They were standing next to a wooded area several miles outside of L.A. shooting Alex’s current movie, Kill, a violent thriller.
Maggie sensed an outburst coming on. She was well aware that as a director Alex Woods was an Oscar-winning genius, and yet as a man he could be a nightmare. When things were not to his liking, everyone had to watch out—including her. She often wondered how his Asian lawyer girlfriend, Ling, put up with him.
“He’s on his way,” she assured him in a calm voice.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Alex snapped, rubbing his hands together. “His call was for three, and it’s now three forty-five.”
“I know,” Maggie said, remaining calm.
“So get in touch with his driver and tell the asshole to put his foot down.”
“Billy refused to use his driver,” Maggie explained. “He insisted on driving himself.”
“What kind of shit is that?” Alex screamed, suddenly losing it. “The insurance forbade it. D’you hear me, Maggie? They forbade that he drove himself to any of the locations. You know that.”
“Yes, I do,” Maggie responded in a quiet voice, because having worked with Alex for quite a few years, she also knew there was absolutely no point in provoking a screaming match.
“She knows!” Alex yelled, mimicking her. “She fucking knows, and yet she does nothing.”
Maggie shrugged.
“Shit!” Alex screamed. “Goddamn actors. They should all go fuckin’ Tom Cruise themselves out of the business.”
“What does that mean?”
“Wait a few years,” Alex said ominously, “you’ll find out.”
“No panic,” Maggie said, relieved. “Here he comes now.”
An Electra Glide fully restored Harley roared into sight, Billy Melina astride in all his glory, black-leathered up to the eyebrows.
Alex strode toward the young actor as Billy jumped off his bike. “You’re fucking late!” he yelled.
“Traffic,” Billy countered, his voice filled with the arrogance of an actor who knows there is no way he can get fired.
“Unprofessional,” Alex growled.
“Not my fault, man,” Billy said, casually removing his helmet.
“Of course not,” Alex drawled sarcastically. “Why would it be your fault? Nothing’s your fucking fault, is it?”
Maggie quickly attempted to defuse the situation. “Billy,” she said. “Come with me. They’re waiting for you in the makeup trailer.”
“Hey, Mags,” Billy said, turning on the charm. “You’re lookin’ hot. How’s about you an’ me—”
“Move your punk ass,” Alex interrupted.
“Sure, old man,” Billy said, grinning.
Infuriated, Alex stomped off toward his crew busy setting up across the street. Old man indeed. There was nothing worse than some two-bit actor with a handful of box-office hits who considered himself the second coming of Steve McQueen.
Fuck all actors. And definitely fuck Billy Melina.
Alex had seen them come, and he’d seen them go. At fifty-something he was a veteran producer/writer/director who’d been through the Hollywood wars countless times. He knew all the games, all the shenanigans. He’d seen studio heads ousted at a moment’s notice, and a staggering lack of honesty and loyalty. The only studio head Alex had enjoyed working with was Lucky Santangelo when she’d owned and run Panther Studios. They’d had a connection that was more than business, and although Alex had always gone for Asian women, there was something about Lucky that had immediately drawn him in.
Unfortunately, she was married and in love with her husband, although there’d been a moment in time when they had gotten together. One crazy, insane night of love and lust when Lennie was gone, and Lucky had thought he was dead. Christ! The memory of that one night in a cheap motel in the middle of nowheresville was always there. It was a night he would never forget.
Lucky had never mentioned their one night together again. He knew that in her mind it was something she preferred to think had not taken place. But it had, and he would always have strong feelings for her. There was nothing he could do about it.
Since that time they’d remained friends, had even produced a very successful movie together, and now he was a major investor in her Vegas hotel project.
Maggie returned from depositing Billy in the makeup trailer.
“Five minutes,” Alex growled. “I want that punk kid on the set in five minutes. You got that, Maggie?”
“Yes, Alex, five minutes.”
“And no more turning up on his fucking Harley. I want his skinny ass in a car with a driver. It’s in his contract. Make sure he honors it or get on the phone to his agent.”
“Yes, Alex.”
“Okay. Now let’s go make a fuckin’ movie.”
CHAPTER THREE
Anthony Bonar—formerly Anthony Bonnatti—had it all. A well-appointed luxurious villa twenty-five minutes outside of Mexico City, a duplex penthouse in New York, a vacation home in Acapulco on the bay, and a rambling waterfront estate in Miami. He also had an American wife, Irma, to whom he’d been married for fifteen years; two children—a boy and a girl; two mistresses, his own plane, a helicopter, and a lucrative business. When asked—and not many dared—he would inform them that he was in the import/export business, which wasn’t exactly a lie, because running a vast drug empire was exactly that—import from here, export to there.
For the first twelve years of his life Anthony had been raised in Italy by his mother, Mia, a hardworking maid who’d toiled in a beachfront hotel in Naples. The same hotel the Bonnatti family had stayed at on vacation when young Santino Bonnatti was a constantly horny teenager. The same hotel where Santino had knocked twenty-two-year-old Mia up one balmy night while making out with her on the beach under the stars.
After the Bonnatti family checked out and returned to America, Mia had no idea she was pregnant. When she found out, she was unable to summon the courage to get in touch with the family. It wasn’t until twelve years later, when she was diagnosed with cancer and given only a few months to live, that she’d contacted the Bonnattis.
A few weeks later Santino’s formidable mother, Francesca Bonnatti, flew to Italy to investigate the girl’s story. Upon arrival she’d taken one look at young Anthony with his big brown eyes and cocky attitude and realized that Mia was speaking the truth, for Anthony looked nothing like her son, Santino, nor did he resemble his birth mother, Mia. No, Anthony was the mirror image of Francesca. A male version. He was definitely a Bonnatti.
Francesca flew her illegitimate grandson back to the States to live with Enzio and herself.
Anthony flourished. He was an exceptionally smart boy who quickly learned to speak English without an accent. Raised on the streets of Naples for the first twelve years of his life by a mother who barely had time for him, he’d learned how to survive on his wits. His grandfather soon took a shine to his ballsy illegitimate grandson. Before long Enzio began taking Anthony on business trips to Colombia and Mexico City, proudly introducing the boy to all his main contacts.
When Santino, outraged that his father had taken such a liking to his so-called son, moved his family and his own business interests—mainly the distribution of pornographic movies and magazines—to California, Enzio wasn’t bothered, for Santino was certainly not the son he’d hoped for.
When Enzio was shot, it was sixteen-year-old Anthony who’d comforted Francesca and stayed by her side. Santino and his brother, Carlos, attended the lavish funeral, but neither of them stayed around. Fuck Santino Bonnatti, Anthony had thought. And fuck his fat wife and asshole kids. He wanted nothing to do with any of them, just as they had wanted nothing to do with him.
After Enzio’s death, Francesca encouraged Anthony to put everything Enzio had taught him to good use. He didn’t let her down.
Six years later when Santino himself was killed, Anthony hadn’t felt one shred of emotion. Why would he? His so-called father had treated him as if he didn’t e
xist, so there was no reason for him to care.
By the time Anthony reached his early twenties, he’d forged major contacts with the biggest drug overlords in Mexico City, Colombia, and Bolivia.
Anthony got off on having money and power, realizing early on how attractive those two things were to women. Plus he was not bad-looking in a darkly brooding way. Unfortunately, though, he was only five feet seven, not as tall as he’d like to be, and his lack of height pissed him off, but it didn’t stop him from sleeping his way through most of the models, would-be actresses, and young socialites in New York and Miami.
Francesca was proud of his success, but she was also wary of his playboy ways, so one day she informed him that it was time he found himself a nice girl, got married, settled down, and started a family.
A family he would start, but settling down was for old men with nowhere left to go.
After a few months of Francesca’s nagging, he decided he’d better do as she suggested and start looking for The One.
It wasn’t long before he met Irma at a party in Miami. She was seventeen and he was twenty-four.
He’d taken one look at the well-endowed, pretty teenager and come to the conclusion that she might be the one—especially when she confided she was still a virgin.
After obtaining Francesca’s approval, Anthony and Irma were married in a church in Mexico City where Anthony was negotiating to buy a large estate outside the city.
Irma—virginal in a white lace dress—made a delightful bride. They honeymooned in Europe, and shortly after their honeymoon Irma became pregnant.
Their son, Eduardo, was born the day before Irma’s eighteenth birthday. A year later she gave birth to a girl, Carolina.
Anthony and his grandma were satisfied. Irma had delivered the perfect family, and Anthony decided that she should now concentrate all her energy on being a nurturing mother, while he continued to build up his business, travel the world, and whore around.
Grandmother Francesca had taught him well. Women, she’d assured him in an authoritative tone when she’d first brought him to America, were either mothers, wives, sisters, or daughters—other than that they were puttanas, whores and sluts.
After the birth of his two children, Anthony decided that sex with Irma was over; he didn’t care to stick it in the same place his precious children had emerged from.
Although Anthony’s main residence was in Mexico City, he also spent plenty of time in Miami and New York, with twice-yearly trips to Colombia and Bolivia. The drug trade he’d fallen into was already making him more money than he’d ever imagined, but in spite of his wealth and good fortune, Anthony was not completely at ease. Francesca expected him to be the one to avenge the murder of his grandfather and his piece-of-shit father. And she never let him forget it.
“The Bonnatti name must be avenged,” she was always telling him. “You know the history only too well.”
Oh yeah, he knew the history, and even though he’d legally changed his surname to Bonar, he was a Bonnatti by birth.
Francesca often regaled him with stories of the bad blood between the Bonnattis and the Santangelos. It was a feud that went way back.
According to Francesca, Gino Santangelo and Enzio Bonnatti were once close boyhood pals, going into business together, scoring huge amounts of money. Both teenage sons of immigrants, they’d been quick to seize all the opportunities America had to offer, from running numbers to loan-sharking, gambling, and hijacking trucks loaded with illegal booze. They’d stayed together several years, until Enzio had begun to pursue a different line of business—drugs and prostitution, two areas Gino Santangelo refused to be involved with.
Gino Santangelo must’ve been some dumb fuck, Anthony often thought. What kind of man turns his back on making mega bucks?
Apparently Gino did, because instead of continuing his partnership with Enzio, he’d built hotels in Vegas, legitimizing his business to a degree, and then allowed his daughter, Lucky, to move in and run things.
Although Enzio and Gino had parted on cordial terms, over the years they’d become dire enemies, creating a feud between the two families that had festered and only gotten worse throughout the years.
Frankly, Anthony wasn’t interested in vendettas and revenge; that kind of thing was for old-timers, mustache Petes, men of his late grandfather’s generation. But he knew Francesca would never quit until he did something about the Santangelos.
The Bonnattis and the Santangelos. Not a match.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Heavenly Spa in Pasadena was the one place Lucky felt that she could truly relax. She and Venus, her closest friend, always made the effort to meet there at least a couple of times a month. It wasn’t easy, as they both balanced hectic schedules, but somehow or other they managed it.
Lucky rushed in aware that she was late, still pissed about Max mouthing off, although she couldn’t be too mad, for at sixteen she’d had exactly the same badass attitude.
Ha! Like mother like daughter. And there wasn’t much she could do about it except keep a watchful eye out.
“How’s Billy?” she asked once she and Venus were settled in the mud-wrap treatment room while two formidable-looking Russian women slathered thick mud all over their bodies.
“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” Venus sighed, lying back totally naked except for an animal-print thong.
“Hey, whatever turns you on,” Lucky remarked, stretching out her leg as one of the large Russian women applied a healthy coating of mud to her well-toned thighs. “If you’re still into Billy, that’s your prerogative. Believe me, I’m the last person to judge anyone—especially a major diva like you.”
“Major diva, my ass,” Venus retorted, laughing.
“Go ahead, deny it,” Lucky teased. “Everyone’s got your number.”
“Look,” Venus said, suddenly serious, “I know how fond you were of Cooper—”
“Still am,” Lucky interrupted, choosing her words carefully. “Only just ’cause I liked him doesn’t mean that you had to do time in a marriage that wasn’t working.”
“I’m not the one to blame,” Venus said, shifting onto her side. “The man screwed around on me, and if that wasn’t enough, Mister Life and Soul of the Party turned into Mister Boring—a man who insisted on being in bed every night by nine! I mean, can you imagine?” she added, rolling her eyes.
“Men get that way,” Lucky said sagely, enjoying the sensation of the cold mud on her body. “It’s on account of a little something called marriage.”
“Lennie’s not like that,” Venus pointed out.
“Doesn’t mean we haven’t had our differences,” Lucky retorted.
“Which you’ve always managed to work out.”
“This is true.”
“So … what did I do wrong?”
“Nothing,” Lucky said, shrugging. “Except that you became a bigger star than him.”
“You think?”
“C’mon, Venus, you know you did. Shit happens. Egos go trippin’. Cooper has a giant ego—surely you noticed?”
“Believe me,” Venus said with a secret smile, “that’s not all Cooper had.…”
“No details,” Lucky said, quickly interrupting. “I do not get off on details.”
“Not that I miss it,” Venus mused. “Because I can assure you, Billy is certainly a member of the well-hung club. In fact—”
“Goddammit!” Lucky exclaimed. “Didn’t I just say no details? Other people’s sex lives bore me shitless!”
“Aren’t I the fortunate one,” Venus boasted, laughing. “Got me two in a row.”
“Yeah, and let’s not forget the other half-dozen in between,” Lucky murmured, sotto voce.
“Ha!” Venus said vehemently. “Jealous?”
Lucky raised an eyebrow. “Have you met Lennie?”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, Lennie is the greatest everything, and you’re both ecstatically happy, and neither of you cheats. But I must say, if Cooper had turned up with an
illegitimate kid, I’m not sure I could’ve—”
“Don’t go there,” Lucky said in a warning voice. “Ancient history isn’t my thing.”
Much as she loved Venus, sometimes the platinum-blond superstar overstepped certain boundaries. The truth was that Lennie had fathered a child under extreme circumstances—he’d been kidnapped, trapped in an underground cave in Sicily, and made love to a woman, Claudia, who’d helped him escape. It was a onetime thing, and he’d never seen the woman again until she’d turned up on their doorstep in Malibu with Leonardo, a boy she’d claimed Lennie had fathered.
It was a difficult time to get through, but they’d done so, and when Claudia was killed, Lucky had adopted Leonardo as if he were her own. Somehow it had made their marriage stronger, bonding them even closer.
“So,” Lucky said, moving on. “Will you be bringing Billy to Gino’s party on Sunday?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Venus said, narrowing her eyes.
“’Cause I had to invite Cooper,” Lucky explained. “Y’know how close he is to Lennie.”
“Fine with me.” Venus sniffed. “I suppose he’ll be with that coke-snorting child he’s been banging.”
“You sound bothered,” Lucky said.
“Are you kidding me? The only thing that bothers me is that he takes her out with Chyna, and that’s not right.”
“Chyna’s a smart kid,” Lucky said, thinking about Venus’s young daughter. “She can handle it.”
“She shouldn’t have to,” Venus said adamantly. “Cooper’s latest girlfriend is a drug- and sex-addicted nineteen-year-old wannabe actress whore. What the hell is Cooper thinking? He’s old enough to be her grandfather.”
“Hey, maybe we should hook her up with Billy,” Lucky joked. “They’re almost the same age.”
“Fuck you,” Venus drawled.
“I leave that chore to my husband,” Lucky murmured dryly.
“For God’s sake,” Venus said, “I have to take enough shit from the press, don’t you get on my case.”
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