"Nobody's gonna help you," the burping drunk offered, leaning unsteadily against the wall of the cell. Verging on sober, the man was morose and red-eyed. "You wanna make a phone call. I wanna get a drink. Guess that means we're both shit outta luck. Tough times, buddy."

Bobby ignored him. He was in no mood to make new friends.

"You really murder someone?" the drunk inquired, lurching off the wall and moving in close. "'Cause if that's the business you're in, I got a cunt of a wife you can take care of. An' I'll pay you plenty of big bucks t' do the job. I'm not as broke as I look."

Bobby backed away from the man's rancid breath.

Was this what his life had come to?

So many people. So many smartly clad men, along with several chic women all perfectly coiffed and made up. Everyone was pulling and prodding at Max while wildly gesticulating and speaking in Italian-a language she wished she knew, because ciao and prego simply didn't cut it.

A razor-thin man zeroed in on her hair, clucking his tongue, while a woman in a tightly belted zebra-print coat studied her face, makeup brushes ready for action.

Thank goodness for Lorenzo. "Don't leave me," she whispered, clutching desperately on to his arm as a hard-faced blonde attacked her with a tape measure, touching every inch of her body as if they were lovers.

The blonde indicated that she wanted Max to do something and stood back, waiting.

Max threw Lorenzo a questioning look.

"She would like you to remove your top," Lorenzo said, slightly embarrassed.

"My top? You mean my sweater?" Max gulped.

"Yes, and your jeans. If you wish, I can leave the room."

"No way. You're the only sane person here. Besides, you're gay, aren't you?"

Lorenzo recoiled in horror. "Me? Gay?" he said. "Why would you think that?"

Flustered, Max didn't know what to say. "Well..." she managed. "I just thought..." She trailed off, while the hard-faced blonde tapped her foot impatiently.

"Sorry if I disappoint you," Lorenzo sniffed. "I will wait outside while Lucia finishes taking your measurements."

"Please don't," Max pleaded. "I can't understand a word anyone says."

Lorenzo shrugged. It was obvious she'd offended him, but hopefully he'd get over it. "As you wish," he said, still uptight.

Stripping down to my underwear is no big deal, Max assured herself. I'm a model. They're all professionals. Everyone in this room has seen it all before.

However, that didn't stop her from feeling like a piece of meat. She hated them all. And she especially hated the result when they'd all finished their jobs.

"We go now," Lorenzo informed her.

"Where?" she asked.

"To meet the executives."

As soon as they left the little room of horrors, as Max had christened it, she informed Lorenzo that she needed to use the restroom.

"Very well," he said. "I will wait outside."

Gazing at her image in the mirror, she was horrified. She didn't look like herself at all. Is this how they wanted her to look? Teased hair and an abundance of makeup? Plus the stylist had chosen a shiny pink jumpsuit that was a size too big, and flashy gold jewelry that was more suited to a forty-something socialite. I look like a freaking clown, she thought, totally mortified.

What to do? That was the question.

Hurriedly digging into her purse, she grabbed a brush and attacked her hair, brushing out the teasing until it was almost back to normal. Then she took a Kleenex and quickly wiped off most of the heavy makeup. Unfortunately, there was nothing she could do about the horrible pink outfit.

Gritting her teeth, she joined Lorenzo, who was patiently waiting for her. He gave her a startled look but said nothing.

Then they were off to meet the Dolcezza executives.

Max tried to convince herself that she'd gained a little bit of control. She was a Santangelo, after all, and that had to count for something.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO.

There was no sign of Bobby at the house. Denver had imagined that he might miraculously appear, but no such luck.

She'd raced home, and now she was suffused with guilt about her job. She shouldn't have left, but honestly, what else could she do? Her heart had won over her head. Bobby came first.

Should she call Lucky or not? The problem was that she had no wish to intrude, yet at the same time she was desperate to connect with her elusive boyfriend and find out what was going on.

Damn him! Bobby could be such an asshole, but she loved him anyway.

She tried to imagine what Lucky must be going through.

She should call her.

No. She shouldn't.

There were times Lucky could be quite intimidating. Besides, she was never quite sure whether Bobby's mom thought she was good enough for her number one son.

Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos.

Heir to a massive shipping fortune.

Handsome beyond.

Charming.

A sensational lover.

Was she good enough for him? Sometimes her insecurities took over and drove her crazy. Wouldn't she be better off with a man like Sam? A down-to-earth, talented, regular guy.

"Damn it," she muttered under her breath. This wasn't the time to be thinking such thoughts. She should be concentrating on Bobby and what he was going through. Gino had always been his hero, and no way could Bobby ever have expected his grandfather's life to end in such a violent and brutal fashion. He must be inconsolable.

She tried calling him again. Her call went straight to voice mail.

Then the doorbell rang, and hoping it was him, she rushed to answer it.

But it was not Bobby, it was Sam, standing on the threshold carrying a large cardboard box.

"What are you doing here?" she exclaimed, not thrilled to see him.

Sam grinned, all crooked teeth and rumpled clothes. "Delivering a package," he announced, thrusting the box at her.

"H-how did you know I was home?" she stammered.

"I stopped by your office. Some guy told me you had a family emergency. Anything I can do to help?"

Yes, she thought. You can go away. And while she was thinking this, something began moving inside the box she was holding.

Leaning forward, Sam obligingly removed the lid. "Meet Lady Gaga," he said, still grinning as he scooped a golden puppy out of the box and thrust it at her. "She's a Maltipoo rescue and desperate for a new home."

Denver was speechless.

"There's no way I can take care of a dog," she said at last as the small puppy wriggled in her arms.

"Sure you can," Sam said cheerily. "You took care of Winehouse. Face it, D., you're a dog person."

"No, I'm not," she said stiffly.

"Yes," he teased, not realizing that she was pissed. "You are."

"Well, maybe I am," she allowed. "Only now is not the time for me to be getting one."

"No?"

"No," she answered firmly. "I appreciate the gesture, but I cannot accept."

The puppy licked her face, forcing her to admit to herself that the little dog was adorable, but she wasn't about to weaken.

"Is everything all right?" Sam inquired. "I was under the impression that last night was-"

"Was what?" she interrupted, still filled with guilt. "As far as I'm concerned, last night was a big mistake."

Sam looked crestfallen. He'd been sure they'd forged a connection, but now Denver was acting as if nothing had happened between them.

"Did I do something to offend you?" he asked.

She shook her head, thinking how impossible this situation was. Sam, on her doorstep, gifting her with a puppy. It wasn't right, and it was all her fault. Like an idiot she'd encouraged him, and now here he was, all ready for her to take it a step further, something she had no intention of doing.

"Look," she said quietly. "Last night should never have happened. I was upset 'cause I hadn't heard from Bobby, and I guess I drank too much wine. What went on with you and me ... well, like I said, it shouldn't have."

"Is that how you really feel?"

"Yes, Sam, it is."

Breakfast with Willow, followed by this put-down. Apparently it wasn't his day.

What the heck was he supposed to do with a puppy? He had a meeting in San Francisco, and he couldn't take the puppy with him.

Willow came to mind. She had to be useful for something.

"Okay, then," he said, finally realizing that he was getting nowhere. "If you change your mind, you know where to find me."

Denver nodded. She knew where to find him, all right, although she had no intention of ever doing so.

Sam was her past.

Bobby was her future.

And that's the way it had to be.

Waking up with the Malibu morning light flooding their bedroom and the sound of the waves breaking outside, Lucky lay very still.

Gino is dead.

My beloved father is gone.

Goddamn it, Gino. How could you do this to me?

Or perhaps it was all some horrible nightmare and everything would soon be back to normal.

No. It wasn't a nightmare. Sadly, it was the truth.

Tears stung her eyes and rolled silently down her cheeks. Yesterday she hadn't cried. Today she'd allow herself the luxury of doing so, although only for a few minutes. She refused to weaken; it was imperative that she stay strong.

We must celebrate Gino's life, not mourn his death. That's what he would want.

Of course, she'd known this day would come. Gino was old. She'd imagined he'd go to bed one night and pass peacefully in his sleep. Unfortunately, that was not to be. Gino had been violently gunned down execution-style, and whoever was responsible would pay the price. The Santangelo price.

Never fuck with a Santangelo.

Lennie came into the room carrying a mug of strong black coffee. "Mornin', beautiful," he said, handing her the mug. "How'd you sleep?"

Quickly she wiped away her tears and sat up.

"That's okay, sweetheart. I've seen you cry before," he said, sitting on the side of the bed.