Bobby made it to his suite, his mind still buzzing about Venus. She was an amazing woman. What did it matter that she was quite a few years older than him? They were magical together, and after all he'd been through, he could do with a touch of magic in his life. He decided that if Venus was up for it, they'd present a united front and tell Lucky together. What could she do? Exactly nothing. It wasn't as if he was Max, running around with Venus's ex, Billy Melina. That had been a ridiculous situation. Lennie had put a stop to it, and rightfully so.

Thinking about Max made Bobby realize that he missed her-even though she could be an annoying pain in the ass. Since she'd moved to Europe, he hadn't seen her in months. Lucky had told him that little sis had gotten herself a big advertising campaign that was shooting in Italy. He was happy for her, and he hoped she was behaving herself. Max had a wild streak-it ran in the family.

He'd always considered himself to be the sane one. Perhaps not so much now. What was so interesting about being sane? He was enjoying his newfound freedom. No more Mr. Good Guy.

Things had definitely changed.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN.

Norma and Willy Rockwell and their three boisterous children were driving along the highway in their rental moving truck when one of the kids, an acne-ridden thirteen-year-old, spotted the wreckage up ahead, plumes of smoke still rising.

"Look, Dad!" the boy shouted, wriggling in his seat. "Somebody's had an accident."

By this time, Willy Rockwell had also seen the debris spilled across the highway, and he was already carefully steering the rental truck to the side of the road. It was five A.M. and just beginning to get light.

"This don't look good," Willy said, sharing his voice with a hacking cough.

"No, it don't," Norma agreed, pulling her woolen cardigan close across her chest.

"Whatcha gonna do, Dad?" the thirteen-year-old asked. "Shouldn't we go take a peek?"

"No," Norma said sharply. "It's best not to get involved in this sorta thing. Somebody else'll come along. Leave it to them."

"Your ma's right," Willy said, starting his engine. "Never shove your nose in where it don't belong."

The thirteen-year-old did not agree with either of them. What if there were survivors they could help? Shouldn't they at least call the highway patrol?

He began to say something, but to no avail. Both his parents ignored him, and once again they were on their way.

Ten minutes later a BMW crammed with a bunch of drunken teenagers-four boys and two girls-roared down the highway heading toward L.A. The driver, a baby-faced sixteen-year-old, had yet to score his driving license. What he had managed to score was his stepdad's BMW, and he'd gathered up a group of friends for a wild night in Vegas. Now they were hell-bent on getting back to L.A. in time for school.

Loud music blared from someone's iPod, and all six kids were in a take-no-prisoners mood, smoking grass and chugging Red Bulls, when the BMW hit a large chunk of metal debris spread across the highway. The BMW careened out of control, left the highway, and flipped over four times before shuddering to a sickening stop.

This time there was no fire, but the screams of the teenagers trapped in the car could be heard from quite a distance away.

One of the girls crawled from the wreckage, blood streaming down her face from a deep cut above her eye. She was crying and hysterical as she reached for her cell phone in her jeans pocket and managed to dial 911.

Help would soon be on the way.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT.

The lobby of the Magiriano was cleared. King Emir's entourage was long gone, much to the relief of Ian Simmons, who thought it best not to mention that the king himself and a small group of his men and bodyguards were still in residence. Chris Warwick made the hotel manager nervous-Chris might look friendly enough, but there was something about him that announced he was not a man to be crossed. Besides, it was highly unlikely that King Emir would emerge from his penthouse. Ian had sent a messenger to his suite with a polite letter explaining the funeral situation, and asking that the lobby please be kept clear for the mourners to pass through. In return the king had one of his men personally deliver a handwritten note card thanking him for a pleasant stay. The note was accompanied by a jewelry box containing a gold Rolex.

Although gifts from satisfied guests were not unusual, a gold Rolex was quite a treat. Ian was surprised and delighted. It proved to him that he was doing his job well. He deserved to be rewarded.

"Where are you?" Lucky asked, calling Lennie on his cell.

"I'm the one tracking our daughter, remember?" he said irritably. "I just discovered her room hasn't been slept in."

"You should come up and get changed," Lucky said, feeling apprehensive about what lay ahead, which wasn't like her at all. Her mind was full of Gino. She had to do him proud; she had to make this a day to remember.

"You're not concerned that Max seems to be on the missing list?" Lennie asked.

"Yes, I'm concerned, but there's nothing you can do now, and we have to leave in ten minutes."

"For your information, she never checked in last night."

"You know what Max is like," Lucky said, exasperated. "She probably went with her boss to the Four Seasons-that's exactly the kind of thing she'd do, especially if they got into Vegas late."

"If you think so. What's her boss's name again? I'll check out the Four Seasons."

"Ask Danny. He knows. And have Danny chase her, because I need you to be with me. So please ... get here fast."

It wasn't often that Lucky said she needed him, and he couldn't help but note the urgency in her voice. Lucky was strong, but she wasn't superwoman, and today was putting her to the test.

"I'm on my way," he assured her.

The arrival of Paige caused quite a commotion. She and her entourage of six people had been whisked from the airport straight to the Magiriano, where Danny had arranged a hospitality suite for them to use while they were in Vegas. Paige had already informed him that she would not be staying the night. After the service and the celebratory party, she expected a plane to be waiting to take her and her friends back to Palm Springs.

Her entourage consisted of Bud Pappas, resplendent in a bright yellow suit (an outfit he was known for in his heyday); Paige's other neighbors, the Yassans; Darlene, a tall, broad-shouldered woman who was at the house with Paige the day Gino was shot; and an attractive married couple, John and Mary Lou Area, who lived nearby in Palm Springs.

Clad in a tightly fitted black dress, a perky hat complete with veil, and a tad too many ostentatious diamonds, Paige was playing the Widow Santangelo to the hilt, and enjoying every moment of the attention coming her way. As she walked through the lobby of the Magiriano, early-comers to the service stopped her to pay their respects. She accepted their good wishes with a forlorn expression and a barely audible "Thank you so much for being here. It means the world to me."

"You look so chic," her friend Darlene whispered in her ear. "I can't wait until we're alone together. Ah ... the things I plan to do to you."

"Shh..." Paige said, glancing around. "Someone might hear you."

"What if they do?" Darlene said boldly. "You're a free woman now. You can do what you like-what we like."

"You're being inappropriate," Paige said, pretending to be cross, although there was nothing she liked better than Darlene fawning over her. Their affair had been going on for almost a year, and Paige had managed to keep it on the down-low. Now, with Gino gone, Darlene seemed to think it was time to bring it out into the open. Paige had no intention of doing so. She had a reputation to protect, not to mention a Palm Springs social life. She was not prepared to come out-not yet anyway. And certainly not at Gino's funeral service.

With his full security team in place, Chris was satisfied that the Magiriano was on lockdown, which meant that unless you were an invited guest with a numbered pass, you were not getting in. All hotel guests had been alerted that an important event was taking place and that they had to steer clear of certain areas of the hotel, which were now roped off and secure. As compensation, they were offered a free night's stay.

Too many famous people in one place was always a challenge, but Chris was confident that so far everything was running smoothly. He did not anticipate any problems. What he didn't like were the personal security teams some of the high-profile guests traveled with. They always seemed to cause problems, especially the ones attached to politicians. It was almost like a game of who's looking after the most famous and important of them all.

The random security teams made dumb demands, such as which celebrity should arrive last, because celebrities did not appreciate sitting around. And where would their celebrity be sitting? It had to be up front in a prime position or else trouble would ensue.

Yeah. Sure. Chris put Danny in charge of seating. He couldn't care less about who sat where. Keeping everything and everyone safe and on track was his main concern.

Assholes.

Chris hated assholes.

Back in L.A., Frankie Romano was reveling in his newfound freedom. Well, not freedom, exactly, for he was under strict guard in a hotel with a couple of armed cops on watch duty. The place he was sequestered in was hardly a four-star luxury hotel, and other than his stint in prison, Frankie was used to the best.

Prison was the pits. No place for a man like Frankie Romano.

He'd come up with exactly how they could trap Alejandro. Every week, Matias brought two girls to Alejandro's office at Club Luna. Two pathetic drug mules that Alejandro liked to play with for his own amusement. Frankie was the only one who knew about Alejandro's predilection-apart from Matias, and he didn't count. Catching Alejandro with the girls and the drugs should be more than enough to put him away. And once Alejandro was arrested and locked up, Frankie was under the false impression that he'd be free. He didn't realize that they'd keep him under wraps until he testified at Alejandro's trial, telling him that it was for his own protection.

He ordered room service breakfast while waiting impatiently for the two deputy DAs to turn up. Denver Jones, whom he would never forgive for treating him like a lowlife drug dealer when they were once friends. And Leon, the black dude who considered himself one smart son of a bitch.

Nobody was smarter than Frankie Romano. He would emerge from this fuckup unscathed.

He was Frankie Romano. He always came out on top.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE.

"Where am I?" Willow muttered, opening her eyes, before vaguely realizing that she was trapped in a hospital bed with her left leg held aloft in a splint, while an IV was attached to her arm. She felt completely disoriented. "Where am I?" she repeated, because she had no idea why she was in a hospital bed or how she'd gotten there. Her mind was one big blank.

A nurse stood by her bed, a stout black woman with a kindly smile and a name tag that identified her as Shaquita.

"There you are," the nurse said cheerfully. "I knew it wouldn't take you long. The moment they brought you in, I said to myself, Shaquita, this one'll be up an' at 'em before you know it, even though you got a mild concussion an' you're all bruised up, poor baby. You're lucky you survived. From what I hear, it was a fiery crash."

"Brought me in ... from where?" Willow asked, confused.

"You were in a car accident, hon. Don't you remember?"

An image of her mom flashed in front of Willow's eyes. She saw a faded blonde waving a check. Was it her mom? She thought it probably was, but she couldn't be sure. Then the image faded.

"What's your name, honey?" Shaquita asked. "The police were here earlier to question you, only Dr. Ferris wasn't havin' it. Our Doc Ferris is a tough one. Nobody messes with his patients."

Name? Did she have a name? Because if she did, she sure as hell had no idea what it was.

Dr. Ferris, an older man with a hangdog expression and thick spectacles balanced on the end of his aquiline nose, entered the room and approached her bed.

"Well, well," he said in a loud voice. "You were right, Nurse. This one's a fighter." He bent down close to Willow and spoke softly. "What's your name, dear?"

Why did everyone want to know her goddamn name?

"My head hurts," she muttered, clenching her teeth. "Maybe my mom should take a look at it. Can you call her?"

"That's an excellent idea," Dr. Ferris said, straightening up. "And her name is?"

Closing her eyes, Willow began drifting off. These people were batshit crazy. All they could think about was finding out people's names.

Surely they knew who she was?

After all, she was famous ... wasn't she?

Across the hall in the intensive care unit, Max was attached to a variety of tubes. She lay motionless in a deep coma, her green eyes closed, her complexion deathly pale.

She and Willow and the teenage girl who'd survived the BMW crash had all been brought to a hospital near Barstow. The teenager had given a statement to the police, tearfully telling them that she had no idea who the other girls were. Two of her friends had died in the BMW crash, one of them being her best girlfriend, the other her brother. She was sobbing uncontrollably, waiting for her parents to drive in from L.A.

The police had quite a job ahead of them. The initial crash of the big rig and the other car had destroyed all evidence. They were combing through the burned-out wreckage searching for clues as to whom the car belonged to.

A detective was at the hospital waiting to question Willow, who seemed to be their only hope of discovering the identity of the victims. Two bodies had been found in the car that had crashed with the big rig, their bodies burned beyond recognition.

Who were they? Willow was the only one who could answer that question.

CHAPTER EIGHTY.

A sleek black limousine with an armed driver and a follow-up car close behind drove Lucky, Lennie, Bobby, and Chris to the Magiriano. The two younger boys had gone on ahead with Brigette and Steven.

"I'm thinking this is overkill," Lucky remarked, tapping her fingers impatiently on the leather seat as she gazed out the window.

"No," Chris replied, ever alert. "It's called being careful."

"Listen," Lucky said with an irritable shake of her head. "If somebody wanted to get to me, they'd have done it by now."

"Chris is right to take precautions," Lennie said, always the voice of reason. "We're heading for a high-profile event, and let's not forget that you're the star."

"Star!" Lucky exploded. "What do you think this is-a fucking movie premiere?"