The Santangelos (50 page)

“Maybe you’re right,” she said, forcing herself to sound calm, but filled with uncertainty because she had such a strong hunch that this two-bit king from a foreign country was in some way responsible for Gino’s murder. “Anyway,” she added. “Do me a favor and go be with the kids while I check on a couple of things.”

“What things?” Lennie asked, exasperated. “You know it’s time to get the service started. We can’t keep everyone waiting.”

“I’ll be right there,” she said, remaining calm, but seething inside.

Lennie left and Ian arrived—having been summoned by Chris.

Ian took one look at their severe faces and realized that something was up.

“Shouldn’t the service be starting now?” Ian said. “I am informed that all the guests are seated and everything is ready to go.”

“What time did King Emir leave the hotel?” Chris asked curtly.

Ian hesitated for a moment, sensing trouble ahead. He should’ve informed Chris that the king was still in residence, only it hadn’t seemed that important.

“The … uh … king and a few of his people decided to stay,” Ian said, nervously clearing his throat. “However, not to worry. His man, Faisal, assured me that they will not be leaving their accommodations. The king understands that a private funeral is taking place. He will not disturb us.”

“A private funeral of which he has a bird’s-eye view,” Lucky pointed out. “I’m sure you’re aware that the penthouse suites overlook the gardens where the service is taking place. Did he request those rooms?” she added sharply.

Ian tried to remember. As the general manager, he didn’t usually deal with normal bookings, but yes—he did recall that the king’s travel representative had been very explicit about the king and his entourage occupying the penthouse floors.

“Yes. His man, Faisal, was here ahead of time to make sure the accommodations were exactly what King Emir required,” Ian said.

Lucky experienced a shudder of apprehension. “What date did they arrive?” she asked, although she was pretty sure that she already knew the answer.

Ian checked his computer and told her the date. It was the same day Gino was shot. Of course it was, and she didn’t have to look it up to know that Gino’s murder had taken place exactly one year after Armand had met his end in her hotel.

Why hadn’t she thought about this before? Why hadn’t she put King fucking Emir on Gino’s enemy list?

Because there was no reason for her to have done that. She wasn’t responsible for Armand’s death; he’d been targeted by someone else.

Only the king didn’t know that, and now it seemed that he held
her
responsible, which is why he could’ve ordered Gino’s murder—to punish her, although surely
she
should have been the target?

Perhaps she still was. Something was coming. What devious plan had been put into motion?

She turned to Chris, certain that she was on the right track. “It might be smart to get everybody out of here,” she said, her voice low and steady.

“That’s impossible,” Chris replied. “There are four hundred of your guests on the premises. What’s the threat? Tell me and I’ll take care of it.”

“If I knew, I’d tell you. But Chris, something’s about to go down. Something big. I can feel it. We should try to move everybody.”

“Move them where?”

“Anywhere away from here.”

“People will panic. You know that.”

“They’ll panic even more if anything happens.”

“Like
what
?”

“I’m sure this king person has something planned.”

“You really think so?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then I suggest we pay the man a visit and find out exactly what it is.”

Lucky nodded, her face grim. “Let’s go.”

*   *   *

King Emir Amin Mohamed Jordan was comfortably seated on the penthouse terrace overlooking the sea of people gathered below. His grandson Tariq sat beside him. On a glass table between them sat a two-way radio device and a cell phone. The king had ordered Tariq to touch neither of them.

It was a beautiful day—a perfect day, in fact, and as soon as the ceremony began it would be even better.

Tariq was an impatient boy. He asked too many questions. He wanted to know why he couldn’t have left with the others. He wanted to know what they were waiting for.

“You will see,” King Emir said, resplendent in a flowing headdress and a floor-length white robe, the hem decorated with intricate gold and silver embroidery. “You will understand.”

“Understand
what
?” Tariq argued.

“You will finally understand the meaning of retribution.”

Tariq didn’t understand at all. He was anxious to return to Akramshar and show off his new toys to his friends. He had in his possession the latest iPads and iPhones, and stacks of CDs, DVDs, and video games, plus all his downloaded music. American car magazines, American girlie magazines, and suitcases packed full of the hottest running shoes, sweatshirts, hoodies, and baggy pants. It was only on formal occasions at the palace that he had to wear the traditional long robe—other than at those times, he much preferred to run around in Western clothes. Tariq had fallen in love with America, and he had thoughts to persuade his grandfather to allow him to attend an American college. His father, Armand, had been hugely successful in the United States, and Tariq wished to follow in his father’s footsteps. Even better, his grandmother was American, so he could live with her.

“Why are we still here when everybody else has left?” Tariq asked for the third time.

The king was getting tired of the boy’s questions. Way below him he could see all the guests assembled for Gino Santangelo’s funeral ceremony. He beckoned Faisal and asked why there was a delay, why things weren’t starting.

Faisal shrugged. He didn’t know why. “Soon, my king,” he said, bowing slightly. “Very soon.”

*   *   *

The two young men, Nazeem and Salman, had been working in the kitchen at the Magiriano for the past nine months. Both in their early twenties, they were polite and extremely hard workers—unlike some of the other kitchen help who were constantly moaning and groaning about anything and everything.

Nazeem and Salman kept to themselves; they did not mix. Occasionally one of their coworkers would attempt to lure them out with promises of girls, booze, and strippers. Partying did not interest either of them. They had let it be known that it was against their religion to smoke, drink, or fornicate, unless the sex was with a woman who was their wife. According to them, they were in America to save money until they had enough to return to their homeland, where they both claimed to have a fianc
é
e waiting.

Executive chef Kurt Schaefer, originally from Switzerland, was pleased that he had a couple of dedicated workers in his kitchen. He found most of the American help to be lazy and slapdash. He preferred hiring foreigners, who never complained about the long hours they were asked to work.

They’d started out as general kitchen help, but Chef Kurt had soon promoted Nazeem and Salman. They appreciated their promotions, working twice as hard as anyone else. Chef Kurt had grown to trust and depend on them.

Now, today of all days, with the funeral service taking place, followed by an elaborate party, they were late.

Chef Kurt was livid. This was no day for them to let him down when they were both supposed to be on duty—helping with the hors d’oeuvres and buffet tables in the grand ballroom.

Chef Kurt stomped around his kitchen and hoped they would turn up soon, for when they did, he had a few choice words waiting.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

On the way up to the penthouse suites in the elevator with Chris and an agitated Ian, Lucky called Lennie.

“What’s going on?” he asked, sounding annoyed. “The crowd is getting antsy. They’re not used to sitting around waiting. Everyone’s expecting you, Lucky. We gotta get the service started.”

“I told you—I’m looking into something,” she said. “And I was thinking you might want to get the kids out of there.”

“You can’t be serious,” he said. “Do you really expect me to get up and walk the family out of here for no reason?”

“Why not?”

“Come on, Lucky, you’re being paranoid. And for your information, Max is not here, and Danny tells me that she and her boss never checked into the Four Seasons last night. So if you want to look into something—look into that.”

“I’ll call you back,” she said abruptly as the elevator stopped at the penthouse floor.

Now she had something else to worry about. Max really was on the missing list, and that wasn’t good. Could this be part of King Emir’s plan? Because she was now absolutely positive that he had one.

If anything happened to Max …

Two security guards were stationed outside the doors to the main Presidential suite, both dark-skinned men with full beards. They wore formal suits and stony expressions.

“We’re here to see King Emir,” Chris said, flashing his detective badge as he approached them.

The two men exchanged glances before the taller one stepped forward and said, “Our king is not receiving.”

“I don’t give a fuck about what your king is doing,” Chris responded, his friendly demeanor long gone. “This is urgent hotel business.”

A nervous Ian hovered behind him while Lucky assessed the situation. Were the guards armed? Possibly. Were they prepared to use their weapons? Possibly not. If they were in their own country, they wouldn’t hesitate, but here in America they would think twice.

She moved toward the door. One of the guards put his hand on her shoulder, pushing her back.

She spun around, eyes dark and deadly. “Don’t you
dare
touch me,” she spat. “I own this hotel, and I can have you all thrown out. I am here to speak to King Emir about his son Armand, so let me through or you will live to regret it.”

For a woman to speak to them in such a way was a disgrace. If she was in Akramshar, she would be stoned to death for speaking so boldly.

But this wasn’t Akramshar, this was America, and they had been warned to be polite and stay out of trouble.

Lucky moved toward the door of the presidential suite again, and this time nobody tried to stop her.

*   *   *

“What is going on?” Senator Richmond snapped at his security detail. “Why isn’t this service progressing? I’m getting goddamn tired of sitting around.”

“I’m sorry, Senator,” the man replied. “The word is they’re waiting for Ms. Santangelo.”

Lucky Santangelo,
Senator Richmond thought.
Of course it’s her holding everything up
.
It would be.

How he loathed his former daughter-in-law. She’d never conformed to what he’d expected of her. From the moment she’d married Craven and moved into their house in Washington, she’d been nothing but trouble. Damn Gino Santangelo for forcing the little bitch into their lives. Gino had wanted to get rid of her, and Peter Richmond soon understood why. Teenage Lucky was willful and full of big ideas; she’d had no intention of settling down and giving Craven a family. The divorce had been a blessing as far as Peter was concerned.

Today Gino was gone, and Peter’s big worry was the whereabouts of the incriminating photos Gino had held over him all these years. Did Lucky have them? Would she use them if it served her purpose?

He was in Las Vegas—a city he hated—at Gino’s memorial service because he had to find out. He was ready to make a deal with Lucky to retrieve the photos, and this had seemed like the perfect opportunity to talk to her.

Now she was keeping everyone waiting. Showing all the important people who was the boss.

All these years later nothing had changed. She was
still
a little bitch.

*   *   *

Paige was busy being social. There was nothing she liked better. And not having to share the limelight with Lucky was a definite plus. The downside was the blowup photo of Gino and Maria up on the podium for all to see. Damn Lucky for doing that. She, Paige, was Gino’s widow. It should have been
her
with Gino, not his long-dead wife.

Lucky was a conniving cow, and Paige hated her.

Hovering beside Paige, Bud Pappas was in his element. His star might be long past, but everyone remembered him with great fondness. He was very happy to be there.

Venus bent down to kiss Bud on the cheek, telling him that she’d grown up listening to his music because her mom had been such a big fan. Venus’s scent was so seductive that poor old Bud almost keeled over.

Eddie Falcon had moved in on Nick Angel in the hope of scoring him as a client, while Annabelle chatted with Bobby about how excited she was to be pregnant.

Harry flirted with Danny. Cookie flirted with Charlie Dollar, who in spite of being old enough to be her grandfather still had it going on.

Forty-something Gerald M. entertained his twenty-something Russian girlfriend with promises of all the important people she would get to meet at the party following the service. His girlfriend, a model, bared her large white teeth and gave a knowing smirk. She’d already spotted Jack Python, and as far as she was concerned,
h
e would be the man of her future.

Lennie cornered Bobby, rescuing him from Annabelle. “Your mom’s on a crazy trip,” he muttered. “She seems to think something’s about to go down.”

“Hey,” Bobby replied. “If we don’t get this thing started soon, something
will
go down. In case you haven’t noticed, the natives are getting restless.”

“I can see that,” Lennie said. “She wants me to get the kids out of here.”

“Why would she want you to do that?”

“Who knows with Lucky.”

“That’s true.”

“I’m more worried about Max,” Lennie continued, shaking his head. “Where the hell is she?”

“You checked her phone?”

“It’s dead.”

“How about her boss? You reached him?”

“As soon as we get out of here, I’m on it.”

“Maybe she ran off and got married,” Bobby said lightly. “After all, this is Vegas, and you know our Max—she’s a little Lucky. They’re two of a kind.”