"I work," he said. "I work hard to save enough money for us and our son to get away from here someday, to live a normal life."

"You're already away," she said, pointing an accusing finger at him. "You're free. You left me with a baby. You went without a thought for us."

"I had to go," Rafael said. "Seor Diego insisted. You know that."

"You could have said no," Elizabetta said, throwing him a resentful look.

He kept his temper in check. Was she so naive that she actually thought he could have turned down a request from Pablo Fernandez Diego? If that was the case, she was more stupid than smart. Everyone knew that turning down the feared drug lord was a sure death sentence.

"We should not fight," he said, inwardly calming himself. He had only a short time with her, so why spoil it? She was upset and frustrated by his absence; he could try to understand that.

"Come inside," she sighed. "Perhaps your son will talk to you then."

Rafael followed her into the dingy depressing house.

Soon, he thought. Soon I will take my family away from here. And then we will be happy.

Willow Price settled at Eddie's table like a delicate flower with her flowing pale red hair and light smattering of freckles.

Ralph Maestro inspected her from tip to toe. Very pretty, he thought. With a great pair of tits visible under her flimsy top. She would do.

He shifted his chair toward her. "And what would the little lady like to drink?" he asked.

Willow was not slow to realize that Mr. Action-Movie Star was totally into her. She was delighted, because she knew it would piss Eddie off, and it would certainly serve him right for not calling her back.

"I'd love a mojito," she said, adopting a breathy Marilyn Monroetype voice she'd recently been trying out.

Ralph obviously liked it, for he patted her on the knee, his large hand lingering a few seconds too long. "Whatever the little lady wants," he said with a hearty guffaw.

Willow shot Eddie a sly look, making sure he noticed.

He did, although she could tell that he was trying to play it cool.

Too late, Eddie. You should've called me back. Maybe I can cut a deal with your father-in-law. He's rich, isn't he? And I bet he loves getting his big fat cock sucked.

Willow preened. For once she felt she was the one calling the shots.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE.

Seeing Bobby gave Lucky a special kind of strength. Her son. Home at last.

Roberto Santangelo Stanislopoulos. Her firstborn. They shared a very special relationship.

Little Bobby. Son of billionaire Greek shipping magnate Dimitri Stanislopoulos, whom she'd married after Bobby was born. Had she been madly in love with Dimitri? No. However, they'd both agreed that it would be best for their son if they made it legal. Plus Dimitri put up the money for her to build a new hotel in Atlantic City. That's all she'd wanted from him. She hadn't cared that he was one of the richest men in the world. As long as Bobby was taken care of, that was all that mattered to her.

Bobby had spent his formative years living between Los Angeles and Greece. Dimitri was an untraditional father who believed in teaching his son too much too soon-and since Dimitri was a major womanizer, Bobby learned plenty at an early age. But when Dimitri lost the love of his life-famous opera singer Francesca Fern, a mistress Lucky had always known about-he'd become a recluse, refusing to leave his private Greek island.

He'd asked Lucky to stay there with him, but she'd had no intention of being stuck away on an island, and although Dimitri agreed that she could come and go as she pleased, he'd insisted that Bobby stay.

She'd acquiesced. After all, she was busy building her hotel in Atlantic City, and Bobby had his nanny, CeeCee, who was always by his side. It seemed to be a workable arrangement, especially as she visited often.

It wasn't until Dimitri died that she'd finally brought Bobby back to America. He was still a child, and it was with a great deal of pride that she'd watched him grow into the man he was today.

So many memories ... some good, some bad.

She didn't regret any of them.

The moment he saw Lucky, Bobby felt safe for the first time in days.

"You do know I didn't do it," he blurted, frantic to make sure that she heard it directly from him.

"For God's sake," she responded. "I know you were set up. I knew it from the beginning. Beverly was here earlier today, and she filled me in on everything. I never doubted you, Bobby."

"Try telling that to Denver," he said with a wry shake of his head.

"What?" Lucky said, frowning. "She doesn't believe you? Because if she doesn't, then she's not the girl for you."

"She thinks I was out to get laid," he said flatly.

"Were you?" Lucky asked, giving him a long penetrating look.

"Does it make any difference?" he said. "I was accused of murder, for crissake, and all Denver's worried about is that I might've been getting my dick out. And for your information, I wasn't."

"Calm down," Lucky said. "It'll all work out."

"Hey," he said sharply. "The last thing I'm concerned about is me. What I want to find out is who shot Gino."

"We all want that information."

"Yeah, but knowing you, I bet you have more info than you're telling."

"You think so?" she said, her expression impenetrable.

"Listen to me," Bobby said tensely. "There's no way you can keep me in the dark about this, 'cause believe me, I'm after revenge just like you."

Lucky was silent for a moment before saying a slow, guarded, "What makes you think I want revenge?"

"Jeez, Mom," he exploded. "You're freakin' Lucky Santangelo. You take no prisoners. You're one kick-ass scary woman."

"Thanks for the compliment," she said drily.

"You get exactly what I mean. And whatever happens-I want in."

"Do you, now?" she said, thinking that Bobby was indeed a true Santangelo.

"Yes, I do," he persisted. "So fill me in. What have you found out?"

"Right now, nothing. I'm waiting to hear from Chris Warwick."

"Where's he?"

"Chris is currently in Chicago, working on who set you up."

"Are you saying that you think me being drugged and Gino getting shot are connected?"

"We don't know," Lucky said, wishing Bobby would back off. "Gino's shooter was captured on a home security camera. Chris has someone working on face recognition."

"And then?" Bobby demanded.

"I deal with it."

"No," Bobby said, his dark eyes locking with hers. "We deal with it."

"There's no way you can be involved," Lucky insisted. "You're in enough trouble."

"Screw that, Mom," Bobby said, his anger bubbling up. "Don't you get it? I am involved. Gino was my grandfather. I'm just as vested as you in catching whoever murdered him."

"And what exactly do you think I'm going to do, Bobby?" she said, studying the face of her handsome son, realizing that it was not going to be easy shutting him out. "Do you imagine I'll catch the son of a bitch, then hand him over to the cops? Because that's not the way I handle things, and once again-I do not want you involved."

There was something in her voice that brooked no argument. However, Bobby was determined. He knew about his mom's checkered past, that she'd done many things to avenge and protect her family. She was resourceful and fierce.

He could be the same if need be. He wanted to be the same. She should understand how he felt. He was a Santangelo too.

"Come," Lucky said, eager to change subjects. "Steven's here. He can't wait to see you."

Arriving in Chicago, Chris Warwick went straight to work. First on his agenda was a visit to Mood, where M.J. met him and gave him access to all the club surveillance tapes.

"Did the detective on the case see these?" Chris asked as he checked the tapes out.

"Yeah," M.J. replied. "It's how they identified the girl. Turns out she was a high-class hooker hired for the night by a dude who contacted her via the Internet."

"How do you know this?"

"It's all over the papers. She lived with another girl. The two of 'em operated via a Web site."

"Does the detective know this?"

"Hey, if I know it, he sure as shit does. The other girl has already made a deal to sell her story."

"No time for grieving," Chris said, shaking his head in disgust. "People just make money where they can. Whatever happened to morals?"

"I'll tell you this," M.J. said, remembering the exact moment he'd set eyes on the girl in the red dress. "Nadia was one hot, gorgeous woman. I was kinda thinkin' of makin' a move myself. Man, I'm sure glad I didn't. It coulda been me accused of murder."

"When she came into the club, did you get the impression that she'd targeted Bobby?" Chris asked.

"Hey, man, I was kinda tied up with a deal of my own, so like I said-it coulda been me."

Chris wasn't interested in stroking M.J.'s ego; he was after facts. "Did you speak to her at all?"

"I was the one who took 'em to their table, bought 'em a bottle of Cristal. Found out the guy was her cousin-or so he said."

"Tell me about him."

"Not much to tell. Latin. Short. Beard. Hard eyes. Bad temper."

"Name?"

"Didn't get it."

Chris studied the surveillance tapes again. It was quite apparent that the Latin man knew there were cameras and had tried to keep his face turned away. However, he hadn't been aware of all the cameras, and there were some clear shots of him.

It surprised Chris that the detective on the case hadn't zeroed in on him. The man most likely had a record and would not be difficult to track. It seemed that Detective Cole was happy to pin the girl's death on Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos. The big get.

Chris hated sloppy detective work. He'd checked out Detective Cole and discovered that he was a tough veteran detective who'd soon be put out to pasture. Not well liked, he hardly had a stellar reputation.

Within the hour, thanks to his many connections, Chris had a name and location. Pedro Albarado. Los Angeles.

Before heading back to the airport, he stopped by the apartment where Nadia had lived. After ringing the buzzer and getting no response, he waited patiently outside in a spot where he knew Nadia's roommate could see him through the peephole in her door. He'd already found out that the girl's name was Yana, that she was twenty-five and originally from Ukraine.

It didn't take long for her to fling open the door and say sharply, "What you want? Why you here?"

Chris looked her over carefully. She was a dyed blonde with high cheekbones and a slender body. She appeared to be angry and a little bit afraid. Chris gave her the comforting, unthreatening look he'd perfected so well. He also flashed his phony detective badge and fixed her with his honest brown eyes.

"What you want?" she repeated, glaring at him suspiciously. "This very sad time for me. I already told cops everything I know."

"I'm aware of that," Chris said politely. "You've been extremely cooperative, and that has not gone unnoticed."

Her expression softened. Chris observed that she had mismatched eyes-one blue, one green. He wondered if she was messing with her contacts or if this was simply a freaky trick of nature.

"May I come in?" he asked. "I'm sure you don't want your neighbors spying on you."

Yana peered from left to right, trying to see if any of her neighbors were indeed spying on her.

"Okay," she said with a reluctant nod of her head. "You come in. We be quick, yes?"

I don't want sex with you, he was tempted to say. Just answers to a few pertinent questions.