Vendetta: Lucky's Revenge (3 page)

The blond finally zoomed in for a landing. “Mr. Golden,” she purred in a Marilyn rip-off voice with a slight French accent, “I
loove
your movies. It is such an honor to be appearing in this one with you.” Deep breath. Nipples threatening to break through.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, wondering where the fiancé was now.

Adoring giggle. “
I
should be the one thanking
you
.” Small pink tongue darting out to lick pouty pink lips. Invitation to fuck shining in her overeager eyes.

Rescue swooped over—Jennifer, the pretty American second assistant. She wore shorts, a tight T-shirt, and a Lakers baseball cap. Temptation was everywhere.

“Mac’s ready to rehearse, Lennie,” Jennifer said, ever protective.

He shifted his lanky frame out of the director’s chair and stretched.

Jennifer raked the blond in the bikini with a condescending look. “Try and stay with the other extras, dear,” she said crisply. “You never know when you’ll be needed.”

The blond backed off, not happy.

“Talk about silicone city!” Jennifer muttered.

“How do you know?” Lennie asked, wondering why women were so much more knowledgeable at spotting fake tits than men.

“It’s obvious,” Jennifer replied disdainfully. “You men fall for anything.”

“Who’s falling?” he said, amused.

“Not you,” Jennifer said, flashing him a friendly smile. “It’s a pleasure to work with a star who doesn’t expect a blow job along with his morning coffee.”

Jennifer, Lennie decided, was Lucky’s kind of woman.

He couldn’t help smiling when he thought of his wife. Tough exterior. Soft interior. Drop-dead gorgeous. Strong, stubborn, sensual, street-smart, vulnerable, and crazy. The package that was Lucky was really something.

Lennie had been married once before. A quickie marriage in Las Vegas to Olympia Stanislopolous, the willful daughter of Dimitri Stanislopolous, who—at the same time—was married to Lucky.

Olympia had died tragically, overdosing in a hotel room with Flash, a drugged-out rock star.

Dimitri had suffered a fatal stroke.

Soon Lucky and Lennie were together, where they belonged.

Olympia left behind a daughter from a previous marriage, Brigette, now nineteen and one of the richest girls in the world. Lennie was very fond of her although he didn’t get to see her as often as he would like.

“I want you to meet Lucky when she’s here,” he said to Jennifer. “You’ll like her, she’ll like you. It’s a done deal.”

“She won’t be interested in meeting
me
,” Jennifer said modestly. “She runs a studio, Lennie. I’m just a second assistant.”

“Lucky doesn’t care. She likes people for who they are, not what they do.”

“If you say so.”

“And hey,” he said, boosting her confidence, “there’s nothing wrong with being a second assistant—you’re working your way up. One day you’ll be directing. Is that the plan?”

Jennifer nodded. “I’ve arranged for a car to meet your wife at Poretta Airport tomorrow,” she said, all business.

“I’ll be in it,” Lennie said.

“You might be shooting.”

“Have them shoot around me.”

“You’re in every shot.”

“Fake it.”

“I
never
fake it.”

Yes. Lucky would definitely like this one.

ALEX WOODS HAD A SMILE LIKE A CROCODILE—
wide, captivating, and ultimately deadly. His smile held him in good stead with the movie executives he was forced to deal with on a daily basis. It caught them off guard, unbalancing the delicate power structure between writer/producer/director and studio honcho who could usually make or break any filmmaker—however famous and talented. Alex was a powerful presence, capable of making a lot of people nervous.

Alex Woods and his lethal smile had written, directed, and produced six big-budget major movies over a ten-year period. Six controversial, sex and violence—drenched masterpieces. Alex called them masterpieces, not everyone agreed—although each of his movies
had
been nominated for an Academy Award and had never won once. It pissed him off. Alex liked recognition—a lousy nomination didn’t do it for him. He wanted the fucking gold statue on his Richard Meier-designed beach house mantelpiece so he could fucking shove it up everyone’s ass—metaphorically speaking, of course.

Alex was not married—even though he was forty-seven years old, tall, and good-looking in a darkly
dangerous way, with compelling eyes, heavy eyebrows, and a strong jawline. No woman had ever managed to nail him. He didn’t go for American women, he preferred his female companions to be Asian and petite, so that when he made love to them he felt like the big, conquering hero.

The truth was that Alex had a submerged fear of women whom he might in any way consider his equal. This fear originated from his mother, Dominique, a fierce Frenchwoman who’d dispatched his father—Gordon Woods, a moderately successful film actor who’d specialized in playing best-friend roles—to an early grave when Alex was only eleven years old. They’d said it was a heart attack, but Alex knew—because he’d been a silent witness to many of their violent fights—that she’d tongue-lashed his poor father to death. His mother was a vicious, calculating woman who’d driven her husband to find solace in a bottle of booze whenever he could. Death was his cunning escape.

Shortly after his father’s funeral, Madame Woods had sent her only child off to a strict military academy. “You’re stupid—exactly like your father,” she’d said, her tone allowing no argument. “Maybe it’ll make you smart.”

The military academy had been a living nightmare. He’d hated every minute of the rigid discipline and unfair rules. It didn’t matter, because whenever he’d complained to Dominique about the beatings and solitary confinements, she’d told him to stop whining and be a man. He’d been forced to stay there for five years, spending vacation time with his grandparents in Pacific Palisades while his mother dated a variety of unsuitable men, virtually ignoring his existence. Once he’d caught her in bed with a man she’d made him call Uncle Willy. Uncle Willy was lying back with a giant hard-on while Mommy was on her knees next to the bed, completely naked. It was a scenario that stayed with him forever.

By the time he’d left the academy and tasted freedom, his anger was insurmountable. While his contemporaries had rocked and rolled their way through high school, screwing cheerleaders, getting drunk and high, he’d been shut in a windowless room on detention for some petty misdemeanor, or getting paddled on his bare ass because they didn’t like his attitude. Sometimes detention lasted ten hours with nothing to do except sit on a hard wooden bench staring blankly into space. Torture for rich kids whose parents didn’t want them around.

Alex often thought about the lost years of his youth and it filled him with rage. He hadn’t even gotten laid until college, and that had been no memorable experience—a fat, greasy whore in Tijuana who’d smelled of stale tacos and worse. In fact, he’d hated it so much he hadn’t tried sex again for a year.

The second time was better—he was a film student at USC, and a serious blond who’d admired his budding talent had given him head twice daily for six months. Very nice, but not enough to keep him satisfied. Eventually, he’d gotten restless and one drunken night he’d enlisted in the army. They’d sent him to Vietnam, where he’d spent a shattering two years—experiencing things that would haunt him forever.

When he’d returned to L.A. he was a different man, unsettled and edgy, ready to explode. He’d left town after two weeks—hitching his way to New York, leaving a short note for his mother that he’d be in touch.

Ah…revenge…He didn’t call her for five years, and as far as he knew she’d never sent anyone looking for him. When he finally called, she acted as if she’d spoken to him the week before. No sentimental bullshit for Madame Woods.

“I hope you’re working,” she’d said, her voice as cold as cracked ice. “Because you’ll get no handouts from me.”

Big surprise.

Yeah, Mom, I’ve been working. Hustled my ass for a couple of months so I could eat. Guarded the door at a low-class strip joint. Ran interference for a busy hooker. Cut up carcasses in a meat factory. Drove a cab. Chauffeured a car for a degenerate theater director. Bodyguarded a criminal. Lived with a rich older woman who reminded me of you. Procured drugs for her friends. Managed an after-hours gambling club. Worked as an assistant editor on a series of cheapo slash/horror stories. And finally, the big break—wrote and directed a porno movie for a lecherous old Mafia capo. Tight pussies. Big cocks. Erotic porno. The kind that really turns people on. And a story. Next thing, Hollywood beckons. They know good pornography when they see it
.

“I’m on my way to the Coast,” he’d said. “Universal has signed me to write and direct a movie for them.”

She was unimpressed. Naturally. A long pause. “Call me when you’re here.” And that was it.

Some broad, his mother. No wonder he didn’t trust women.

That had been eighteen years ago. Things were different now. Madame Woods was older and wiser. So was he. They maintained a love/hate relationship. He loved her because she was his mother. Hated her because she was still a mean bitch. Occasionally he dined with her. Severe punishment.

In those eighteen years his career had soared. From one low-budget no-brainer he’d risen to the top, gradually gaining a reputation as an innovative, risk-taking, original moviemaker. It hadn’t been easy, but he’d done it, and he was proud of his success.

It would be nice if his mother was, too. She never praised him, although criticism still fell easily from her thin scarlet lips. Alex knew if his father had lived he would have been happy and supportive of everything he’d achieved.

Now he had a meeting with Lucky Santangelo, the current head of Panther Studios, and it did not please him that he had to go to a female to try and keep his latest project—a movie called
Gangsters—
in a go position. He was Alex Woods, for crissakes—he didn’t have to kiss anyone’s ass, especially some broad who had a reputation for doing things her way.

Nobody
did things their way on an Alex Woods movie.

All he needed was for her studio to put up the money on account of the fact that Paramount had dropped out at the final hour. Their excuse was that
Gangsters
was too graphically violent. He was making a movie about Vegas in the fifties, for crissakes. Hoodlums, hookers, and gambling. Violence was a way of life back then.

The trouble with the studios was that they were running scared because of criticism from all those do-good politicians who were busy screwing whores on the side while their wives stood beside them with fixed smiles and dry pussies. Some freaking double standard!

Alex hated hypocrisy. “Tell the real truth and nothing but” was his motto, and that’s exactly what he did in each of his movies. He was a controversial filmmaker—garnering either bitter criticism or brilliant reviews. His movies made people think, and that could sometimes be dangerous.

When Paramount folded, his agent, Freddie Leon, had suggested taking
Gangsters
to Panther. “Lucky Santangelo will do it,” Freddie had assured him. “I know Lucky, it’s her kind of story. Plus, she needs a hit.”

He hoped Freddie was right, because if there was one thing Alex hated, it was the waiting game. He was only happy when he was immersed in making one of his movies. Fulfillment was being in action.

Freddie had suggested they get together before their meeting with Lucky; he’d asked Alex to meet him for a late breakfast at the Four Seasons.

Alex dressed all in black—from his sneakers to his T-shirt—and drove to the hotel in his black Porsche Carrera. When he arrived, Freddie was already at the table skimming a copy of the
Wall Street Journal
, looking more like a banker than an agent.

Freddie Leon was a poker-faced man in his early forties with a quick, bland smile and cordial features. He was not just another agent, he was
the
agent. Mr. Super Power. He made careers, and he could break them just as easily. He’d worked hard for the privilege. His nickname around town was “the Snake” on account of the fact that he could slither in and out of any deal. Nobody dared call him “the Snake” to his face.

Alex slid into the booth. A waitress appeared and poured him a cup of strong black coffee. He took a quick gulp, burning his tongue. “Shit!” he exclaimed.

“’Morning,” Freddie said, lowering his newspaper.

“What makes you think Panther will do
Gangsters
?” Alex asked impatiently.

“I told you—Panther needs hit movies,” Freddie replied evenly. “And it’s Lucky’s kind of script.”

“How come?”

“’Cause of her background,” Freddie explained, pausing for a moment to take a sip of herbal tea. “Her father built a hotel in Vegas back in the early days. Gino Santangelo—apparently he was quite a character.”

Alex leaned forward in surprise. “Her father’s Gino Santangelo?”

“Right. One of the boys. Made himself a fortune and moved on. Lucky built her own hotels in Vegas—the Magiriano and the Santangelo. She’ll understand your script.”

Alex had heard of Gino Santangelo—he was not as
notorious as Bugsy Siegel or any of the other high-profile gangsters—but in his day he’d certainly made his mark.

“The story is that Gino named his daughter after Lucky Luciano,” Freddie added. “From all accounts she’s had quite a life.”

In spite of himself, Alex couldn’t help being intrigued. So Lucky Santangelo was not just some ballsy broad out of nowhere. She had a history—she was a Santangelo. Why hadn’t he put it together before?

He downed the strong black coffee in three big gulps and decided this deal could turn out to be more interesting than he’d thought.

Three Japanese bankers, very correct, very conventional. The meeting went well, although Lucky sensed they were not thrilled to be dealing with a woman.

Ah…the story of her life. When would men learn to relax and realize it wasn’t all one big pissing contest?

She needed the Japanese bankers to put up the money for a chain of Panther stores around the world. Merchandising was hot, and Lucky knew the smart move was to get in at the beginning.

The bankers deferred to her head of marketing—a man—and seemed to be on the verge of saying yes when they left, promising a decision within a few days. As soon as they departed, she called her father at his Palm Springs estate. Gino sounded fine, and so he should. At eighty-one, he—like Abe Panther—was married to a woman a little over half his age—Paige Wheeler, a sexy, redheaded interior designer who took excellent care of him. Not that Gino needed looking after, he was as active as a much younger man, full of drive and vigor, channeling his considerable energy into playing options on the stock market, a hobby that got him up at six in the morning and kept him alert.

Lucky concluded her conversation with a promise to visit soon.

“Make sure you do,” Gino said gruffly. “An’ bring the bambinos—I gotta start teachin’ ’em things.”

“Like what?” she asked curiously.

“Like never you mind.”

Lucky smiled. Her father was something else. Through the bad times, when they weren’t even talking, she’d hated him with a burning passion. Now, she loved him with an equal passion. They’d survived so much together. Fortunately, it had made them both stronger.

She remembered the time he’d exiled her to boarding school in Switzerland when she was sixteen—then punished her after she’d run away from the strict private school by forcing her into an arranged marriage with Craven Richmond, Senator Peter Richmond’s boring son. What a nightmare! But she’d had no intention of staying trapped. When Gino fled America to avoid jail for tax evasion, she’d seized her opportunity and moved in to run the family business. Gino had expected her brother, Dario, to take over. Dario was no businessman, so Lucky had completed the building of Gino’s new hotel in Vegas—proving herself capable in every way.

When Gino finally returned, there’d been a major battle for control. Neither had won. Eventually they’d reached a truce.

That was all in the past. They were too alike to be enemies.

Lucky hurried into the boardroom for a brief production meeting before seeing Freddie Leon and Alex Woods. She’d already made up her mind to green-light
Gangsters
. She’d read the script and considered it brilliant. Alex Woods was a fine writer.

After speaking to her team individually, she was pleased that they’d each agreed with her decision to go ahead. Collectively she needed assurance they were all in
sync that the movie could make a lot of money for the studio. Alex Woods was a controversial and dangerous filmmaker, but when he delivered, everyone knew he was worth the trouble.

The heads of production, domestic distribution, foreign, and marketing were duly assembled. They were a top-rate group of people, and after a short meeting Lucky felt assured of success.

She returned to her office, and was just about to call her half-brother, Steven, in England, where he and his family had recently moved, when Kyoko put his head around the door. “Alex Woods and Freddie Leon are here,” he announced. “Should I keep them waiting?”

She glanced at the Cartier clock on her desk—a present from Lennie. It was exactly noon. She replaced the receiver, reminding herself to call Steven later. “Show them in,” she said, well aware that the most important and secure people never kept anyone waiting.