Venus couldn’t conceal her amazement. “You’re making an Alex Woods movie? You? Surely you know he’s supposed to be a total chauvinist prick?”
“With a dynamite script.”
“Boy—lots of luck on this one.”
Lucky smiled. “Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll need it.”
The second production meeting of the day went smoothly; possible casting on Gangsters was discussed, and although some good names came up, Lucky knew Alex Woods would have his own ideas. She was aware that he didn’t usually work with stars, but Freddie had called her after lunch to tell her he was pushing the Latino movie idol, Johnny Romano, for one of the leads. Lucky liked the idea—Johnny, with his huge following, could guarantee a big-bucks opening weekend.
“You’ve got my vote,” she said.
“Good. I’ll tell Johnny.”
After the production meeting was over, the last thing she felt like doing was an interview for a magazine. However, she was well aware of the power of good PR, and bringing Panther back to where it belonged was important. With Finder and River Storm doing so well, it was time to put out a positive PR spin—even though she was extremely wary of the press and usually did everything possible to stay out of print.
Mickey Stolli, the former head of Panther—now running Orpheus—was constantly making negative statements to the press, saying Panther was finished, that none of its movies made money. Even though everything he said was a blatant lie, it wasn’t good PR. The time had come to retaliate.
Lucky settled in with an earnest black man in his thirties and spoke eloquently about her plans for the future of the studio. “Panther’s making the type of movies I like to see,” she said firmly, pushing a hand through her unruly black curls. “In my kind of movies, women are smart. They are not relegated to the kitchen, bedroom, or whorehouse. They’re strong, well-rounded women with careers and lives of their own who do not live their life through a man. That’s what intelligent women want to see. I’m putting into development and production the movies Hollywood should be making.”
Alex Woods called in the middle of the interview. “Can I take you up on that visit to your father?” he asked, speaking in a low, fast voice. “How about this weekend?”
“Uh, I don’t know,” she said hesitantly. “I’ll have to arrange it with Gino.”
Alex sounded like a man on a mission. “You’ll come with me. It’s important.”
She had not planned on accompanying him. “I’m away this weekend,” she said, wondering why she felt the need to explain.
“Where?” he demanded like he had a right to know.
None of your fucking business. “Uh…I’m spending a couple of days with my husband.”
“Didn’t know you were married.”
Oh, really? Where have you been? “To Lennie Golden.”
“The actor?”
“Very good.”
He ignored her sarcasm. “When can we go?” he asked impatiently.
“If you’re that anxious, I’ll set it up for next week.”
Very insistently, “And you will come?”
“If I can.”
Alex Woods was the kind of man she could get into trouble with. Before Lennie…before her life had become so structured with kids and a studio to run and all the other things she was involved with.
She tried to return her attention to the interviewer, but two thoughts kept buzzing around in her head, vying for attention.
Alex Woods was a dangerous temptation.
Lucky refused to be tempted.
5
DONNA LANDSMAN, FORMERLY DONATELLA Bonnatti, resided in a fake Spanish castle perched atop a knoll above Benedict Canyon. She lived with her husband, George—who was her late husband Santino’s former accountant—and her son, Santino Junior, a truculent, overweight sixteen-year-old. Her other three children had all left home—willing to face anything rather than life with their domineering and controlling mother.
Santino Junior—or Santo, as he was known—had elected to stay because he was the only one who could successfully manipulate her. Plus, he was sharp enough to realize that someone had to inherit the family fortune, and that someone was going to be him.
Santo was Donna’s youngest child and only son. She worshiped him. In her mind he could do no wrong.
For his sixteenth birthday—against George’s advice—she’d bought Santo a green Corvette and a solid-gold Rolex. Then, in case this was not enough, she’d handed him an American Express card with unlimited credit, five thousand dollars in cash, and thrown him an enormous party at the Beverly Hills Hotel.
She wanted her son to own the world.
Santo was in complete agreement.
George, however, did not agree. “You’re ruining him,” he’d warned Donna on many occasions. “If you give him everything at such an early age, what does he have to look forward to?”
“Nonsense,” Donna replied. “He lost his real father, he’s entitled to whatever I can provide.”
George had given up arguing. It wasn’t worth the battle. Donna was a difficult and complex woman; sometimes he felt he didn’t understand her at all.
Donatella Lioni was born in a small village in Sicily to a poor, hard-working family. She’d spent the first sixteen years of her life taking care of her many younger brothers and sisters, until one day, an older cousin who lived in America visited her village and picked her out as a bride for the very important American businessman, Santino Bonnatti. Her father agreed it was an excellent match, and even though he’d never met Santino, he’d accepted a thousand dollars in cash and sent her on her way to the United States without any thought for her feelings.
The truth was, he’d sold her to a stranger in a faraway country, forcing her to leave the love of her life—Furio—a boy from her village. Donatella was heartbroken.
Arriving in America she was taken straight to Santino Bonnatti’s house in Los Angeles. He’d looked her over with his beady eyes and given her cousin the nod. “Okay, okay, she ain’t no beauty, but she’ll do. Buy her some clothes, have her taught English, an’ make sure she knows who I am, ’cause I ain’t puttin’ up with no crap.”
Her cousin had taken her to his girlfriend’s house—a parrot-faced blond imported from the Bronx. She’d stayed there several weeks while the blond attempted to teach her English. It was a disaster. The little English Donatella mastered came with a heavy Sicilian accent.
The second time she saw Santino was at their wedding. She wore a long white dress and a frightened expression. After the ceremony, Santino strutted around smoking a fat Cuban cigar, swapping dirty jokes with the boys while practically ignoring her.
Her cousin told her not to worry, everything would work out fine. Later she discovered Santino had paid him ten thousand dollars in cash for her delivery.
After the reception they’d gone back to Santino’s house. Santino was not like the love she’d left behind in Sicily—he was older, short, in his late twenties, with thin lips, a rapidly receding hairline, and an exceptionally hairy body. She found this out when he stripped his clothes off, dropping them on the floor with an impatient shrug. “Get naked, honey,” he leered. “Lemme get’a load of t’goods.”
She ran to the bathroom, shivering in her satin wedding dress, tears staining her cheeks, until Santino marched in, and with no ceremony, unzipped her dress, ripped off her bra, pulled down her panties, and bent her over the sink, entering her from behind, grunting like a hog.
The pain was so staggering that she screamed aloud. Santino didn’t care; covering her mouth with a hairy hand, he continued pumping away until he was satisfied. Then he walked out without a word, leaving her in the bathroom with blood dripping down between her legs.
That was the start of their marriage.
In quick succession she bore him two daughters, hoping this would make him happy. It didn’t. His fury that she hadn’t given birth to a son mounted daily—he desired an heir to carry on the great Bonnatti name.
When she didn’t get pregnant again, he sent her to doctors, who poked and prodded and found nothing wrong. Santino belittled her, telling her she was a failure as a wife.
One day she suggested he have his semen tested. She’d been reading American magazines, such as Cosmopolitan, and it had dawned on her that failure to conceive wasn’t always the woman’s fault.
Santino was livid. He whacked her across the face so violently she lost two teeth. It was the first time he hit her. It certainly wasn’t the last.
As time passed, she discovered he kept many mistresses. She didn’t care, the less he came near her the better.
She found solace in fixing big bowls of pasta, which she consumed for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She baked soft, doughy rolls and ate those, too. In the supermarket she stocked up on cookies, chocolate, and ice cream. Soon she was huge.
Santino was disgusted. He spent more and more time with his svelte mistresses, although occasionally he fell on top of Donatella in the middle of the night when he was drunk enough, forcing himself inside her.
He never gave her sexual pleasure, she was merely a receptacle for his maleness. All Santino required was a son.
She finally got pregnant again and he was ecstatic, but when their third child turned out to be another girl, he was so angry he moved out for six months.
Donatella considered those six months the happiest of her marriage.
When Santino came home, she hardened her heart against him. She was older and wiser and refused to take any more of his garbage.
Santino accepted her new attitude. From a stupid peasant girl she’d turned into a nagging balls breaker. Finally he had a wife he could respect.
He made love to her once a month to keep her quiet, until eventually she got pregnant again, and this time she gave birth to a boy. At last Santino was a happy man.
Donatella threw all the love she didn’t get from her husband into her relationship with her son. Santino loved the boy, too. They vied with each other to see who could give little Santo—the name they called him—the most attention. As soon as the boy reached an age where he could understand, he played them against each other, although he always favored his father.
Donatella accepted that her life wasn’t so bad. She lived in a three-million-dollar mansion in Bel Air, once the residence of a silent screen star. She was the wife of an important businessman. She had four healthy children, and she was able to regularly send money to her relatives in Sicily.
Occasionally Santino suggested she learn proper English, claiming her strong accent embarrassed him. He also nagged her to lose weight.
She ignored both his requests, laughing in his face.
One day, in the summer of 1983, Steven Berkeley, a black lawyer, turned up at her door and informed her that Santino was the lowest form of human life. Ha! As if she didn’t know.
She invited him in, curious to find out what he had to say.
He threw a copy of a pornographic magazine on her coffee table and angrily told her the naked woman on the cover was his fiancée. “Her face on somebody else’s body,” he said harshly, thrusting the magazine at her. “These are fake pictures.”
“I no look’a this dirt,” Donatella said, sorry she’d invited him in.
“My fiancée tried to kill herself because of these pictures,” Steven said roughly. “All because your sick, sadistic husband publishes this filth.”
She knew Santino owned a publishing company. He’d always told her they published technical books, not disgusting magazines. Now she had pornography in her own house, and an angry lawyer claiming Santino was responsible.
The phone rang. Glad of the diversion, she rushed to answer it. “There’s a house on Bluejay Way where your husband keeps his favorite mistress,” a husky female voice whispered. “Come see for yourself. His car’s outside.”
Donatella hustled the lawyer out. If she could catch Santino with one of his mistresses, she’d make the lying swine pay. Muttering to herself, she hurried to her car and set off to bust her cheating husband.
Donatella had no trouble finding Bluejay Way. She parked behind Santino’s car and marched up the driveway of the house, then rang the doorbell.
Within moments the door opened an inch, and Zeko, one of her husband’s bodyguards, peeked through the crack.
Donatella gave the door a hefty kick, hurting her foot in the process. “Where you putta my husband?” she demanded.
“Mrs. Bonnatti,” said a stunned Zeko, opening the door wider, failing to notice two men coming up the driveway behind her.
“FBI,” one of the men said, holding up identification.
Ignoring the two men, Donatella barged into the house, coming face-to-face with a willowy blond. “Mrs. Bonnatti,” the blond said, as if she were expecting her.
Donatella glared at her. “You gotta my Santino?”
“He’s here,” the blond replied calmly. “Before you see him, you and I should talk.”
“He sleepa with you?” Donatella shouted.
The two FBI men shoved past Zeko and burst into the house waving guns. Zeko lumbered after them.
“Who’s these people?” yelled Donatella.
“Get against the wall and shut up,” one of the men commanded.
Then an almighty crash came from the back of the house, followed by several gunshots.
Donatella crossed herself. Ignoring the FBI men, she rushed down the corridor toward the noise.
A man was hustling a child and a young teenage girl into the hallway. Donatella pushed past him and entered the room they’d come from.
Santino’s body was sprawled on the floor next to the bed. He was covered in blood and very dead.
“My God! My God! My God!” shrieked Donatella.
A dark-haired woman was still in the room. Donatella recognized her as Lucky Santangelo, the Bonnatti family’s longtime enemy.
“Whore!” Donatella screamed hysterically. “You shota my husband. You killed him. I saw you!”
The rest was confusion. The police arrived and arrested Lucky Santangelo for Santino’s murder. Months later, when the case came to court, it turned out that the real culprit was not Lucky, it was Brigette Stanislopoulos, a teenage heiress whom Santino had held captive, and while he’d been molesting the girl’s six-year-old stepbrother, Bobby—Lucky’s son—she’d shot him. Everything had been captured on videotape, evidence that was produced in court.
Brigette walked and so did Lucky.
Donatella was left a widow with four children to raise. She was filled with an unforgiving rage. Santino might have been an unfaithful pig, but he was her unfaithful pig and the father of her children. Something had to be done to avenge his murder; after all, she was Sicilian, and in Sicily, if a family member is brutally murdered, their death has to be avenged. It was a matter of honor. It made no difference how long the vendetta took.
Carlos, Santino’s older brother, came to see her, offering to take over all of Santino’s businesses, cutting her in for a paltry 5 percent. Donatella told him she’d think about it, although she had no intention of doing so. Instead she met with Santino’s accountant, George, and got herself an education. Santino’s main business was import/export, which she soon discovered brought in millions of dollars a year, most of it in cash. He also owned real estate, interests in two New Jersey casinos, and a very lucrative publishing company—which did indeed publish technology books, along with a selection of soft- and hard-core pornography.
Donatella found out from George that she was Santino’s legal partner. He’d often dumped documents in front of her, making her sign. She’d never dared question him. The payoff was that everything was now hers.
George Landsman was an unassuming man who faded into the scenery with his mild manners and low voice. He’d been Santino’s trusted lieutenant—there wasn’t anything he didn’t know about the various businesses. Quiet he might be, but George was a financial wizard with numbers. After watching him for a while, Donatella real
ized he was more than capable of keeping things running smoothly. With George’s help and encouragement, she began familiarizing herself with everything—soon realizing that if she planned to take over, she’d have to rid herself of her cartoon accent, lose weight, and get her long hair styled.
Once she started on her quest to improve herself, she couldn’t stop. First the accent went, then the weight; plastic surgery gave her a smaller nose, firmer chin, and higher cheekbones; she had breast reduction surgery, and got her hair cut and dyed; she purchased a closetful of designer clothes and several pieces of important jewelry.
Somewhere along the road to improvement she married George, who, it turned out, had always lusted after her—even when she was fat and could barely speak English. The word “orgasm” entered her vocabulary for the first time. She was considerably happier than she’d ever been before, especially when she discovered she possessed great skills as a capable businesswoman.
With George’s tutoring she soaked up a lifetime of knowledge in a very short period of time. And when she finally felt she was ready, she began making her own deals with George’s sound advice to back her. First she sold the publishing firm, using the money she raised to take over an ailing cosmetics company. Months later she got rid of the cosmetics company, and with that profit, took over a chain of small hotels. Six months later she sold the hotel chain at more than double the price she’d paid.
From that moment on, she was hooked. Takeovers became her game of choice.
Carlos, Santino’s brother, was impressed. He came to see her again, this time suggesting a partnership. She turned him down, which didn’t sit well with Carlos, who thought she should have kissed his ass.
“What’re you doing about Lucky Santangelo?” she demanded of Carlos. “We know the Santangelo family is responsible for Santino’s murder, and you’re letting them get away with it. If you don’t do something, I will.”
Vendetta: Lucky's Revenge Page 5
