Poor Little Bitch Girl Read online

“Speaking of the hotel, how’s everything going?” Bobby asked, glancing at his watch, thinking it was time to hit the road.

  “Thriving. We’re completely booked out. Even Gino gets off on visiting, so I’ve allotted him his own special suite. You should see him, Bobby. That man is king of the pool – everyone loves him. Men, women – especially women – he’s such a dog.”

  Grandfather Gino Santangelo. Once a notorious figure in Las Vegas back in the Meyer Lansky, Bugsy Siegal days when Vegas was just beginning. Gino who’d built major hotels, fought off vicious rivals, bedded hundreds of women, and created an empire. Now he was ninety-seven years old and still active, with a much younger wife (his fourth) and a true zest for living.

  “Tell him hi from me,” Bobby said. He was quite in awe of his amazing grandfather. Gino Santangelo was a force of nature.

  “Tell him yourself,” Lucky responded. “The old man’s planning a trip to New York.”

  “No kidding? Jeez – I’d better start lining up a shitload of action. Strippers . . . hookers . . .”

  “Paige will be thrilled to hear how excited you are,” Lucky said dryly, mentioning Gino’s current wife.

  They both laughed.

  “By the way,” Lucky added, “Max is desperate to talk to you.”

  “Where is Little Sis?”

  “Max is not so little any more, Bobby.”

  “Yeah, I can believe that.”

  “And right now she’s probably out with yet another horny boyfriend.”

  “How many horny boyfriends does she have?” he asked, amused.

  “As many as she can get,” Lucky replied with a resigned sigh.

  “Okay, so I’ll give her a call later.”

  “Do that. I have a feeling she’s ready to take off on her own, and there’s no way I can stop her. She’s saying a flat-out no to college and anything else we suggest.”

  “Face it, Mom, she’s a wild one, exactly like you.”

  “I had to fight for my survival,” Lucky said, frowning at the memory.

  “Heard it all before. I’ll definitely call Max. You stay out of trouble.”

  “Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Stay cool, Mom.”

  “Yes, Bobby,” Lucky drawled sarcastically. “Whatever you say.”

  Bobby grinned. His mom was something else. Still insanely beautiful and ready to take on anybody and anything. Lucky walked through life her way, and woe betide anyone who tried to stop her.

  Max, his about-to-be eighteen-year-old half-sister, was the mirror-image of Lucky. A straight-talking beauty, unafraid of anything, she was bold, sassy, and kind of street smart. Even though Lucky and Lennie had tried to protect her, she’d never allowed herself to be fenced in, not even after a life-changing kidnapping a couple of years ago when she was only sixteen. Like Lucky, Max took no prisoners.

  Bobby knew that she was desperate to come to New York and move in with him – she’d dropped enough hints. But he wasn’t looking for a room-mate. And he certainly had no intention of being responsible for her. Little Sis was too much like hard work.

  She’d visited him a year earlier, a few weeks after graduating high school. She’d arrived all set to party – a total wild thing. He shuddered at the memories. Every guy in the club had started checking her out – especially Frankie. Bobby had soon found himself desperate to ship her back to L.A. before she got herself into real trouble.

  Yeah – a repeat performance was not on his agenda. Babysitting a teenager was hardly his thing.

  Still . . . Max was an extraordinary girl, very special. And he had to admit that he did miss her. On occasion . . .

  Chapter Five

  Annabelle

  Assignation:

  Teenage boy

  Time:

  4:00 p.m.

  Place:

  The Four Seasons

  Room:

  Penthouse suite

  Boy’s name:

  Omar

  On the way up in the elevator, Annabelle smoothed down the bottom half of her silk dress. The material felt sensuous and rich against her skin. She wore no undergarments – just the slip of a dress, her honey-colored fox-fur coat, and spike-heeled Christian Louboutin short boots.

  Before arriving at the door to the boy’s suite she slipped on a satin eye-mask, the trademark move of all her girls. Not that she was a recognizable face like most of the girls who worked for her, but she’d soon realized that mystery was everything.

  The moment she placed the mask over her eyes it transported her to another zone – an exciting place where she became Belle Svetlana – a woman with no history, a woman who was light years away from Annabelle Maestro, the unknown and unnoticed daughter of two famous movie stars.

  The door to the suite was flung open by a twenty-something fat creature wearing baggy rapper clothes with multiple gold and diamond chains hanging from his neck, sinister oblique wraparound shades, diamond stud earrings and an elaborate tattoo of a dragon covering his forearm.

  Annabelle was thrown. There was not supposed to be anyone else present, she’d made that perfectly clear to Sharif Rani.

  “Omar is expecting me,” she said, imagining that this creature must be the boy’s bodyguard.

  “I know,” the man cackled. “I am Omar.”

  “That’s impossible,” she said, somewhat nonplussed. “There’s no way you’re fifteen.”

  Letting forth another manic cackle, he reached forward, grabbed her wrist and hauled her into the suite, almost knocking her off-balance.

  “Fifteen an’ way ready for some hot steamy action,” he guffawed, kicking the door shut with his Nike-clad foot. “We’re gonna get it on, beeitch. I bin waitin’ all day.”

  * * *

  If there was one thing Frankie Romano knew about his girlfriend, Annabelle, it was that she hated cell phones, always had. In fact, she hated phones altogether. It bothered her that with a phone in her purse, anyone could reach her at any time. Frankie often told her that she was crazy, since he was never without his iPhone and his BlackBerry – both of which he used constantly. But Annabelle was adamant. No cell phone for her, she preferred voice mail, on her home phone, which she hardly ever checked.

  “What if there’s an emergency?” Frankie often asked.

  “Then I’ll deal with it when I get home,” she always replied.

  So after Frankie checked into the hotel and caught the news of Gemma Summer’s murder on TV, there was no way he could reach Annabelle. She was locked away somewhere with a fifteen-year-old Arab kid teaching him the joys of sex. Meanwhile her mother had been shot to death in L.A.

  This was obviously the emergency he’d always worried about.

  Damn Annabelle for refusing to carry a phone. She was a stubborn one, always insisting that she wanted things her way. Usually he didn’t object, but today was something else.

  He tried to remember if she’d mentioned where the assignation was taking place, but they’d both been joking about it so much that he couldn’t recall. All he could remember was that they were pocketing thirty thousand dollars for her to have a quick sex romp with a teenager which would probably last all of three minutes.

  “Find out if he’s got a sister,” Frankie had quipped. “I’ll do her for the same price.”

  “You will so not!” Annabelle had retaliated, exhibiting her fiery jealous streak. As far as she was concerned it was okay for her to service a client or two if they paid enough, but Frankie with another woman? No way.

  Frankie was well aware of the house rules, therefore he never pushed it. Why rock the latest Ferrari he’d recently purchased?

  “Shit!” he muttered. What exactly was he supposed to do? He was in Atlantic City with the guys, and he knew that if he reached Annabelle with the news, she’d expect him to rush right home.

  Not that he wasn’t into her – she was the greatest. How many other women would embrace the business they’d embarked on with such unbridled enthusiasm? And partic
ipate when the money was right?

  But he was on a fun trip, and it wasn’t as if Annabelle was close to her mom. In fact, from the few times she’d mentioned her famous mother it was quite the opposite.

  It occurred to him that since Gemma Summer’s untimely death was all over the TV, he didn’t have to be the one to tell her. She’d find out soon enough, and when she finally called him, he could make out that he hadn’t heard.

  Yeah, that would work. Especially if he turned off his phone for a while so that he could at least enjoy a few hours of freedom.

  Frankie always had an answer for everything.

  Determined to put the news from L.A. out of his mind, he rejoined M.J. and Bobby in the casino.

  “Where were you, man?” M.J. asked, indicating an empty seat at the blackjack table.

  With his shaved head, dazzling white teeth and friendly brown eyes, women found M.J. irresistible, even though he was on the short side. They all wanted to mother him – although once he got them into bed, mothering him was the last thing on their minds. M.J. had hidden talents.

  “Takin’ a crap,” Frankie announced, eliciting a disapproving glare from an elderly woman at the far end of the table.

  “I’m losing my ass, while Bobby’s cleanin’ up,” M.J. griped.

  “Bobby always cleans up,” Frankie grumbled, sitting down at the table. “It’s in his genes.”

  Taking his eyes off the dealer’s cards for one swift moment, Bobby shot Frankie a devastating grin. “Sit. Play,” he commanded. “I need someone at this table who knows what he’s doing.”

  “Jeez!” M.J. complained, rolling his eyes. “I’m tryin’ to work it here, an’ that’s the thanks I get?”

  Frankie passed money to the dealer in exchange for chips. “I’m in,” he muttered.

  Bobby shot him another look. “Wipe your nose,” he said, sotto voce. “You look like you fell into a vat of baby powder. I don’t get why you’re so into that shit.”

  Automatically Frankie ran his hand across his nose. It pissed him off big-time that Bobby refused to indulge. Without the coke to keep him elevated, Frankie himself simply couldn’t function.

  He’d started hanging out with Bobby and M.J. when he’d deejayed at their club a year ago. M.J. had hired him to work several private parties, and it didn’t take long before he and Bobby discovered they happened to be sleeping with the same girl – Serenity – a sleek and overly confident bitch. She’d thought she was playing them, but when they’d discovered they were both in bed with her, they’d bonded – even though they hailed from totally different backgrounds.

  Bobby came from money, money, money, while Frankie was the son of a timid mother and a tough Italian Chicago union boss who used to beat the crap out of both of them, until, at the age of fifteen he’d tried to defend his mom, and his dad had beaten him so badly he’d had to be taken to the hospital. Two weeks later, he’d said goodbye to his mother, made a midnight run for freedom with seventy bucks in his pocket, and headed straight for New York. He’d never looked back, although he often fantasized about returning home and putting a bullet right between his dad’s eyes. He might seem cool on the outside, but within Frankie lurked a simmering deadly anger.

  “This game is shit,” he complained after losing four times in a row.

  M.J. agreed, he wasn’t doing well either, while Bobby was continuing to rake it in.

  “Hey,” Bobby said, tossing the dealer a generous hundred-dollar chip. “If you guys aren’t into it, let’s split. I got no problem with that.”

  “Finally!” Frankie exclaimed, pushing his chair away from the table, feeling only vaguely guilty that he wasn’t on a fast track back to New York to be by Annabelle’s side.

  What the hell – he wasn’t about to give up a night out with the guys. And maybe a girl or two, because when Annabelle wasn’t around . . . who knew what the evening would bring.

  * * *

  Annabelle was overcome with feelings of deep apprehension. This huge sweating hulk in the would-be rap-star outfit and insane tattoo was hardly the young innocent Arab boy she’d been expecting. He wasn’t Middle Eastern, he was all American. And he certainly wasn’t fifteen.

  She did not appreciate the way he hauled her into the suite and almost threw her down onto a large couch.

  “You can’t possibly be Sharif Rani’s son,” she said, gathering her composure, while in her mind she was busy planning a fast exit. No sex with this big lout. No sirree.

  “You doubtin’ me, beeitch?” he shot back belligerently, planting himself in front of her, massive legs widely spread. “My old man paid you up front, an’ he dint pay you to ask no dumb questions. So get your fuckin’ clothes off an’ let’s get it on.”

  “There’s been a very big mistake,” she said, managing to keep her cool.

  “What fuckin’ mistake would that be?” he snarled, folding his arms across his burly chest. “You got your money, didntcha?”

  Yes, she had gotten the stacks of cash delivered early that morning by one of Sharif Rani’s minions. The money was even now inside her safe.

  “I said there’s been a mistake,” she repeated. “I need to speak to your . . . uh . . . father.”

  “Y’know what?” he said, smirking lustfully. “Soon’s we get it on, beeitch, y’can talk all ya want.”

  And with those words he dropped his pants, revealing multiple rolls of dimpled white fat around his middle, and lower down, a small, angry, uncircumcised penis pointed in her direction.

  Annabelle had never been caught in a situation like this before, although sometimes she’d heard stories of bad behavior from her girls. There was the family TV star who was into strangulation and nearly went all the way with one unfortunate girl. There was the rock star with a sudden urge to inflict extreme pain. There was the soul singer who attempted to involve a child before his “date” walked out on him. Oh yes, she’d heard many things, but she’d never personally experienced a difficult situation.

  Now that situation was here, and how was she supposed to handle it?

  “Suck my dick,” Omar commanded, thrusting his penis toward her. “Suck it hard.”

  “Oh no,” she said firmly, struggling to get up from the couch. “This is not going to happen.”

  “That’s what you think!” he roared. And before she could get to her feet, he fell on top of her, jamming his penis into her mouth, at the same time ripping the front of her dress and exposing her breasts.

  She would’ve screamed if it was possible. But it wasn’t.

  Omar was on a roll, and he obviously had no intention of backing off.

  Chapter Six

  Denver

  Shaking hands with Ralph Maestro was not a pleasant experience, since his hand was big, meaty and slick with sweat.

  Not a flicker of recognition crossed his big bland face as he shook my hand. But why should it? There’s no reason he’d remember me. After all, why would a big movie star like Ralph Maestro remember a scrawny little kid from Chicago who’d hung out with his daughter many years ago?

  “Sorry for your loss,” I murmured respectfully. Hey – whether he’d done it or not, as part of his future defense team I had to hope he was innocent.

  “Thanks,” he muttered, practically ignoring me as he turned quickly to Felix. “Is this your secretary?” he asked, cracking his knuckles.

  “No,” Felix answered patiently. “Denver is my colleague. She’s an excellent and accomplished associate, and I can personally assure you that she’s a brilliant girl who has done some outstanding work for our firm.”

  Brilliant, outstanding! I preened a little. This was the first time I’ve heard such a positive statement of my talents coming from my boss, although I’m not thrilled that he referred to me as a “girl.” Surely “woman” is more appropriate?

  Ralph Maestro was unimpressed. “She looks awfully young,” he grumbled, hardly a man bent double with grief. “And what kind of name is Denver?”

  It’s my name, a
sshole. So don’t even go there.

  He didn’t, and neither did Felix, who knew better than to do so. We’d had the name discussion a few months after I’d joined the firm. “Maybe you should change your name to something less strange,” Felix had suggested.

  Strange? I’d never considered Denver strange. In fact, I was very fond of my name. According to my parents I’d been named for the city I was conceived in, and Denver suited me just fine.

  The two detectives had left the room, but they remained in the house, huddling in the front hallway, no doubt trying to decide their next move. To arrest or not to arrest. That was the question.

  No weapon. No apparent motive. No witnesses.

  My guess was that they wouldn’t risk it. Ralph Maestro is famous. He has clout. He knows all the right people. And in Beverly Hills having connections means everything.

  “Nothing wrong with being young,” I said brightly, which was probably not a wise thing to say, because after that Mr Maestro froze me out and spoke only to Felix, even when I asked the questions.

  If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s a big fat chauvinist, and even though Ralph Maestro is not fat – still surprisingly buff, actually – he’s an obvious chauvinist.

  I started wondering if he’d done it. Shot his beautiful wife in the face. Killed her beauty and her future.

  Bang. Bang. You’re dead.

  He’d always had a thing about guns. I can recall Annabelle dragging me down to the basement one day where there was a locked room dedicated to his gun collection. Naturally Annabelle was adept at picking the flimsy lock; she was one of those girls who did anything she wanted and always got away with it. And on that particular day she’d been intent on showing off her famous dad’s gun collection.

  I decided it was time to jog Mr Maestro’s memory. What the hell, I certainly had nothing to lose.

  “Uh, Mr Maestro,” I ventured. “Or do you mind if I call you Ralph?”

  He threw me a baleful glance. Yes, he minded, it was written all over his movie-star face.