Vendetta: Lucky's Revenge (2 page)

LUCKY SANTANGELO GOLDEN STEERED HER RED
Ferrari through the ornate metal gates of Panther Studios, waved a friendly greeting to the guard, then drove across the lot to her personal parking space located directly outside her well-appointed suite of offices. Lucky was a wildly beautiful woman in her late thirties with a mass of tangled jet curls, deep-olive skin, a full, sensual mouth, black-opal eyes, and a slender, well-toned body.

She’d bought Panther in 1985, and since then she’d been running the studio. After two action-packed years, it was still exciting, for there was nothing she enjoyed more than a challenge, and running a Hollywood studio was the biggest challenge of all. It was more absorbing than building a casino/hotel in Vegas—something she’d done twice, or managing her late second husband’s shipping empire—a task she’d relinquished, handing everything over to a board of trustees.

Lucky
loved
making movies—reaching out to America—putting images on the screen that would eventually influence people all over the world in a thousand different ways.

It wasn’t easy. The opposition to a woman taking control of a major studio had been formidable.
Especially
a woman who looked like Lucky.
Especially
a woman who seemed to have it all together—including three children and a movie-star husband. Everyone knew Hollywood was just one big boys’ club—female members not exactly welcome.

The legendary movie mogul, Abe Panther, had sold her Panther only after she’d proved she was capable of taking over. Abe had challenged her to go in undercover as a secretary and work for Mickey Stolli—his devious grandson-in-law who was running the studio at the time. Abe’s deal was, if she could find out everything Mickey was into, he’d sell her Panther.

She’d found out more than enough to close the deal. It turned out Mickey was skimming big bucks every way he could; his head of production was snorting coke and supplying two-thousand-dollar-a-night call girls to movie stars and VIPs; the head of distribution was smuggling porno flicks overseas along with Panther’s legitimate productions, scoring an under-the-counter bundle; the movies Panther was making were soft-core exploitation crap full of sleazy sex and outrageous violence; producers were getting massive kickbacks; and women around the lot were treated as second-class citizens—it didn’t matter whether they were star actresses or mere secretaries, chauvinism ran rampant.

Lucky offered Abe a great deal of money and salvation for a studio whose reputation was being slowly ruined.

Abe Panther liked her style.

He sold.

Lucky took over in a big way.

Abe had warned her that bringing Panther back to its glory days was going to be a struggle.

How right he was.

First of all, she’d refused to continue making the kind of cheapo garbage Panther had been churning out. Then she’d fired most of Mickey’s key executives, putting a new, first-rate team in place. After that, it had been a question of developing new projects—a slow process that took time and patience.

The studio had been running at a loss for years, with astronomical bank loans. Lucky and her business advisor, Morton Sharkey, had been forced to arrange another massive loan just to keep the studio operating. Then, after the first year’s disappointing net loss of nearly seventy million dollars, Lucky took stock and decided it was time to recoup some of her initial investment and diversify. Morton suggested selling blocks of shares to several corporations and a few private investors. It seemed like an excellent idea.

Morton had taken care of everything—finding the right investors who would basically leave her alone to run the studio; setting up a board of directors who wouldn’t interfere; and making sure she still owned 40 percent of the stock.

The good news was that currently Panther had two big movies on release, both of them performing extremely well.
Finder
, a showy vehicle for the controversial superstar Venus Maria—who also happened to be one of Lucky’s best friends. And
River Storm
, a sharp-edged detective thriller starring Charlie Dollar—the middle-aged hero of stoned America. Lucky was especially delighted, as both movies had been put together under her regime. She hoped this was the start of the turnaround she’d been working toward. “Give them good, interesting movies and they will come,” that was her motto.

She hurried into her office, where Kyoko, her loyal
Japanese assistant, greeted her with a lengthy typed phone list and a morose shake of his head. Kyoko was a slight man in his thirties dressed in a Joseph Abboud jacket and sharply creased gray pants. He had glossy black hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, and an intelligent expression. Kyoko knew every aspect of the movie business, having worked as personal assistant to several top executives since graduating from college.

“What’s the matter, Ky?” Lucky asked, throwing off her Armani jacket and settling in a comfortable leather chair behind her oversized Art Deco desk.

Kyoko recited the day’s business: “You have fifteen phone calls to return; a ten-thirty with the Japanese bankers, followed by a production meeting regarding
Gangsters;
then a noon appointment with Alex Woods and Freddie Leon; lunch with Venus Maria; another production meeting at three; your interview with a reporter from
Newstime;
a six o’clock with Morton Sharkey; and—”

“Dinner at home, I hope,” she interrupted, wishing there were more hours in the day.

Kyoko shook his head. “Your plane departs for Europe at eight
P.M.
Your limo will pick you up at your house no later than seven.”

She smiled wryly. “Hmm…a twenty-minute dinner break—you’re slipping.”

“Your schedule would kill a lesser person,” Kyoko remarked.

Lucky shrugged. “We’re a long time dead, Ky. I don’t believe in wasting time.”

Kyoko was not surprised by her answer. He’d worked as Lucky’s personal assistant since she’d taken over the studio. She was a dedicated workaholic who never ran out of energy. She was also the smartest woman he’d ever met. Smart and beautiful—a devastating combina
tion. Kyoko loved working for her as opposed to his last boss—an edgy mogul with a relentless coke problem and a small dick.

“See if you can get Lennie on his portable,” Lucky said. “He tried reaching me in the car this morning, the connection was deadly, couldn’t make out a word.”

Lennie Golden, the love of her life. They’d been married for four years and every day it seemed to get better.

Lennie was her third husband. Right now he was on location in Corsica shooting an action/adventure film. Three weeks apart was a killer; she couldn’t wait to join him for a long weekend of lounging around doing nothing except making slow, leisurely love.

Kyoko connected with the production office in Corsica. “Lennie’s out on a beach location,” he informed her, covering the mouthpiece. “Shall I leave a message?”

“Yes. Tell them to have him call his wife pronto. Mrs. Golden can be interrupted wherever she is.” She grinned when she said Mrs. Golden—being Lennie’s wife was the most fun of all.

Lennie’s movie was, regrettably, not a Panther production. Early on they’d both decided it wasn’t a wise move for it to be perceived that he was working for his wife. He was a big enough star in his own right, and making a movie for Panther would only induce false rumors of nepotism.

“Get me Abe Panther,” she instructed Kyoko.

Occasionally she called Abe for advice. At ninety he was a true Hollywood legend. The old man had seen it all—done most of it—and was still as canny and quick-witted as a man half his age. Whenever she spoke to him, he was always full of encouragement and wisdom, and since the banks were coming down
on her big time, she needed his assurance that with two blockbuster movies their attitude would soon change.

Once in a while she drove up to Abe’s grand old mansion overlooking the city. They would sit out on the terrace watching the sunset, while Abe regaled her with outrageous stories about Hollywood in the far-off, golden days. Abe had known everyone—from Chaplin to Monroe—and he wasn’t shy about telling fascinating tales.

She felt like visiting him today, but there simply wasn’t time. As it was, she was hardly going to see her children—two-year-old Maria and baby Gino, who was six months. Bobby, her nine-year-old son from her marriage to deceased Greek shipping billionaire Dimitri Stanislopolous, was spending the summer with relatives in Greece.

“Mr. Panther is unavailable,” Kyoko said.

“Okay, we’ll try him later.”

She glanced at her children’s photographs, proudly displayed in silver frames on her desk. Bobby—so cute and handsome; baby Gino, named for his grandfather; and Maria, with her huge green eyes and the most adorable smile in the world. She’d named Maria after her mother.

For a moment she let her mind wander, thinking about her beautiful mother. Could she ever forget the day she’d found her floating in the family swimming pool, murdered by her father’s lifelong enemy, Enzio Bonnatti? She’d been five years old, and it had seemed like her world was ending.

Twenty years later she’d taken revenge—killing the slime who’d ordered her mother’s murder, getting retribution for the Santangelo family—for it was Bonnatti who’d also masterminded a hit on her brother, Dario, and the first great love of her life, Marco.

She’d shot Enzio Bonnatti with his own gun, claiming self-defense. “He was trying to rape me,” she’d told the police, stony-faced. And she was believed because her father was Gino Santangelo and he had money and pull in all the right places. The case had never even gone to court.

Yes, she’d taken revenge for all of them and never regretted it.

“Shall we start with the phone calls?” Kyoko asked, interrupting her reverie.

She glanced at her watch. It was already past ten; the morning had flown by even though she’d been up since six. She picked up her phone list; Kyoko had arranged the names in order of importance, an order she didn’t agree with. “You know I’d sooner talk to an actor than an agent,” she chided. “Get me Charlie Dollar.”

“He wants a meeting.”

“About what?”

“He doesn’t like the poster art for
River Storm
in Europe.”

“Why?”

“Says they’ve made him look overweight.”

Lucky sighed. Actors and their egos. It was never ending. “Is it too late to change it?”

“I spoke to the art department. It can be done. It’ll be costly.”

“Worth keeping a superstar happy?” she asked, sounding only mildly sarcastic.

“If you say so.”

“You know my philosophy, Ky. Keep ’em smiling and they’ll work all the harder to promote the movie.”

Kyoko nodded. He knew better than to argue with Lucky.

Lennie Golden hated bullshit, and the worst thing about being a movie star was that half the time he was knee deep. People reacted to fame in such a weird fashion. They either fell all over him or insulted the hell out of him. Women were the worst. Getting laid was on their mind the moment they met him. And it didn’t have to be him—any movie star would do. Costner, Redford, Willis—women had no preference as long as the man was a celebrity.

Lennie had learned to ignore the come-ons, he didn’t need the ego boost of constantly scoring, he had Lucky, and she was the most special woman in the world.

At thirty-nine Lennie was a charismatically attractive man with an edgy style all his own. Tall, tanned, and fit, he was not conventionally handsome. He had longish dirty-blond hair and very direct ocean-green eyes, plus he worked out every day, keeping his body in excellent shape.

He’d been a movie star for several years—which surprised him more than anyone. Six years ago he’d been just another comedian looking to score a gig, a few bucks, anything going. Now he had everything he’d ever dreamed of.

Lennie Golden. Son of crusty old Jack Golden, a stand-up Vegas hack, and the unstoppable Alice. Or “Alice the Swizzle” as his mother was known in her heyday as a now-you-see-’em, now-you-don’t Vegas stripper.

He’d split for New York when he was seventeen and made it all the way without any help from his folks. His father was long dead, but Alice still caused trouble wherever she went. Sixty-seven years old and as frisky as an overbleached starlet, she’d never come to terms with getting older, and the only reason she acknowledged Lennie as her son was because of his fame. “I was a
child bride,” she’d simper to anyone who’d listen, batting her fake lashes and curling her overpainted lips in a lascivious leer. “I gave birth to Lennie when I was twelve!”

He’d bought her a small house in Sherman Oaks, where she ruled the neighborhood—having decided that since she was never going to be a star, she’d become a psychic. A wise move, for now—much to Lennie’s embarrassment—she appeared on cable TV on a regular basis and sounded off about anything and everything. Quietly he’d christened her “my mother the mouth.”

Sometimes it all seemed like a fantasy—his marriage to Lucky, his successful career, everything.

Leaning back in his director’s chair he narrowed his eyes and surveyed the beach location. A blond in a bikini was busy strutting her considerable assets. She’d paraded in front of him several times with a definite yen to get noticed.

He’d noticed, all right—he was married, not dead, and spectacular blonds with bodies to die for had once been his weakness. Earlier in the day she’d asked to have her picture taken with him. He’d politely declined—photos with fans, especially attractive ones, had a nasty habit of ending up in the tabloids.

She’d gotten the message and returned a few minutes later with a strapping bodybuilder type who spoke no English. “My fiancé,” she’d explained with a dazzling smile. “
Please!
”

He’d obliged and had a photo taken with the two of them.

Now the blond did another turn. Long legs. Rounded butt in an almost nonexistent thong. Firm tits with erect nipples straining the flimsy material.

Looking was okay.

Taking it any further was not.

Marriage was a commitment that worked both ways. If Lucky was ever unfaithful to him, he’d never forgive her. He was confident she felt the same way.