by Sunniva Dee
“Jesus Christ,” the tour manager mutters. Zoe beams at her man’s poetry, turns his face toward her and starts in on a make-out session that has me thinking he’ll carry her somewhere more private in a moment. Hell yeah. They’ll be awesome on film.
The bass player laughs a free, unobstructed laugh. He’d probably make his mark in a video too.
“Perfect. Let me show you my writer’s idea. Again, it was made as a concept, not for the band per se, so no stress on your end.”
I wave the waiter over, and in two minutes, he has cleared the table. I unfold Sophie’s storyboard, smooth it out on the wooden surface, and point to the first square.
“Here, you see the four of you onstage, rocking out. There’s a hint of the audience in the background. You’ve got the spotlights overhead. The color she’s chosen, a deep purple, indicates passion and longing. Obviously, this kind of cartoon strips can only give you the pure essentials, while the actual video will not be done until we see the entire gamma of emotions and drama.”
Bo’s expression is inscrutable. Nadia sits quietly at his side. I watch as he takes her hand and pulls it into his lap for reassurance. Yeah, he won’t do anything that can hurt her feelings. I had it right when I discussed the roles with Sophie.
“Next scene: you’re storming offstage. The orange color indicates rising flames in your blood. You’re not about to relax after a good show. You need more. Phone calls in the back. That’s Bo. You’re calling your family—Nadia is at home with the baby. You have a baby, correct?”
Bo’s smile draws wide. “We do.”
“The next square shows Emil colliding with Zoe in the hallway. Public make-out session.”
“Pretty accurate,” the bass player says.
“Shut up, prick.” Zoe’s eyes glitter with humor.
“Next up is Elias. You’re lifting some exotic runway model up and carrying her off, while Troy remains backstage with a groupie.
“Also accurate,” Emil counters to Elias.
“Bullshit,” Troy murmurs, a small smirk on his face. “I’m the runway model guy, and I like my girls in private. Elias on the other hand, he’ll take whatever’s backstage.”
“Yeah? What about Paris?” Elias says.
“Oh right, she got that wrong,” I play into their bickering. “Turns out that’s Troy with the runway model on his way to the limo, and Elias with not one, but three groupies.”
“Sounds like Emil back in the day,” Elias says, but immediately counters himself with, “Sorry Zoe! Never mind. Not true.”
I actually wonder if she could kill with that stare. Another make-out session ensues. We wait. She looks appeased once Emil is done with her. I fucking need these people on tape.
“See how my storyboarding artist has cut these squares to show simultaneous activity? The goal would be to have it coincide with the chorus, where passion burns bright. Everyone’s getting laid. Troy or Elias in his hotel room with a runway model. The other with a groupie or two. Emil with Zoe. Whatever you want to do—kinky, missionary—it’s up to your imagination. Hell, I’ll get you whips if you want them.”
Elias bursts out laughing and gets an under-the-table slap by Nadia. Ah, I see. She’s the mommy, keeping her dudes in line. Good to know.
“During this period, Bo’s getting off a plane. Nadia and the baby wait for him. She runs to him. He lifts them both and spins them.
“See this scene? It’s short but necessary. Baby’s put to bed, and mommy and daddy slide in between their own sheets. Again, it’s all up to interpretation, but the deep red color she’s using symbolizes love and desire.”
“And how does it all end?” I’m surprised that it’s Nadia who asks this.
“It ends with everyone being happy and relieved. You know, physically relieved”—I tap the last few squares with my finger—“as well as emotionally. You all got what you needed and wake up to another day as a rock band.”
“Guys,” the tour manager interrupts. “We don’t want to get off schedule. Magnet is recording after us, and they’ve got the night shift at the studio. We gotta be done by seven.”
Fuck. They’re a well-oiled machine, and the guy’s good at his job. At the moment, that means he’s intercepting to get them away from me.
“Yeah, you’re right, Troll.” Bo clears his throat and stretches a little in the chair. “Love this place. We’re definitely coming back for more Cliff House food. But we’ll give you a yay or nay for sure. My only issue is that we’re not porn. We’re a rock band. You know what I mean?”
“Exactly. And that’s what’s interesting about this. We’re experts in seduction, and so are you. It’s just different types of seduction, and I want to explore where they meet.”
The guys stand around me, Troy taking a last sip of his beer and scooting the bottle back on the table. Bo lays his arm over Nadia’s shoulder, a section of her long mane getting stuck beneath it. Silky and beautiful. It must look ravishing on a bed. Definitely should be captured on film.
“I understand,” Bo says over his shoulder, walking ahead of me off the balcony. “I see what you’re trying to do...”
“I don’t know. I like it,” Zoe quips.
“I’d totally do you on film.” Emil ducks his head down, stroking his nose against hers and making her suck in an excited gasp.
“How hot, right?”
“Fucking yeah!”
“Jesus Christ.” That’s the tour manager again. He’s a bit of a downer. I wonder what can lighten him up? I’ll have to mull that over.
“How graphic does it have to be?”
All movement stops, and everyone turns toward the balcony. Nadia’s speaking up again, and judging by the stares going to her, it’s unexpected. Even Bo looks down, searching her face, wonder brightening his eyes. “Are you considering it, darling?”
That voice is damn soft. The viewers would love to hear him murmur to her in bed. This has to happen. I need to play my cards right. Lucid can shoot to epic fame with them if we do this right.
I reply before she has to answer him. “The spectrum is incredibly wide. It could be anything from full-on XXX-level via soft-core to not showing as much as a nipple. I’d discuss it with my director, but I’m picturing a few versions depending on where the video will run. We’d leave everything to the viewer’s imagination for mainstream TV, of course. YouTube, you’ll have somewhere in between.”
“You can’t be happy with it that way,” the tour manager interrupts. “Can you? Come on, you’re all porn.”
I turn and look straight at him. I’m not going to be tricked into making him my adversary. No doubt he’s as instrumental to my success as the wives are. Hell, if they had no one to influence them, I’d have all four on board a long time ago.
“I’m going to be candid with you,” I say. “Of course, I would love a full-on X-rated video of you. It would have a wonderful shock factor, but unless I earned new viewers from it, like your fans, it wouldn’t mean much in the long run.
“So. What I’d really like is for this to be a cross-promo that tests everyone’s limits. Your limits would be to expand on the sexy side. Mine would be to rein myself in and make shit palatable for mainstream morals. Make sense?”
“It does,” Nadia murmurs, looking up at her man. “I wouldn’t want us to do anything that made Selena uncomfortable when she’s older, but to show how much we love each other? If we get to decide how far we want to go, it should be fine, right?”
“Oh, my God, Nadia’s considering it!” Zoe bursts out.
“Now, now. Let’s not make any hasty decisions. Isaias?” Bo’s stare is intense. Quite the charismatic personality, this man.
“Yes, sir.” I put my hands on my back, leaving myself open to whatever he wants to say. At your service.
needs to be exchanged “We’ll be in touch. I’m calling a band meeting tonig
ht, once we’re done recording. I might shoot you a few questions after that.”
“Sure thing.” I flip a card out of my wallet. Hand it to him though he should already have one. “I’m looking forward to it. And remember, since this would be cross-promo, no money needs to be exchanged. Your talent and equipment for my crew’s talent and equipment. As far as deadlines: I’d consider this video a priority.”
I give a last nod, accept their handshakes on the way down the stairs. As they jump into their cars, I stand by my Flying Spur and wait, hands in my pockets.
Zoe rolls down her window. She smiles broadly and gives me a thumbs-up. Emil ducks his head forward too, grinning. “I’d do my wife on that film of yours!” he hollers.
“Shut up, dork,” she chimes in, and the last thing I see is them kissing while he turns the car, front toward the road. Here’s to hoping they’re in one piece by the time filming commences.
Because. It’s happening.
On my way back to the house, I let out a hearty sigh. The headway with Clown Irruption lifted my spirits substantially. Gianni has it covered at Lucid. He’s got Belen under control as well, according to McRoy, who’s coordinating the casting for Georgina Smiles. I want to start filming in a week. It’s late for that, but we’ve had setbacks involving cocaine. I can’t have addicts working for me, and one of the girls was caught red-handed.
I make a mental note of finding a few new studs too. Luka has that icy Russian fire going for him, drawing the female spectators to our films, but his mind isn’t in the game. Yeah, we need to take on a few more guys before Luka bails on us, teach them the ropes, and make them dependable for the long haul.
The way I work, this means bringing in five or six of the biggest talents in the industry. I often snatch them from under the competition’s nose with bulletproof, high-paying contracts. After the initial months, I settle on the best half of the group for long-term contracts. At the moment, our only male long-termers are Luka and Marco, and instinct tells me Luka’s as good as done.
So far, my world’s working out. I’ve got it molded toward my goal. The small obstacles put in my way are only there to make it interesting.
“McRoy.”
“Sir. Yes?”
“I’m dropping by the house for a nap.”
“Really? But you never sleep, sir.”
“Anyway, I’ll be at Lucid around six.”
“Okay, sir. Sleep tight. All’s good here. I’ll keep things moving along.”
I smile at that. McRoy wasn’t hired for his aggressive leadership skills. On the contrary, I’ve seen the girls pet his head and make him blush with embarrassment at a stray comment. They love to tease him. One of these days, I’ll have to get him laid.
I park in the garage and stride out onto the driveway, closing the garage door with an iPhone click. It’s the Nascimbeni blood that makes me physically walk around my house to verify that nothing’s out of the ordinary.
My place is expensive but has little acreage. It’s located in a gated community, but I’m so far up in the mountainside, my closest neighbor can’t be seen from my property. If I need it, I can turn on a dime and sell in a flash, because every detail is custom-made and of the highest quality. With the land draping downward in terraces below the house, I have full overview even if the surveillance cameras were incapacitated.
Once inside, annoyance rises in me at the cat litter trailed over my travertine tiles and ending in miniature paw prints. Those paw prints are wetly planted into the Persian rug I procured on auction at Christie’s in London, an expensive as shit, one-of-a-kind, black and gold work of art.
While I search for the offender, I call Belen, who picks up immediately. “Hey, lover.”
“You’ve been by my house?”
“Yes, I was waiting for you, but you never came,” she pouts. “I know how you like to wind down in the middle of the day, and I was going to offer up a little something to make you relax.” She draws out half of her words for sexual emphasis, which gets old.
“How the fuck do you know the code to my door?”
“Oh, I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“That you can come and go whenever it damn well pleases you?”
“Aww, sweetheart. I thought you’d be happy to find me there,” she whines. “Remember last week when we got drunk at the microbrewery? It was super-easy to overhear the numbers, because you were slurring them out while you entered them.” She giggles. “You were adorable. That was such a fun night!”
Quickly, I set a new code on my alarm console. “All right, Belen: I’m going to say something I want you to never forget. Ready?”
“Oh, okay. Yeah...”
“Do not ever come here unless you’ve been explicitly and specifically invited by me. You’re not to come by association because I have a party. You’re not to come because you’ve been invited by someone else. In short: unless I, Isaias di Nascimbeni, invite you, you’re not welcome at my house. Do you understand?”
She scoffs. Her heels click-clack as she stomps around at Lucid. “You know what sucks about you?”
“That I’m your boss and you have to weigh your words really carefully so as not to get fired?”
I bite my lip, spirits lifting. I don’t particularly enjoy putting Belen in her place, but I do enjoy some verbal sparring, the testing of power, of loopholes in my game. She got in a stab by overhearing my code and leaving havoc in her path from letting the cat out of the front parlor.
Belen is smart. Hot as hell and smart. Now, I hear her breathe quietly, taming her fury.
“Are you there? I didn’t catch your answer,” I say.
“Sorry. Yeah. So, your kitten’s cute.”
“Which brings me to my problem. You owe me thirty-five thousand bucks for ruining the rug in the dining room. It’s now stained with cat urine.”
Belen’s mind is as deprived as my own, as self-serving as mine, so when she haphazardly covers the speaker of her phone and roars out her rage, I grin.
She slams the phone off. The bitch fucking hangs up on her boss! That’s pretty hilarious, and I think I’m going to let her get away with it. In the long run, though, Morgan needs to keep working closely with Gianni, good shots, good track records. Because when it’s time for Lucid, I’ll be cutting Belen loose.
It’s interesting to hang out with my father. I rarely do outside of family dinners. In general, he’s fine keeping me informed via his henchmen, and beyond the affectionate squeeze at Ma’s Sunday dinners, we’re usually all set.
I’ll never stop loving him. It’s one of those things. Ruthless mafia boss or not, he’s one hundred and fifty percent into everything me, Gioele, Ma, and elsewise family-related, no matter what happens between us. It’s the Italian way. It’s in our blood even if sometimes I wish it weren’t. Like now.
“Figlio. Thank you for coming to see your old father.” The furrows around his eyes draw downward with the weight of all he has done.
“Piacere, Pappa,” I lie, because it’s not a pleasure. “What’s going on.”
He sighs heavily, thick fingers spiked as if in prayer, creating a ledge for his nose to rest on. When his eyes close, there’s a stab at the center of my chest. I was born late to him, and the life of a don doesn’t give room for vacations. It’s not the first time it affects me, how my invincible father gets older.
“We’re at war with the Santa Colombini.”
“No way? They’re fucking cannibals.”
“Not cannibals, son.”
“You know what I mean. Those guys have no morals, no code of ethics. There’s nothing clean about anything they do, and the way they kill is—”
“Unique? Yes, always.”
“What happened? How did you get mixed up with them again?” I scan his face for answers before he verbalizes them. Gravity has claimed my father’s features. Even his eye
brows droop at the edges.
He shakes his head quickly, jowls shivering with the move. “Conflicting interests. I’m back into cocaine, so the port became important. We got in their way, and they got in ours.”
“Shit.” I rub my face.
“There was a fight at the docks. Aldo got shot, and Pietro Moretti had his skull smashed in. Johnny the Finger died too. We’ve avenged them, but this isn’t disappearing all that quickly.”
“Fuck. Why drugs again?”
“Eh, it’s a new South American connection. I was lucky, was in the right place at the right time. The offer was lucrative, it’s steady, and limited to cocaine. Keeps it nice and clean.”
“It doesn’t leave you any less fucked, though, does it?”
My father’s eyes go dark with suppressed fury, and I breathe out my own. I want to tell him I thought he was older and wiser, but it wouldn’t help the situation. The man is seventy years old. I already know I can’t change his way of thinking.
“Jesus, Dad.” My voice cracks as I think of my brother. Gioele is fighting his own demons right now. Eyes glittering with anger and violence, he’s at the center of a rip current, rebelling against our parents and his lot in life.
I think of my cousins, Gabriela and her little sister, the beautiful Silvina. Ma. I force my thoughts off the Venetians, because fear for others can make a person lose his shit.
I draw a hand over my face. La famiglia is replete with innocent children who can’t be a part of a Santa Colombini retaliation.
“Anything else I need to know?” I ask sarcastically.
“Yes. Human trafficking.”
“What the actual fuck? You’re kidding me, right?”
“It’s the Santa Colombini’s main source of income, now. They import young women from India and sell them through their hub in L.A. It was Donny that stumbled upon them at the harbor, thinking the warehouse was ours, and found it full of scared teenagers.”
“Tell me you reported them.” My voice is deceptively low.
He shakes his head, jowls doing that sideways swing again. “You’re joking, right?”