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    “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 participate 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