The Santangelos (2 page)

A woman was walking toward her. A dark-haired woman wearing frumpy clothes and old-fashioned horn-rimmed glasses. There was something vaguely familiar about her, but Lucky wasn’t sure what it was until the woman pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her.

Oh my God,
Lucky thought, her mind spinning.
It’s Venus!

CHAPTER TWO

BOBBY

It pissed Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos off that his live-in girlfriend, Denver Jones, was never available to travel with him. Even with texting, sexting, and Skype, long separations were no damn good. Oh sure, he understood that Denver was fixated on her job as a high-powered deputy district attorney, but surely just sometimes she could put him first?

Lately she’d been so into the drug case she was working on that even when he was home at their house in L.A., he barely saw her. She was intent to prosecute; he’d never seen her so determined.

This too shall pass,
he told himself.
And when it’s over, I will finally give her the seven-carat Tiffany diamond engagement ring I purchased months ago, and ask her to marry me.

He had to tread carefully with Denver. She wasn’t like the other girls he’d been with.

She was exceptionally smart, beautiful, and a self-achiever. She didn’t want anything from him other than his love, and that suited him just fine, because as the heir to a great shipping fortune, he knew that most women looked at him with dollar signs flashing in their eyes.

Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos, son of the infamous Lucky Santangelo and the late Greek shipping tycoon Dimitri Stanislopoulos. Drop-dead handsome with longish dark hair, intense eyes, and olive skin—all inherited from the Santangelo side of the family. Six foot three, with his father’s strong features and steely business acumen, plus Lucky’s street smarts. An interesting mix.

Without touching his massive inheritance, Bobby had gone into business for himself. He and his partner, M.J., had opened a chain of highly successful nightclubs called Mood. From New York to Las Vegas, Mood was the place to see and be seen.

Currently they were in the process of opening Mood in Chicago, which meant Bobby had a full agenda.

Pacing up and down in his Chicago hotel room, he missed Denver, although at the same time, he was also kind of mad at her. In the course of pursuing a notorious drug cartel, she’d been part of a sting operation that had ended with the arrest of Frankie Romano.

Poor old Frankie—who happened to be a longtime pal of Bobby’s. Unfortunately, Frankie had gotten himself caught up in the so-called glamour of the Hollywood high life. A druggie who’d once been Annabelle Falcon’s boyfriend, Frankie had partnered in a sleazy Hollywood club with the son of a Colombian drug lord, then gotten himself taken down for illegally peddling drugs. The charges against him were distribution and possession—charges that could get him a twenty-year prison sentence. It seemed his operation was connected to a notorious Colombian drug cartel, and Denver was making it her business to find out exactly how. She was relentless in her pursuit.

Bobby had tried his best to persuade her to go easy on Frankie. It hadn’t worked; she’d refused to listen to him. Deep down he’d known she was right. Frankie had been a bad boy, and he deserved to be punished. But such a long jail term? Couldn’t Denver fix it so that Frankie was put on probation for cooperating with the investigation? She had the inside track—why not do it as a favor for him? It was a situation he was not happy with.

M.J. called up from the lobby. “You on your way down?” he asked.

“Be right there,” Bobby answered, checking his watch and realizing that he was running late.

They were headed for the opening night of Mood Chicago. The club was not yet open to the public; this evening was by invite only. VIPs, local celebrities, attention grabbers.

Bobby placed a call to Denver on her cell, but it went straight to voice mail. Grabbing his jacket, he headed downstairs. M.J. was waiting in the lobby.

M.J. was African American, short of stature, handsome—with a shaved head and an endless enthusiasm for all their projects. More outgoing than Bobby, he was the perfect business partner.

Tonight M.J. was all hyped up, looking his usual cool self in a black Armani suit. “It’s gonna be a full house,” he announced when Bobby appeared. “We got all the right faces comin’. The PR we hired has done a fine job.”

Bobby nodded. Their club was looking stellar. And so it should, since they’d spent the last week in Chicago making sure everything was perfect, testing food, drinks, waiters, bartenders, and the couple of hosts who were all set to run the place when they weren’t there.

M.J. had a car and driver waiting outside the hotel. Bobby elected to take his rental car in case he chose to leave earlier.

M.J. shrugged. “Gotta get back to check in with your girl,” he said, his tone lightly mocking. “Man, Denver’s got your ass well whipped. I remember when—”

“Gimme a break,” Bobby interrupted with a friendly grin. “You
wish
you had someone to check in with.”

Since divorcing his pretty but overly ambitious wife, Cassie, M.J. had turned into the perennial bachelor, sampling a parade of random girls at an alarming rate. Bobby realized that it was all bravado. The truth was that M.J. missed Cassie, only he would never admit it.

“Someone, anyone—as if I give a fast fuck,” M.J. said. “Y’see, me, I got it all figured. Variety is where it’s at, an’ you, my man, are missin’ out.”

By the time Bobby arrived at the club, it was already packed. Word was out that Mood was about to be
the
place, and the movers in town were determined to mark their territory, making sure they got the right table and the attention they imagined they deserved.

M.J. was already doing the rounds, stopping by tables, buying drinks, turning on the M.J. charm. He had the knack.

Bobby hovered near the bar. He was in no way as social as M.J.; he was more into the design and financial aspect of the business. But he was well aware that a few personal greetings went a long way, so after one quick shot of vodka, he forced himself into host mode and stopped by a few tables to say hello.

Bobby’s particular brand of charm worked well with both men and women. The women loved getting attention from such an attractive man, while the men related to him because he could talk sports, cars, and cigars, plus he bought every table he stopped by a bottle of champagne. Lucky had taught him that the two golden rules of owning a successful club were remembering the customers’ names, and buying them a drink.

Soon he was into the rhythm of the place, feeling that certain rush he got when everything was moving in the right direction. Mood was set to take over Chicago nightlife—the same way it had in Vegas and New York.

Nursing another vodka, he settled into a corner booth, observing the action and wondering if he should call Denver again.

No. He’d left her a message; it was her turn to call him.

M.J. loped over. “Looks like we got ourselves another winner,” he announced, sitting down next to Bobby. “We’re takin’ over Chicago, man. Bet on it.”

Bobby laughed, and as he did so he caught sight of a young woman descending the staircase into the club. She wasn’t just any woman, she was a Latina version of Michelle Pfeiffer making her entrance in the movie
Scarface
. The woman was a showstopper. A stone-cold beauty in a body-hugging red dress.

M.J. noticed her too. “Are you seein’ what I’m seein’?” he gulped.

“Yeah, I’m seeing it,” Bobby said, attempting not to stare.

“Who the fuck is she?”

“Like
I
would know.”

“Hey, man,” M.J. said, jumping to his feet. “Got me a feelin’ it’s time to find out.”

“Go for it.”

“That’s my main plan.”

Bobby observed as M.J. launched into action, greeting the exotic woman and her escort, a short Latino man with bland features, a scraggly beard, and hard eyes. They did not look like a couple—they looked all wrong together.

M.J. led them to a premier table, ordered them a bottle of champagne, then backed off.

“Who are they?” Bobby asked when M.J. returned to the booth.

M.J. shrugged. “They’re not on the list. I asked our PR, and she doesn’t know them either. But hey, who gives a shit? They can stay. Man, the woman’s a freakin’ ten plus.”

“I can see that. The guy with her—husband? Boyfriend?”

“Dude’s her cousin, an’ that works for me, ’cause I got major plans on movin’ right back in.”

“Sure you do,” Bobby said with a knowing smile.

“Oh yeah,” M.J. said, nodding to himself. “Gonna cool it for now. Make my move later. Watch an’ learn, my man. You’ll see how it’s done.”

Bobby felt his phone vibrate and reached for it. It was about time Denver called him back.

Suddenly the Latina Michelle Pfeiffer clone was merely a distant memory.

CHAPTER THREE

MAX

“More?” Athena Hyton-Smythe inquired, leaning over to her friend Max Santangelo Golden. Athena was tall and ultra skinny—six feet
without
her five-inch Louboutins. She had frizzed-out flame-colored hair, cut-glass cheekbones, cat eyes, and a permanent super-sexy scowl. At twenty, Athena was the current “It” girl of the modeling world, and Max was her sidekick, and on the way to making a name for herself as well. The London gossip columns had nicknamed them the Terrible Two. They had a reputation for all-night partying and always being the leaders of the pack.

“More what?” Max replied, sucking a tall mojito through a straw.

“Whatever turns you on,” Athena said with a casual shrug of her glistening bare shoulders randomly scattered with gold glitter. “Coke, grass, tequila shots, Molly, pills, you name it.” She indicated a heavyset man sitting in their booth downing shots of straight vodka. “This Russian dude is like a freakin’ pharmacy. He’s offering, so we should take advantage while we can. You know I don’t get off on paying for my drugs.”

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 cutoff top, multiple gold chains, ridiculous heels, and tight black leather pants.

Max was just 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 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 Leo, 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 with the whole Billy situation.

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 like so not in the mood for getting high.”

Athena widened her eyes as if 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.

Max and Athena had first met through Athena’s older brother, Tim, in the South of France, where Lucky and Lennie had taken Max on vacation to recover from her short but sweet affair with hot movie star Billy Melina.
Short
was the operative word. Everything between her and Billy had ground to a shattering halt when they’d both been witnesses to a violent robbery where Billy had gotten his cheek slashed defending her while the murder of businessman Armand Jordan had been taking place. This had all happened at Lucky’s hotel complex, the Keys. Billy’s minders had distanced him from Max immediately, whisking him off to the best plastic surgeon in town. And even though Billy had assured Max that they would get back together soon, it had never happened.

Eventually he’d called and told her that his PR team and manager had suggested that they cool it for a while. “You’re so damn young, Green Eyes,” he’d said. “And I’m getting over my divorce from Venus, so you and I being together right now isn’t cool for either of us.”

“I get it,” she’d said. Although she was totally heartbroken, she’d been determined not to crumble.

After that she couldn’t get in touch with him, and he certainly hadn’t reached out to her. Finally, she’d realized that it was definitely over.

Depression overcame her. Wasn’t eighteen too young to experience a broken heart?

Apparently not, for she’d experienced it, all right, and it was extremely painful.

The South of France vacation helped. She’d hooked up with a twenty-two-year-old French guy who turned out to be nothing more than a vacation fling. Her second sexual foray.

He wasn’t Billy.

Nobody was Billy.

After a couple of miserable months back in L.A. lurking around doing nothing, she’d run into Athena at a party, and Athena had invited her to come stay with her in London.

“Endless fun and games,” Athena promised. “We can do anything we want.”

“I’m on it,” Max enthused. “Can’t wait.”

The next morning she’d informed Lucky and Lennie that she was thinking of moving to London for a while. They couldn’t stop her; she was eighteen. Lucky encouraged her to go do her own thing. Lucky was all into girls being strong and independent. Lennie—not so much. In his mind, Max was still his little girl, and he wasn’t sure he wanted her roaming the world. But Max was determined, so off she went.