver, why hadn’t they found Lennie?

Lucky’s mind began racing. Was there something she’d missed?

Screw Donna Landsman. Now she was trying to mess with her brain.

She went upstairs to her bedroom, unlocked the drawer beside her bed, and took out her gun.

Back downstairs.

Another joint.

Several long drags, then she walked outside and sat down, cradling the gun on her lap.

Very soon she’d have to make a decision.

Very soon…

DONNA SNORED LOUDLY. SANTO PUT HIS HEAD
against her bedroom door, listening intently. From the sound of her, she wouldn’t surface until morning, which left only George to avoid.

He crept downstairs, angling himself so he could see into the library. George was busy poring over a stack of papers. If he moved quickly, he could sneak downstairs with his suitcase and gun, and hide them safely in his car before George noticed.

He hurried back upstairs, dragging the suitcase out from under his bed. It was heavy—filled not only with his Venus stuff, but his collection of porno magazines, too.

He sneaked past his mother’s room—still hearing her snoring loud and clear.

Stealthily he started down the stairs, lugging the heavy suitcase behind him. It pained him that he couldn’t keep his collection near him, but the cow had given him no choice.

On the other hand, what did he care about Venus anymore? She was the slut who’d exposed him—shown his letters to other people and humiliated him. Didn’t she realize they were personal? That the private love
messages the letters contained were supposed to be between them?

She’d taken their love and made it into something public and dirty. What a vile bitch.

Halfway down the stairs he tripped and fell. The suitcase burst open, and videos, posters, photos, and magazines came tumbling out.

George emerged from the library and stood at the bottom of the stairs, glaring up at him. “Where do you think
you’re
going?” he said.

“Where the fuck I want,” Santo snarled, lumbering to his feet.

Donna appeared at the top of the stairs and switched the light on. “Whatta going on?” she screeched. “Whatta you doing?”

She sounded like the old Donatella. And she looked like a crazy woman, with her hair standing on end and her smeared makeup. She wore a diaphanous nightgown with nothing underneath. It was not a pretty sight.

“Whatta you got in the suitcase?” she demanded, swaying slightly. “You running away like your sisters? The whores,
putanas
.”

“My sisters aren’t whores,” Santo said, thinking that they’d made the smart choice and gotten out while they could. “They ran to get away from you. You try to control everyone. Well, you can’t control me.”

“Oh, yes, I can,” Donna said, unsteadily making her way down the stairs. “You’re only sixteen. You’re mine—you hear me—
mine
!”

He tried to avert his eyes because he could see right through her nightgown.

She stooped down, picking up one of his porno magazines and throwing it in his face. “You’re sick!” she yelled. “That’s what you are—sick! Justa like your father.”

“I’m glad I’m like him,” he yelled back. “I
want
to be like him.”

“You can get out,” Donna shouted, holding on to the banisters. “I donta care anymore.
GET OUT!
”

“I’m going,” he said, frantically picking up his stuff and attempting to jam it back in the suitcase.

“Leave,” she shouted. “And donta think you’re taking your car. You go in the clothes you stand up in—nothing else. I’ve put up with you long enough.”

“Put up with
me?
” he yelled, outraged at her unfairness. “
I’m
the one who’s put up with you.”

“I mean it,” Donna shrieked. “You’re notta welcome here, Santo. You’re fat and ugly. You’re lazy. You’re scum like your father. DIRTY FILTHY SCUM. You leave tonight.”

Santo looked at George, standing silently at the bottom of the stairs. There was a twisted expression of triumph on the older man’s face. “You heard your mother,” George said with a great deal of satisfaction. “Pack your things and get out.”

Lucky was completely calm. She went back upstairs, took a shower, pulled her hair back into a ponytail, and dressed in a simple black turtleneck, black jeans, and boots. Then she stuck her gun in the waistband of her jeans and left the house.

Donna was playing mind games, and she wasn’t going to take it anymore.

She got into her Ferrari and drove fast, heading in the direction of Donna’s house.

Heading for revenge.

Santo dragged the suitcase back to his room. A red film of fury swam before his eyes—little dancing devils encouraging him to do bad things.

Fat. She’d never called him fat before. Ugly. No way. She’d always told him he was handsome.

YOU’RE DIRTY FILTHY SCUM LIKE YOUR FATHER.

She wasn’t fit to shine Santino’s shoes.

Without really thinking about it, he took the loaded shotgun from under the bed.

Fuck them! Fuck the two of them. They deserved exactly what they were about to get.

He ran out into the hall and burst into his mother’s bedroom.

She was halfway across the room. She turned when she heard him come in. “Whatta you doing…”

Before she could finish the sentence, he lifted the twelve-gauge shotgun, aiming it at her stomach. Then he pulled the trigger.

The blast almost blew her apart. Blood and gore splattered everywhere as she fell to the ground.

A blissful feeling of peace descended over him. As if in a trance, he walked closer, put the gun to her head, and let off another shot.

Then he walked out of the room.

George stood, transfixed, at the bottom of the stairs with a horrified expression, staring up, too shocked to move.

He was easy pickings.

Easy.