Goddess of Vengeance (35 page)

‘Thank you,’ Venus said graciously.
And where the hell are my bodyguards when I need them?
She quickly glanced over at their table. The morons were actually eating, and had not noticed she was under attack. Security. What a crock.

‘You must get a ton of attention,’ the woman gushed. ‘What with your divorce an’ all, an’ your husband – or should I say your ex – sittin’ over there. An’ him bein’ a young man still. An’ – oh,’ she looked directly at Jorge. ‘Is this your son?’

Alex burst out laughing.

Venus was speechless with fury. At which point one of her bodyguards stumbled over – red in the face – placed a controlling arm on the woman’s shoulder, and moved her swiftly away.

Alex was still chuckling. Jorge looked casual, as if he didn’t know what was going on, although of course he did.

‘I think it’s time to leave,’ Venus said, cold as ice.

Was Billy really here? In this restaurant?

Damn him. What exactly was he doing in Vegas?

Chapter Thirty-Eight

H
yped up on too much coke and ready for action, Armand took a stroll through the casino while he waited for the prostitutes he’d ordered. He was in need of some kind of sexual release while he decided how he was going to deal with the Santangelo bitch.

His surroundings did not please him. The Cavendish was a shit-hole compared to The Keys.

And why was he staying in a shit-hole?

Because of Fouad and Mother Peggy – the whore mother of all time.

It all made sense to him now. Peggy might dress in fancy clothes and stink of expensive perfume, but when the King had discovered her she was probably a prostitute like all the rest of them.

After a while he approached a roulette table, and threw down several thousand dollars. In exchange he received a stack of high-denomination chips from an eager croupier.

A steely-eyed Pit Boss stepped forward and offered to open a private table for his pleasure.

Armand nodded. No need to mix with the sweaty masses. He abhorred crowds.

Roulette was not his usual game of choice, but tonight he felt like playing a different game. Tonight he had a strong feeling that one way or the other he would force Lucky Santangelo’s hand. He didn’t know how, but it
would
happen, because
he
was all-powerful. Lucky Santangelo might think she had won, but what she didn’t realize was that Armand Jordan was invincible.

The more he thought about her, the more he hated her. She was a witch with her dark hair and evil, blacker-than-night eyes. The words that had spewed forth from her mouth were unacceptable. She was the devil incarnate. A morally corrupt whore with a black heart.

And then it suddenly came to him like a blinding flash of lightning. SHE DID NOT DESERVE TO LIVE.

The thought struck him like a meteor – a fast-moving meteor that illuminated his mind – told him what he had to do.

Lucky Santangelo had to die. There was no doubt about it.

*   *   *

Peggy immediately realized that Gino Santangelo did not remember her, and even though he was quite spry for a ninety-something old man, she was surprised he managed to remember anything at all. She felt sorry for Paige who was decades younger than her husband. At least Sidney had died before she had been stuck with nursemaid duties. What a nightmare that would’ve been. Nurse Peggy. Not her calling in life.

Actually she hadn’t expected Gino to remember her. Why would he? According to his reputation he’d had thousands of girls. And such as the circumstances were now, it was better that he didn’t recall their one night of fevered lovemaking. As far as Gino Santangelo was concerned, she was a friend of his wife’s. Paige had kindly invited her to join them for a quiet dinner at François, and she’d been delighted to accept.

Peggy was embarking on an exciting mission; it gave her mundane existence new meaning. She’d dressed for the occasion. A Valentino cocktail dress. Black Louboutins. Tasteful jewellery. And a large Hermès purse where she hoped to stash the evidence she was about to procure. A strand of his hair, his cocktail glass, anything she could get her hands on.

Gino made it easy for her. Fifteen minutes into the dinner he experienced a major sneezing fit and blew his nose into a napkin. Usually Peggy considered men who did that complete social outcasts, but tonight she was thrilled.

However, there was a problem – how to manoeuvre the soiled napkin into her purse before the waiter came over and spirited it away?

Like a true amateur detective the answer came to her. Without even thinking about it she nudged her martini glass so that its contents spilled across the table and onto Gino’s lap. Confusion ensued, during which Peggy managed to stuff the napkin into her purse. Mission accomplished!

Peggy experienced a moment of deep satisfaction, and even deeper excitement. After all these years spent wondering who Armand’s real father was, soon the suspense could be over.

Earlier that evening she’d visited the computer centre at her hotel and Googled Joe Piscarelli. He too was still alive, and had obviously prospered, for he owned a chain of car dealerships and several gentlemen’s clubs. Joe was not as old as Gino Santangelo – nor was he buried in the desert as she’d imagined. Obviously he’d gotten over his criminal tendencies and gone legitimate. He was now a married man with two grown children and two successful businesses.

Peggy had not yet decided how she would approach him and obtain a DNA sample. Right now, Gino was all she could manage.

*   *   *

The girl’s name was Luscious. She was twenty-two and well jaded for one so young. She’d been around the block countless times, and it showed. Once the prettiest girl in high school in spite of a pronounced over-bite, she was now a strung-out erotic dancer and sometime hooker with a criminal boyfriend, and her own rap sheet for a variety of offences ranging from shoplifting to prostitution and two DUIs. Luscious (formerly Sara Smitton from Oklahoma) couldn’t care less that she had a rap sheet. Her main concern was keeping the attention of her boyfriend, Randy – a former pro-wrestler, con man, petty thug and porn star. Unfortunately for Luscious, Randy possessed a wandering cock – which she didn’t mind when he was using his impressive instrument for work. But she got royally pissed off when she suspected said impressive cock was going elsewhere.

Luscious and Randy. A true Vegas couple, always trying to wriggle out of debt and better themselves, only getting nowhere in a hurry.

Recently things were looking up. Randy had gone into business with his ex-con older brother, Mikey, and started dealing drugs. Mikey procured the product, and Randy was the deliveryman, which suited him fine. Deliver the order, collect the cash, split it with Mikey and
voilà
– money in his pocket.

But all was not so fine as far as Luscious was concerned. She suspected that Randy had a hard-on for Mikey’s wife – a fellow dancer who went by the name of Seducta Sinn (formerly Norma Wilkas from Chicago). Luscious considered Seducta major white trash with her enormous fake tits and out-of-control big ass. They performed alongside each other at Dirty Den’s, and often vied to see who would score the biggest tips. Even though they were banging brothers, in Luscious’s eyes that did not make them friends. However, when Dirty Den himself offered her five-hundred bucks to service a john at The Cavendish hotel, and another five-hundred to take along a ‘friend’, Luscious immediately thought of Seducta. Why not? Fantastic money and a chance to see what tricks Seducta possessed that she didn’t.

Naturally Seducta was up for the gig; she was always complaining that she and Mikey were one step away from the poor house.

Lying douche
, Luscious thought. She was sure that Mikey was cheating Randy out of his fair share of the drug money. Mikey was a slippery character and Luscious didn’t trust him at all. Nor did she trust Seducta, but Randy insisted that Mikey was family and would never cheat him.

Luscious knew a thing or two about family. A mother strung out on crack, a stepfather who was always trying to slip her his limp cock, and an uncle who’d raped her repeatedly when she was twelve.

Family indeed. They’d stab you in the back and bury the corpse if they thought they could get away with it.

*   *   *

Armand placed a ten-thousand-dollar bet on number 11. The roulette wheel spun around and 11 came up. He let his original bet ride, and 11 came up for a second time.

He’d won three-hundred-and-forty-thousand dollars in less than ten minutes. Time to walk away.

Or stay.

It didn’t matter. His winnings meant nothing to him. His mind was racing on overtime. How could he go about hiring a hit man? Was it like in the movies?

No. Of course it wasn’t. He had to be careful and think this through.

He was in Vegas. Anything could be arranged in Vegas.

How much for a hit?

The money was of no consequence. Finding the right person to take care of it was all that mattered.

Where was Fouad? Not that Fouad would approve, he was no longer the loyal lackey Armand depended on. Fouad was a weakling who couldn’t arrange anything.

Armand needed another hit of coke. His mouth was dry, his mind was spinning. After taking a gulp of Scotch from the glass a scantily clad cocktail waitress handed him, he threw a large tip at the croupier and got up. Just as he was about to leave, a girl approached him, a pretty girl in an all-American way. She had long golden-red hair and exceptionally high cheekbones, and acted extremely confident as she slid onto the seat next to him. ‘Armand,’ she said, greeting him as if they were old friends. ‘Long time no see. Are you here for the fights?’

‘What fights?’ he mumbled.

‘Oh please!’ The girl gave a tinkly laugh. ‘I’m sure you have the best seats in the house.’

He had no idea who she was, but she obviously knew him.

‘Not here for the fights,’ he said, getting up from the roulette table.

‘You know,’ the girl said, lowering her voice and leaning toward him, ‘I thought we had a good time together, and yet you never called.’

‘Ah . . .’ he said, trying to recall through a haze of too much coke where it was he’d had her – New York? London? Vegas? Or maybe she was one of the imported call girls who’d been flown in for the King’s birthday in Akramshar. ‘Did I pay you?’

‘Pay me?’ she said, an uncomfortable expression crossing her face. ‘Why would you pay me?’

‘Remind me,’ he said gruffly. ‘What’s your name?’

Instead of being insulted she seemed relieved. ‘Ah, so many women, such a short memory,’ she trilled. ‘Annabelle. Annabelle Maestro.’

And then it came to him. Annabelle, the daughter of Hollywood movie stars – one of them brutally murdered. She’d written a book about it, and about how – for a time – she’d acted as a madam in New York, and for the right price sold herself on occasion.

Sure, he remembered her now. They’d met at a dinner party in New York and he’d had her in the bathroom between courses. She hadn’t minded when he’d ravished her against the cold marble of the vanity. And the next night he’d taken her to the opening of a play, then back to his apartment – where once again the somewhat raunchy sex was consensual.

As far as he could recall she was up for anything, so of course he hadn’t called her. Where was the kick if he couldn’t humiliate her? He hadn’t paid her either. She was obviously under the impression he had not known of her past history.

The woman was a reformed whore. The best kind. Maybe she could help him find what he was looking for.

‘Would you care to join me for a drink, Annabelle?’ he asked, turning to her with a plastered-on smile.

She nodded eagerly.

He had plans for this one.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

A
lthough Denver liked M.J., she wasn’t that comfortable with his young, overly ambitious wife, Cassie. The girl couldn’t stop talking about herself and her burgeoning career – which, as far as Denver could decipher, had failed to take off. She’d had one shot at making a record and a few singing gigs in hotel lounges, but Cassie kept on boasting about how she was about to sign with a new agent – a man who’d promised he could jump-start a fabulous career, making her into the next Rihanna.